2

THWUMP. THE BALL FILIPE PASSES hits me square in the chest, then bounces down the driveway. Wiping sweat off my forehead, I scramble after it, snagging it just as it reaches the rhododendron bush by his front door.

“What—you thinking about some girl? Willa again? I told you, no way is she going to be interested in either of us. Time to give it up, Drew.”

I dribble the ball a little bit and go in for a layup. The ball swishes through the net and I catch it in my other hand.

“No …” I laugh and bounce-pass back to my friend so he can take a shot. “Not Willa.”

“Someone else?” Filipe’s eyebrows shoot up as he dribbles the ball in place.

“Not like that. Trust me. Just—there’s this new girl at the library. Audrey. She—” It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly it is about Audrey that drives me nuts. It’s everything about her. How she clearly doesn’t want to be there—thinks she’s too good to work at the library—yet at the same time she’s totally kissing Mrs. Eisenberg’s butt with all the techie stuff. “She’s just … the worst. I asked her what she was listening to, right? And it was opera. Opera!”

“Well, she does hang out at the library. What’d you expect?”

I shoot Filipe a look. He’s been making little jabs at my library gig since school let out.

The thing is, the library is supposed to be my place. That first summer after Dad died, Mom signed me up for summer camp at the Rec. Same one Filipe and I had been going to since we were in kindergarten. But every day, I barely made it through the first half hour before I lost it—I’d puke—and Mom had to come pick me up.

It wasn’t that I was actually sick. It was more like after what happened with Dad, I couldn’t handle being away from my mom. Didn’t really trust anyone anymore. How could I? Camp was eight hours long, but those eight hours felt like eight years. I’d done story hour with Mrs. Eisenberg when I was little and she told Mom she didn’t mind watching me. There were plenty of other kids whose parents “took advantage” of her already, and I wasn’t half as much trouble as they were.

Mom probably thought it’d just be for a week. That after a few days with an old lady like Mrs. Eisenberg, I’d be dying to be back at camp with all the other kids my age.

But I wasn’t. I loved hanging out down there, helping with the little kids, knowing that Mom was just upstairs. For the first time since Dad died, I felt safe. A few days turned into a week, turned into three summers now. Mrs. Eisenberg says she can start paying me next summer as part of the page-in-training program.

But now, out of nowhere, I’ve got this Audrey girl all up in my space. What if Mrs. Eisenberg thinks her STEM program is more exciting than my zombie story hour? She wouldn’t take that away from me … would she?

“Drew! You think I can make this one?” Filipe is halfway up a tree at the edge of his yard, but somehow he still has the basketball in one hand. How does he do it?

“Um … no.”

This is how it’s always been. Filipe thinking he can do ridiculous stuff, and then falling on his face. But ever since he made the U13 soccer team earlier this year, it’s like he’s got superpowers. At least when it comes to sports.

How’d he suddenly get so strong and so … good?

“Let’s see!” Filipe shouts down at me.

He won’t have enough momentum. No way. Not with his legs clinging to the tree. He thrusts the ball toward the net, but it dips too low too fast and bounces on the pavement, heading for the open garage.

I’ve just snagged it from beneath Mr. Nunes’s workbench when I hear a motorcycle.

Thrum thrum Thrumthrumthrumthrumthrum.

Did Filipe’s older brother, Anibal, get a bike? It sputters as it comes to a stop, but it doesn’t pull into Filipe’s driveway as it slows down. It pulls into mine.

Filipe’s staring at the thing with his mouth open. “Nice ride.”

I give the ball a few bounces and watch as the man props up his motorcycle. He removes his helmet and carries it over to my front door. Is he lost? Maybe he’s one of those people who goes door-to-door selling stuff. Or trying to save the environment.

Mom left a little while ago to pick up Xander from his friend’s house, so there’s nobody there to answer the door. I stop bouncing the ball. “Come on,” I say to Filipe.

“You want to go over there?”

“Yeah,” I say. For a second, I forget that Filipe doesn’t get it. Without my dad now, I’m the second most in charge. At his house, he’s got Anibal and his mom and his dad. Filipe’s never had to be responsible for anything. “What if he’s trying to case the house?” Okay, not super likely, but it could happen.

“Drew, be serious.”

“You never know.”

We have to wait at the edge of his driveway forever while some lady on her cell phone in a Prius slowly creeps up the street.

“He’s probably just lost,” Filipe says.

Finally the Prius passes us and we dart across the street. The truth is, when my mom isn’t home, I’m not supposed to answer the door. For the past two years, she’s let me stay home alone—finally—so long as I follow that rule. But Mr. Chapman next door is out watering his garden, so I think we’re in the clear.

“Can I help you?” I ask the man loudly, standing my ground.

The motorcycle guy turns and slips his sunglasses up onto his hair. It’s curly brown, but with the littlest bit of gray at his temples. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably around my mom’s age—early forties. Yeah, he’s definitely too old to be going door-to-door to save the environment. “Drew, right? I’m Phil.” He reaches out his hand, like this is the right time and place for a handshake. He’s smiling at me like he knows me, but I’ve never seen the dude before in my life. So how does he know my name?

I keep my hand right where it is and flash Filipe a Who is this guy eyeball. Filipe only shrugs.

“Look, I think you’ve got the wrong house or something,” I say, ignoring the fact that he somehow knows my name. I’m starting to wish we hadn’t come over here in the first place. Maybe if we’d stayed across the street at Filipe’s, he would’ve rung the doorbell, waited a minute, and just left.

He slips his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. They’re all beat up and worn, not at all like the jeans my dad used to wear.

“I’m sorry, Kayla—your mom, she didn’t …”

Wait. This guy knows my mom? From where?

He’s still staring at me, like he expects me to figure this out myself. I glance at Filipe, but he looks as confused as I probably do.

“Oh, jeez.” He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “My phone died on the road. The plans changed and I decided to swing up through Rhode Island first and … what am I saying? You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” He takes a few steps toward his motorcycle. “I’m real sorry for throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans. When’s your mom supposed to get back, Drew—wait, is that short for Andrew?” There’s this weird look on his face all of a sudden, almost like he wants to smile but he’s stopping himself.

“Yeah,” I say. The second it comes out, I regret it. Why does he need to know? And what’s he talking about? Plans? He and my mom, they made plans? Since when?

“You know what? I saw a coffee shop back a little ways. I bet they’ll let me charge my phone there. Tell your mom I stopped by, all right? I’ll give her a call.”

He has her phone number?

“Okay … ,” I say. He’s already on his bike, revving it up. “Wait,” I shout. “What’s your name again?”

He shakes his head like he can’t hear me.

“Your! Name!” I shout again.

He cuts the engine. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s Phil.” And then he revs it up again.

Filipe and I just stand there, watching as his motorcycle heads back down our street.

It’s only as he leaves that I realize I’ve been clenching my stomach the whole time.