of shopping with Mom. Molly comes to the rescue with an invitation to spend the day and night at her house. Which Mom won’t like, but I’m ready with all the reasons why I should. I eat Cheerios and wait for her to come in.
She does, moving slowly, looking far, far older than forty-four years, making little effort to fight her graying hair and softening jowls. That just makes me feel guilty again. Two years ago, when our house was vibrant and our family whole and Conner Summerall reigned as the golden boy in our home and outside of it, Mom reflected his light as a happy, pretty, healthy woman. That woman died the day she buried her sixteen-year-old son.
“Sam’s today?” she asks, an attempt at brightness that I always think is faked for my benefit.
“I’m going over to Molly’s.”
She starts to frown.
“And tonight,” I add, just so we get that out there first and fast, “I’m sleeping over.”
She draws back, ready to put a stop to that. “Can’t she stay here?”
That was always her solution. I could have sleepovers, if she was there to monitor the potential hazards. God, I want to be normal. I want to go to parties and football games and on dates. And for the first time—thanks to the list—some of that actually awaits in my future. I have to shake her fears.
“She can’t,” I say. “I have to go over there.”
She goes through the motions of making a cup of coffee, something about her expression indicating she’s actually thinking about saying yes. I hold on to that hope.
“You’ll miss Dad. He’s coming over for dinner.”
Hey, that’s almost a yes. “Well, okay. That way you won’t be alone.” Because deep down in my gut, I don’t want her to be alone in the house. And I know Dad will of course sleep on the sofa in the family room, because he’ll have a drink and Mom won’t let him drive. In fact, if I’m not here, maybe he’ll sleep where he belongs … in his room with Mom.
“What time would you be going?” she asks.
“A little bit later. You don’t have to wait for me. Molly can pick me up or I’ll ride my bike.”
She gives me a quick look. “Wear your helmet.”
Yes! But I keep my cool and smile with a thumbs-up, so glad I stayed home with her last night.
Sumo vestri proeliis. Choose your battles, baby. And I won this one.
An hour later, I’m on my bike riding to Molly’s house, wind in my hair (totally ignoring the helmet command—such a rebel), my backpack holding only clothes for the night and not a single book. This is huge for a dweeb who studies all weekend, and I can barely wipe the smile off my face.
Because, hey, dweebie life changed yesterday. Guys hit on me, the entire school knows me, my social networks are overflowing with new friends, and even Mom seems to have gotten the memo that Kenzie Summerall has moved up the popularity ladder. And I’m taking Molly with me.
Jazzed by that, I pedal harder, dying to share everything with her.
The last shreds of a decent autumn have washed the world in amber tones under a rare blue sky. I wind around the curves and over the hills, humming a tune in my head.
I’m not looking at the brick houses or almost-bare trees, though, and there isn’t enough traffic on these streets for me to worry about cars. Instead, my mind drifts to Levi Sterling and pretty much stays there as I bike past Cedar Hills Middle School, my alma mater and the halfway point between my house and Molly’s.
I cut through the teachers’ lot and past an outdoor basketball court, where a bunch of younger boys are shooting hoops. On the other side of the gym, I pull out to cross Baldrick Road, bracing my foot to hit the crosswalk button at the light even though there are no cars on this quiet Saturday morning in the rolling neighborhood of Cedar Hills.
This light takes forever because it’s in front of a school, I know that. So, what am I waiting for?
I look left and right—not a car in either direction. So I force my foot down on the pedal and pull off the curb, my eyes on that still-red Don’t Walk sign I’m disobeying. I hear an engine, glance left, and catch the front end of a dark vehicle coming out of the school lot.