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Roland
“Bug off, twerp. I’m not going.”
Jarret, back to his old self and his designer clothes, breezed through the house, a stack of car magazines on his hip.
Refusing to take no for an answer, Roland followed. After school, Roland had gone straight to Peter’s house to go over last minute camping details. Then he’d hurried home to invite Jarret again. He’d felt bad about misjudging Jarret and wanted to change things between them. Why did they have to be either strangers or enemies?
He had hurried home for nothing. Jarret wasn’t there. Jarret hadn’t pulled into their four-car garage until well after Nanny hollered, “Suppertime.”
“Why not go? What else do you have to do?” Wanting to make eye contact, Roland tried to keep up.
Jarret darted toward the front hall. This was not the ordinary route one took when going from the garage, clear across their castle-type house, to the kitchen. It was a straighter shot going through the family room and the great room.
“When I asked you before,” Roland said, “you said you had too much work to do. You meant working at the Finn’s house, didn’t you?”
Jarret sneered. “Yeah, well, now I’m working on something else.” He stopped at the door to the Digbys’ suite and pounded on it.
“Come on. Go camping with us. It’s just over the weekend. You love camping.”
Jarret made a sarcastic snort then curled his lip. “I hate camping. Besides, we always took a camper, slept in beds. I ain’t sleeping on the ground and eating burnt hotdogs all weekend long.” He raised a fist to the door again.
“The Digbys are in the dining room. It’s time to eat.”
Jarret took off down the front hall, rounded the corner, and didn’t stop until he reached the dining room doorway. “Uh, Mr. Digby, hey, I’m not going camping. So you can get my gear out of the car.”
Mr. Digby sat at the far end of the table, hunched over a plate of food, holding his fork aloft. He looked up through droopy, cow-like eyes. “You’re not? But I thought—”
“I’m not going.” Jarret took off for the stairs before Nanny could tell him to sit down and eat dinner.
Once he reached his bedroom, he would close the door and Roland’s chance to change his mind would end.
Jarret’s way of handling the mildest annoyance: walk away, close the door— unless he was in the mood for a fight. He never talked things out. If he went camping, though, he wouldn’t have any doors to close.
Roland imagined the two of them sitting by a campfire, turning marshmallows into torches, and talking all night. If only. It would be so nice to get along.
Mounting the steps by twos, Roland passed Jarret and breezed into Jarret’s bedroom first. His bedroom was a showcase of antique furniture, artwork, and flashy decorations in red, purple and gold. Anything he wanted, he got, one way or another.
Roland crossed the room and peered out the window. Mr. Digby’s car sat in the circular driveway, the trunk open. The Digbys, who had lived with the Wests ever since Roland could remember, planned to spend the weekend with their family. If Roland couldn’t convince Jarret to go camping, Jarret would have the house to himself. And that could mean trouble. As popular as he’d become at River Run High, he might even consider throwing a party. If he did and Papa found out, Jarret could end up in private school or sent to live with Papa’s friends in Arizona, as Papa had threatened to do last week when he suspected Jarret had been up to no good.
“You can go now.” Jarret spoke like one dismissing a servant. He sat on his bed, leaning against a mound of silky pillows, flipping through a magazine. “And you can tell Nanny I already ate.”
Roland rested a hand on the bedpost. “I really want you to go camping.”
Jarret looked up from the magazine. “Yeah, I get that impression.” He jerked his head to indicate the door. “Go.”
Shaking his head in annoyance, Roland left the room. After sitting sullenly through dinner with Nanny and Mr. Digby, it occurred to him what he had to do. So he went straight for the phone in the kitchen.
“What?” Peter’s voice screeched through the phone. “You’re kidding me. Who cares if he goes? You don’t need him to have fun. We’ll have a blast. Besides, I thought you two didn’t exactly get along. It should be a relief to be somewhere without him.”
“Yeah, yeah. But I don’t want things to be like that. I’m going to see what Jarret’s up to this weekend and hang with him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want you to hang with him.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t, but I’m going to try. We’re brothers. Why can’t we be friends?”
“Good luck. I wish you’d change your mind. Who’s gonna sleep in my tent now? Mom’ll probably put Toby in my tent.” Peter rambled on about the troubles his autistic younger brother Toby had caused on past camping trips.
Mr. Digby happened to be sitting at the kitchen table during the phone call, glancing up from his lemon pie and giving Roland squinty looks. When Roland hung up the phone, Mr. Digby cleared his throat. “Did I just hear you say you ain’t going camping neither?”
Jarret sauntered into the kitchen and stopped mid-stride.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Digby,” Roland said. “I can get my own camping gear put away.”
“Nah, never you mind. I’ll see to it.” He scraped his chair back and abandoned his empty pie plate.
Jarret stormed to the bar counter and up to Roland. “What’s this? What’s he going to do?”
“I’m not going camping.”
“You’re not going camping? Why?” His eyes grew wide and hard.
“I’m staying with you. It’ll just be me and you in the house. Maybe we can do something fun.”
Jarret’s mouth opened. His eyes narrowed and his lips wrapped around a word, but then he closed his mouth and shook his head. “No. You’re going camping. It’s just gonna be me . . .” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “. . . in the house.”
“Why? What’ve you got planned?”
“None of your business. Is Papa paying you to spy on me? You got some arrangement with him?”
“What? Of course not. Why would I have an arrangement?”
“Yeah, right.” He stormed from the kitchen.
Roland sighed and slumped over the counter. This wasn’t going to be easy, but he wasn’t giving up. There must be something he could say or do to change Jarret’s—
“Hey.” Jarret leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “If Papa didn’t tell you to spy on me, what’s your deal?”
“I-I want to be your friend. Keefe’s not here. I thought you and I could hang out, talk or whatever. What you did at the Finn’s . . . that was nice. And it’s true, I never thought you’d do something like that. I guess I thought you’d been out doing something, you know, stupid.”
Roland slid off the barstool and stepped toward Jarret. Courage grew inside him. Where did it come from? In a flash, he knew. Ever since Saint Conrad had come into his life, he’d felt different, driven to help no matter the personal cost. He could help by prayers. In fact, he’d taken up praying for Jarret and Keefe every chance he got. And he could do this. He could help Jarret. If he could only get the words out right.
“But I was wrong and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for judging you. Growing up together, I feel like I’ve seen only one side of you.” He glanced down, remembering Jarret’s past cruelties and ashamed of himself for not having looked deeper. “. . . not your good side. I feel like I don’t even know you. But I’d like to.”
Jarret’s mouth twitched. He nodded, looked Roland over twice, and left the room.
Roland slept uneasily, his mind going over what he had said, what Jarret probably thought of him, and what he could possibly say or do to make Jarret his friend, or at least keep Jarret out of trouble. He regretted having misjudged Jarret. Still . . . he couldn’t shake the feeling that Jarret, left to himself, would find trouble.