“When’s Héctor coming over?” I slice bananas into bowls of bran flakes as Dad butters whole-wheat toast. “How long will he be here?”
“Depends on when X and Glinda leave to go hiking and which trail they take. Don’t worry,” he says, a smile showing. “I’m sure they’ll be back by lunch, so you don’t have to cook for him.”
“Good.” I make a sour face at him. He laughs.
He and Mr. García leave at seven o’clock, Dad driving his big blue pickup and Mr. García his faded red one. I wash up the dishes, then sit down next to Ti so I can watch for Héctor. Ti suns on his window ledge while I study pictures of animal tracks and scat. Raccoons, opossums, squirrels, skunks, coyotes, bobcats, white-tailed deer . . .
So many animals, so much to remember. And so boring.
Wandering to Dad’s bedroom, I explore his bookshelves. I find books about building and electrical wiring, hiking guides with maps. Pausing, I look through books on a lower shelf. Old schoolbooks: social studies, language arts, algebra. I reshelve the schoolbooks, wondering if Dad bought them or if they were left in the trailer.
It’s midmorning when Héctor runs toward our camper. X follows him partway, watching until I open the door. After Héctor’s inside, X walks toward the circular driveway. I notice he’s wearing a backpack. A big backpack.
“What did X take in the pack, Héctor?”
“Water and cookies and stuff.” Héctor lays his tote on the kitchen table, next to my study materials. “You have to study, too?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, “but I can do that this afternoon. Why don’t you read to me now?”
“Okay. Lucas got this for me at the library.” Pulling a book from his tote, he pronounces the words in the title slowly. “Frog and Toad Are Friends.”
Taking the book, I skim through the pages. “You mean, toads and frogs are different? I thought they were the same thing.”
Héctor’s shoulders fall. “You don’t know too much, huh, Cassie?”
“Just read,” I sigh.
It turns out Héctor has a lot of library books about frogs and toads. We read them all. He goes home later that afternoon when X returns. Looking through the front door, I see Glinda and Bobby Ray join X and Héctor at their picnic table. Suddenly, X leaves the group. My heart pounds as he walks toward the Winnebago. My tongue freezes as I stare at him through the front screen.
“Sorry about your blisters.” He glances toward the others. “Wanna come over? We’re just hanging out till suppertime.”
“Uh, can’t.” My tongue is thick. My eyes are glued to his tattoos. Picturing a knife cutting into skin. The cuts bleeding. “See, I’m, uh, I’m studying.” I indicate the naturalist guide materials on the kitchen table.
He nods. “Okay, maybe later. We’re making s’mores after supper.”
“Oh, yeah . . . sure . . . maybe.”
The smile disappears. His eyes tell me he knows I won’t be coming. Wordless, he walks back to the group. I see him say something to the others, watch the others look my way, notice that X sits with his back to me.
A vacant spot opens up inside me.
While Dad showers, I fix supper. Canned tomato soup and cold ham sandwiches. Iced tea from a jar. Heating the soup on the kitchen stove makes the camper uncomfortably hot, so we eat outside.
“Hmm,” Dad says, crumbling crackers into the watery soup. “Bet the library has cookbooks.”
Library . . .
“Oh, did you know frogs and toads aren’t the same thing? Héctor’s reading the books you got him at the library. Frogs live close to water and have smooth skins, not bumpy, and their legs are longer for jumping. A toad’s tongue isn’t as long as a frog’s, or sticky, so it has to walk up to its food and cram it in its mouth.”
Dad smiles. “How’s Héctor coming with his reading?”
“Good, real good. Only . . .” I study my soup bowl, then look at him. “He pronounces some of the words funny.”
“English is his second language. Just think how you would feel if you had to read in Spanish.”
We turn toward the sound of laughter. X and his gang have congregated at their fire pit. They laugh and joke as they hold long sticks over the fire.
“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Dad says.
“X told me they’re making s’mores,” I mumble.
“I keep the makings for s’mores in the kitchen pantry. Go over and join them.”
“Don’t want to.”
That’s not true. I would very much like to make s’mores, but with my friends.
Dad glances toward the campfire where the gang is gathered. “Sounds like X invited you to join them.”
Following his gaze, I see Bobby Ray waving his arms around and hear Glinda laugh. I don’t know if X is laughing, because he’s sitting with his back to me.
Mandy and Beth and me, I decide. We’ll make s’mores as soon as I get back home.
“Why wouldn’t you go?” Dad asks.
“Because . . . Well, X is kind of . . . different,” I mumble.
“Different,” he says. “Like toads and frogs?” Shaking his head, he begins to clear the table.
Dad’s not happy with me; I can tell because his mouth is set hard as cement. Why’s he always taking X’s side?
Is that suspicious behavior . . . ?