is easier than being with anyone else—well, except my brother—but sometimes, I can’t help noticing that the way Kevin thinks seems so different from the way I do. As if we might as well be living on two different planets. I told Peter that once, and said it was because Kevin lived on Planet Pretentious.
I sat on Peter’s bed, wringing my hands, trying to think. Mom was probably already out cold. When I get anxious I can’t sleep, but when Mom’s worried, she does nothing but sleep.
It wasn’t as if she’d have agreed to let me go out looking for Peter regardless. Our neighborhood is friendly and quiet—relatively—but it’s still the city, and it’s dangerous for a girl to be out at night. Last year a bum grabbed my butt when I was walking past the old firehouse on Brazil Avenue in my school kilt, and that was in the middle of the day.
The wind picked up, the yarwood leaves brushing Peter’s window. A twig got stuck in the frame. I reached across the narrow space, unlatched the window, and pushed it up, snaking an arm out to dislodge the branch. It was chilly outside, and I shivered in my thin blouse.
I wondered if Peter had ever thought about climbing out this window and into the yarwood tree. If my room had a window on this side of the house, would I have thought about it?
I glanced down at the alley two stories below. It was probably full of rats and garbage and who knew what else.
Still, though…
The twig tapped against the windowpane again.
I stood up. My heart was already pounding, but I didn’t give myself time to worry. No matter what happened, I couldn’t just sit there, waiting.
I grabbed a sweatshirt off Peter’s bed, pulled it over my head, and hoisted myself onto the windowsill without looking down. My hands jittered as I stretched out to press the tips of my fingers against the branches, testing their weight.
Peter and I used to climb the trees in Golden Gate Park when we were kids. I didn’t break my neck back then. There was no reason to think I would tonight.
Maybe if I told myself that enough times, I’d start to believe it.
The third branch I checked seemed strong enough to support my weight, and I didn’t pause, not even to take a breath, before I swung out the window.
The momentum carried me too far. I was going to fall—I was certain of it—but then I swung back the other way and wrapped both arms around the branch as tightly as I could. My dangling legs felt like sodden weights threatening to pull me down, but I kicked forward blindly until I made contact with the trunk.
There was no turning back now.
I forced myself to look down, to study the angles of the branches below me. There was a thick one just below my right foot.
I inched the toe of my sneaker toward it, sending up silent, fervent prayers without taking my eyes off the branch. God must’ve heard me, because the next thing I knew the branch was solid beneath my shoe.
I told myself I wasn’t afraid.
I wasn’t. I couldn’t let myself be.
I lowered myself branch by branch, trying to take deep, steady breaths, but I was starting to panic. Only when my sneakers finally met asphalt did I genuinely think I might be capable of this.
When I looked up, the tree towered over me. I couldn’t believe I’d climbed down that thing on my own. Finding my brother before something else went wrong couldn’t possibly be harder than that.
I headed quickly for the store, sticking to the darkest parts of the alley so our neighbors wouldn’t see me. There was no sign of anyone outside, but the alley air smelled distinctly like pee, and there were enough broken beer bottles and cigarette butts that it was clear people did go there sometimes. Which people, I didn’t want to know. I tugged the sleeves of Peter’s sweatshirt down over my hands and moved fast, trying not to peer too deeply into the shadows I passed along the