Grandma goes inside, and there’s the sound of yelling. Henry Jack and I act as if it’s not happening.
“You look like you have sunburn,” I say.
“Shoot,” Henry Jack says, studying his arm, then his legs. “I do. My mom is going to kill me, if this sunburn doesn’t kill me first.”
“Sunburn could kill you?”
“Sure. With this skin condition, I’m supposed to be super careful.”
“So why aren’t you?”
“I am. It’s just that I forgot, in the excitement of actually having somebody to hang out with. Kids our age aren’t exactly that common here in Gibtown.”
“I noticed.”
Henry Jack and I walk quickly back to his house so that he can use his sunburn cream. His mother smells it from down the hall and comes floating into his room.
“Henry. Jack. O’Toole,” she says, his name all spaced out like seeds in a garden. “You. Are. Sunburned.”
“I know,” says Henry Jack. “Not that bad, actually. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m taking care of it.”
Faith holds a hand to her heart.
“I swear, you give me a heart attack sometimes,” she says. But then she remembers about my grandpa having a heart attack, because her face scrunches and she changes the subject.
“So, Lily,” Faith says. “Did you inherit your mother’s talent for the flying trapeze?”
“I . . . don’t think so,” I reply. “I’m scared of heights.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Um, no. It’s not like there’s lots of opportunity for that in West Virginia.”
Faith laughs. She tosses back her long black hair and lifts her arms, pretending to be flying on a trapeze.
“One day while you’re here,” she says, “I will teach you. I’ll teach you to fly.”
Henry Jack slathers himself with more smelly lotion, and he promises to stay inside for the rest of daylight hours. We both sit on the top bunk this time, heads grazing the ceiling. It’s weird to think that his brother slept here.
“How’s your asthma?” Henry Jack asks, and I shrug.
“Good. Normal. How’s your sunburn?”
“Bad. Normal. So do you want to play a game or something?” Henry Jack asks. “We could play video games. Or this game called Apples to Apples that I got for Christmas. Or cards.”
“No, thanks,” I reply. “I guess I’d better get back to my grandma’s. See if Trullia got rid of Mike.”
“Why do you call her Trullia?”
“That’s her name.”
“But she’s your mom.”
“Yeah, but no. Not really. She left, like when I was three. My dad raised me. I only see her every now and then.”
“So why’d she leave?”
“Beats me. I’m still trying to figure that out. We live in this awesome place called Magic Mountain, a campground, with a swimming pool and mini-golf and hiking trails. It’s a great place, at least in the summer, when all the flowers are blooming and we can be outside. Winter’s not so good.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty lucky,” Henry Jack says. “You get to go to school, a regular school. If you were like me, on the road, you’d have to mostly learn on your own, plus have a tutor.”
I shrug. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
“It must feel weird, though,” he says. “Not to have your mom.”
“It does. I used to actually pretend she was dead, because I thought that was better than knowing she just didn’t want to stay with us.”
Henry Jack’s quiet for a minute.
“At least I have a great dad,” I say, looking for the bright side. “And our campground. And my painting. I love to paint, more than just about anything. That’s one thing that Queenie Grace and I have in common: painting. Actually, it might be the only thing we have in common. Grandpa taught both of us to paint.”
“Speaking of Queenie Grace,” says Henry Jack. “See that picture hanging over there?”
He points to a painting with slashes of blue and green and purple and red.
“Queenie Grace painted that!” he says. “Me and Jeremy Zack stood together and we asked her to paint us, and that’s what she painted.”
“Cool.”
“I think I’m the blue and green,” says Henry Jack. “He was more fiery and hyper, so he must have been the purple and red.”
Just then my cell phone beeps with a text.
“It’s from my grandma,” I say. “I didn’t even know she knew how to text.”
“She wears Chuck Taylor sneakers and has purple hair,” says Henry Jack. “She knows how to text.”
I kicked Mike out, says the text. He won’t be here when you get back.
“She kicked him out,” I say. “She got rid of Mike.”
“Good,” says Henry Jack. “I hope he doesn’t show up at the funeral.”
My stomach drops.
“What’s wrong?” asks Henry Jack. He flips back his hair, peering at me.
“The funeral,” I say. “I’ve never been to one.”
“There’s a bright side to funerals, too,” he says. “You get to say good-bye. Look at their face one last time.”
I sigh. “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t worry,” says my new friend, and his voice is like a warm, fuzzy blanket thrown over me when I’m cold. “I’ll be there for you.”
And I know that he will.