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ROLAND STEPPED INSIDE a peaceful, quiet house and closed the front door. Peter had talked his ear off all the way from Saint Michael Church. He was determined to have Roland investigate into the vandalism at Brice’s house. Should he do it?
The hum of the Brandts’ car engine faded.
Whenever Peter’s mother dropped Roland at home, she always waited until he got inside before taking off. What did she think could happen in the few seconds it took him to get from her car to the house? Leg sore from walking around school all day, he’d had to climb the porch steps favoring his leg, knowing they watched him.
Rubbing his thigh, Roland glanced down the front hallway. A patch of light stretched across the floor by Papa’s study. He had taken a teaching job with an online school, but he usually closed the door when class began. Dim light came from the kitchen down the other hallway too.
Wanting to avoid notice, Roland took off his shoes—more of a process with his sore leg—and tread in his socks toward the kitchen and stairs. He concentrated on pointing his toe straight ahead and walking without the limp, but every other step bothered him, and he kept turning his toe out. Would his leg ever feel normal again?
As he neared the kitchen, he heard the twins’ voices. Keefe had gotten a text message—probably from Jarret—and left the Fire Starters meeting early. He hadn’t missed anything. They’d already discussed the camping trip and going to Brice’s house and anything else of importance. The group spent the rest of the night socializing and eating snacks while a dark sky sucked up the sunset and the windows became mirrors that reflected the chaos in the meeting room.
Caitlyn’s face flitted into his mind.
Roland sighed. Peeking up at him through gorgeous green eyes, locks of curly red hair framing her face, Caitlyn had told him she was sorry about speech class. He’d probably turned every shade of red. How had she heard? Peter denied telling her. But Dominic’s best friend, Foster Masson, was in his speech class, so the whole school probably knew by now. Too bad he couldn’t be homeschooled.
The voices from the kitchen became clearer.
“Come on, man,” Jarret begged rather than bossed. “I need you to do this for me.”
“I can’t. You know what I want to do with my life,” Keefe replied. “So I think it’d be wrong.”
Roland sighed, his heart sinking with disappointment. When he and Jarret returned from their vacation in Arizona, Jarret had seemed changed. Drastically changed. And for the better. He’d stopped smoking, started going to Mass on Sundays, and caught himself mid-sentence ten times a day before rude comments or bad language slipped out. He and Keefe had reconciled. And he even gave Roland the time of day now and then.
Little more than a month had passed. Was he back to his old self already?
“Why would it be wrong?” Jarret said.
“I don’t want to mislead anyone. My heart belongs to God.”
“Oh, brother.” His tone showed weariness and disgust. “You’re not going to mislead anyone. It’s not like girls in high school are looking for husbands. Girls just wanna have fun.”
“Isn’t that a song?” Keefe said, and then the two of them sang the line in high voices.
Roland cracked a smile. He stopped near the doorway but not where they could see him.
“Besides, half the school’s probably heard that you want to be a monk anyway. You’re ruining my reputation.”
Keefe laughed. “You’ve already done that. If anything, I’m salvaging it. But I really don’t think anyone knows about me.”
Jarret muttered a reply.
Conscience pricking him for eavesdropping, Roland shuffled from hiding and into the kitchen.
Jarret and Keefe sat at the bar counter, under the glow from the recessed lights, a cookie sheet of French fries and cans of Coke in front of them.
Keefe rested one hand on an old brown book nearby on the marble countertop. He twisted around. “Hey, Roland. Hungry?”
“Nah, just getting a drink.” No longer concerned about favoring his sore leg, Roland shuffled around the counter island and took a glass from a cupboard.
“You know you can use my weight bench, right?” Jarret followed him with his eyes. “Get the strength back in your leg.”
“Yeah, thanks. I might do that.” Roland brought the glass to the sink and ran the cold water. Since he’d had the cast removed last Friday, he’d been reluctant to do his prescribed therapy. Any pressure on it made him worry he’d break it again.
“Probably wanna do leg lifts and leg curls,” Jarret said.
“Yeah, okay.” After giving Jarret a nod of appreciation, he stuck his glass under the stream of water.
“Did you guys see the warnings hanging all over school right after the assembly?” Keefe looked from Jarret to Roland.
Roland shrugged. He’d seen Mr. Bunker yanking a page ripped from a notebook off the wall outside the boys’ bathroom. Glaring both ways down the hallway, the teacher had crumpled the paper in one hand and tossed it.
“Warnings about what?” Jarret asked.
“I don’t know. The few I saw said, ‘OUTCASTS, BEWARE’ in big black letters.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jarret’s eyes narrowed.
Roland shuddered, his skin crawling, and a memory flashed into his mind: C.W., Trent and Konner shoving him into an empty classroom, razzing him about his pale skin. He remembered the helpless feeling of losing his crutches. The rattle of a can of paint. And then—
Roland sucked in a breath. Cool water ran over the lip of his full glass and onto his hand. He shut off the water and dumped some from the glass.
“Heard about your speech,” Jarret said matter-of-fact.
The cup slipped in Roland’s hand. He tightened his grip and caught it before he lost it, more cool water running over his hand and heat rushing up his neck. Did the whole world know and have to comment on it? Was he the only person to lose it in speech class?
“I’m glad we got out of that,” Keefe said to Jarret.
“Yeah, so why did you guys get out of it, anyway?” Drippy glass in hand, Roland turned and leaned against the counter. Life always seemed to rule in their favor.
“Ah, you know.” Jarret grinned, his brown eyes glowing as if he remembered something humorous. “We had rhetoric in tenth grade.”
“Rhetoric?” Roland remembered the hard time the twins had given various tutors over the years. “Was that when the tutor tried explaining something and you gave smart remarks?”
Still grinning and with a hint of pride in his eyes, Jarret nodded. “Yup. Rhetoric.”
Keefe stuffed a fry in his mouth and shook his head, apparently not remembering it with the same fondness. That tutor hadn’t lasted longer than one year.
“Why should that count?” Roland set his cup on the counter and grabbed the dishtowel from the oven door handle.
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I wouldn’t even mind having speech class. You got nothing to be afraid of.” Sliding his Coke aside, Jarret leaned toward Roland across the bar counter. His eyes turned grim and convicting. “Those kids ain’t better than you.”
“I know.” Roland forced himself to hold Jarret’s gaze.
Jarret continued to stare as if wanting more of a response.
Needing a break from Jarret’s intense look, Roland took a swig of water, which of course went down the wrong pipe. He turned away and coughed, throat stinging, eyes watering. Jarret waiting.
Finally settling down and regaining the ability to speak, he faced Jarret. “Look, Jarret, not everybody has your confidence and . . . attitude.”
His narrowing eyes said he didn’t approve of Roland’s wimpy answer. He held Roland’s gaze for a moment then sat back. "Well, you’d better find your attitude. Find your voice. You might have something to say one day. And you wanna be able to say it.” He stuffed a fry in his mouth.
“Hey,” Keefe said to Jarret. “Why don’t you ask Roland?”
Jarret stopped chewing and his gaze slid to Keefe. “Uh. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Keefe turned to Roland, who was in the middle of gulping down water. “Hey, do you have a girlfriend?”
Water slid down the wrong pipe again, choking Roland. He turned away, hacking and coughing. “No.”
“Well, you still like Caitlyn, right?”
Roland shook his head, not that he meant to say “no”, but he didn’t like the turn in the conversation. He’d rather talk about speech class.
“Forget about it.” Jarret still hadn’t looked at Roland for the answer to Keefe’s question. “I can’t imagine double dating with that girl. She’s an accident waiting to happen. If you won’t help me, I’ll just do what I do.”
“Yeah, that’s smart,” Keefe said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jarret’s jaw twitched.
“You know what it means.”
“Whatever. I haven’t even decided if I want to ask her out.”
Before the conversation turned back to him, Roland strode from the room. He couldn’t see himself double-dating with Jarret. Actually, he couldn’t see Jarret double-dating with him. Jarret cared too much about his image and Roland was a bit of a . . . well, an outcast.
Heading for his bedroom, Roland froze at the foot of the steps. If someone was going after outcasts, Roland might even be on their list. Especially after speech class today. Could C.W., Trent, and Konner have something to do with the vandalism of Brice’s house? Maybe tomorrow, when the Fire Starters went over to Brice’s house after school, he’d snoop around a bit.
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