“Mission Viejo. Between San Diego and L.A. My name’s Nate.”
“I’m Trevor.”
“Summer.”
“Pigeon.”
“Like the bird?” Nate asked.
“Yep.”
“How come?”
Pigeon shrugged. “Everybody just started calling me that in second grade.” He shot Trevor and Summer a meaningful glance, silently imploring them to keep the rest of the story secret.
“How long have you had that bike?” Summer asked.
“Since Christmas.”
“Have you ridden it before?”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks brand-new.”
“I wash it sometimes. I’ll teach you how if you want.”
Pigeon and Trevor chuckled. Summer glanced down at her dirty bicycle frame, groping for a comeback. She had nothing. “What grade are you in?”
“I’m going into fifth.”
“So are we,” Trevor said.
“What’s the school again?”
“Mt. Diablo,” Pigeon said. “It means Devil’s Mountain.”
“Sounds like a roller coaster. Have you guys always lived here?”
“I moved down here from Redding three years ago,” Trevor said. “Summer and Pidge have always lived in Colson.”
“Where are your houses?”
“I’m right there,” Trevor said, twisting and pointing at the last house on the street. “Pigeon lives on the other side of the circle.”
“And I live across the creek,” Summer said.
The bottom curve of Monroe Circle had no houses. Instead there was a paved jogging path, beyond which a brushy slope descended to a creek lined with trees and shrubs. From where they were standing, Summer could see the roof of her home.
“Do you surf?” Pigeon asked.
Summer rolled her eyes. “Just because he’s from Southern California doesn’t make him a surfer.”
“I tried it once,” Nate said. “I kept wiping out. My uncle surfs a lot. What do you guys do for fun besides ride bikes?”
“We’ve got a club,” Pigeon said.
Summer glared at him.