Miranda flew through the hall. “Hurry up! Or we’ll miss the bus!”
Pulling on his grey hoodie, Sam slung his backpack over one shoulder, grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit on the kitchen table, and trailed after her.
“Enjoy your first day!” his mom called.
“Make good choices,” he heard his dad say as he pulled the door shut behind him.
“Riiiight ...” he muttered to himself. They already made my first choice for me — my new best friend, Wally. He winced at the thought.
Light forced its way through the thick and intertwining branches, speckling the ground so that even in the morning light, Sleepy Hollow appeared sleepy. Sam stood on the porch and checked the neighbourhood, then exhaled.
Walter was nowhere to be seen.
Sam had spent most of the Labour Day long weekend unpacking, arranging things in his room, and worrying about how he’d get out of hanging with Walter.
Maybe the guy would get sick and miss the first day of school. Maybe really sick and miss the whole first week. The first semester? Nah. That was too much to hope for. Besides, Sam didn’t wish any real harm on the guy. He just didn’t want to be stuck with him. Maybe Walter could miss the bus. That would be enough to buy Sam some time.
He sucked in a lungful of crisp autumn air. Although it was technically still summer, he could taste fall at the back of his throat.
Sam studied the semi-circle of houses. The blue Mustang was parked on the street in front of number seven. An old lady was sitting in a rocking chair on the verandah at number two. No sign of life at number five. He hustled toward the main road.
Miranda was already in the straightaway. “Come on, Sam! You’re gonna be late!”
“Coming, Moronda!”
Miranda glared at him, shook her head disdainfully, and pulled her pink school case behind her, strutting like a miniature flight attendant.
Sam grinned. He loved teasing his sister. She was an easy target — just as uptight and anal as his father.
When he broke through the shelter of trees, the bright sunlight forced him to squint. Through half-closed eyes he spied two figures standing by the side of the road and stopped short. Beside Miranda was Walter — frizzy hair, geeky pants, ugly cardigan, and all.
Sam only had a few seconds to think. He dug into his pocket, yanked out his iPod, and jammed the plugs into his ears. Strolling to the edge of the road, he stood there, calm and cool, in his own little world. After he took a huge bite of his apple, he hit the play button on the iPod and was assaulted by a cascade of violins. Nearly choking on his apple, he coughed, swallowed, coughed again, then hit the skip button.
Mr. Perfect strikes again!
When Sam got the iPod for his fourteenth birthday, it came with two conditions. One: his father had to approve every single song he downloaded. No foul language. No violence, et cetera, et cetera. Two, and far worse: every second song had to be classical! Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Vivaldi, for crying out loud! It was a stupid idea. As if he, Sam, was going to listen to classical music. He just hit the skip button, and that was that. Ba-bye, Bach. S’long, Stravinsky. Adiós, Amadeus.
Much better, he thought as gut-thudding bass shook the fillings in his teeth. While he bobbed his chin to the relentless beat, he noticed Walter glance at him, then look away.
Come on, bus. Hurry up! Sam leaned into the road. No sign of the rolling yellow deathtrap. Not yet.
He took another bite of the apple and risked a sideways peek. Walter was shifting nervously. Was he getting ready to make a move? Sam closed his eyes and willed the bus, wherever it was, to hit the gas. When Sam opened his eyes, he nearly fell over. Miranda was right in his face.
“What are you listening to?” she demanded.
Sam saw Walter’s eyes drift toward the conversation. “Whaaat?” He pretended he couldn’t hear his sister.
She tried again. “What … are … you … listening … to?”
“Huhhh?” He tapped his ears in an exaggerated gesture as though he couldn’t hear a thing.
Walter was on the move. It was a chilly autumn morning, but Sam still felt ice-cold. His fingertips prickled. He wanted to shove his sister away. She was ruining everything.
“I know you can hear me, Sam. What’s your problem?”
“Stop bugging me!” he snapped, pushing her shoulder and nearly knocking her down.
Walter was only a few feet away. Sam swung around and started to walk off, pitching the rest of his apple into the sky. It sailed up, arched downward, and smashed into bits in the middle of the road. Just then he saw a yellow-orange blur appear on the horizon.
Perfect timing. Now I just need to let Walter get on the bus first.
“I’m telling on you, Sam!” Miranda cried. “You’re gonna be in big trouble. Mom’s gonna take your iPod away for sure.”
Probably, he thought, but it won’t matter then, will it?
The bus screeched to a halt, and the door opened. Miranda stomped toward the vehicle and got on.
That left Walter.
He’s got to get on first, otherwise he might follow me. Sam dropped to one knee and began retying an already-fastened shoelace.
The bus driver honked. When Sam looked up, he was alone on the side of the road. A cold wind tousled his sandy brown hair, yet he felt warmer than he had a moment earlier.
When Sam got on the bus, it was a hive of activity. Miranda sat in the front seat beside a girl with red hair and freckles. His sister scowled at him as he walked by. Walter was sitting alone midway, watching Sam through thick-rimmed glasses. Sam passed his new neighbour without comment. Although he felt a twinge of guilt, he shook it off as he shuffled to the back of the bus and plunked himself into a free seat in the last row.
Sam turned up the volume on his iPod. One of his favourite rap songs boomed in his ears. The bus bounced south along the Tenth Line toward town, passing the spot where the riderless bike had come to its final stop in the middle of the road. He scanned the brush. No sign of anything bright red bobbing there now.
The bus halted twice in the new housing development, and several kids of various ages, each dressed in the latest trends, cellphones, and MP3 players, boarded. Everyone went by Walter as though he wasn’t there.
Man, that guy’s like people repellent, Sam thought.
At the crossroads the bus turned onto Main Street and headed into town. For the first time Sam got a glimpse of Ringwood — and apparently that was all he needed. A gas station, a grocery store, a post office, and a library slid past his window. He turned in time to see a shabby restaurant called the Lion and the Lamb, some kind of municipal building, and a police station fly by on the other side of the road. Back out his own window, he saw a variety store, a dance studio, and a used-clothing boutique flash by. Ringwood. That was it. Good thing he hadn’t blinked or he would have missed everything.
Sam had just settled back, hitting the skip button to avoid the hauntingly repetitive music of Ravel’s Boléro, when the bus squealed to a crawl, took a hard right, and swung into a side street. Rows of tiny bungalows with sagging roofs and junk-filled yards lined the street. A metal shopping cart and a busted trash can littered the sidewalk. This was where his father had grown up.
The bus door opened, and another crowd of kids got on. These definitely seemed tougher than those living in the new housing development. Two guys pushed their way to the rear. One threw himself into the empty seats in front of Sam, while the other hopped into the row beside him. The guy beside Sam wore a black hoodie and baggy pants; the guy in front sported a bright red Buffalo Bills toque. That shade of red was hard to forget — Sam recognized it immediately as the bobbing red blur that had been hiding in the trees when the riderless bike had come at them.
A girl was making her way down the aisle, as well. She was tall and thin with stringy blond hair. She had been contemplating the floor, but before she sat in the empty row beside the guy in the red toque, she caught Sam staring at her.