Part 2 (2/2)

I don't feel like it.

How was it without me? Did you hide out in the library at lunch with all the nerds?

Actually, I ate with Alicia McIntosh. She brought me a tank top that said CHARITY and told me that if I promised to wear it every day she would let me follow her around and stand in the cafeteria line to buy her Diet c.o.kes.

Did you miss me?

Why are you asking?

I want to know.

It's obvious.

I want to hear you say it. It'll make me feel good.

f.u.c.k you.

Come on. Just say it.

Mom appears right outside my window. She waves at me from six inches away. I don't move. She points at her watch, which means that it's late and she wants me inside. I don't sit up. I just close my eyes, wish her away from the car. I'm not ready.

Wailing Boy is back on-I've been in here for ninety minutes-and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and listen to him. His guitar gets urgent, his voice trembles. I can feel it: his heart is broken.

9.

The next morning, my dad knocks on my car window to wake me up. I snuck back out in the middle of the night and slept here.

”I have a surprise for you,” he says, beaming, voice m.u.f.fled by the gla.s.s. ”It's around the side.”

”What is it?” I'm so tired I can hardly talk.

”Come see,” he says, real singsongy.

I unlock my door and step out into the daylight. I need to brush my teeth.

Dad covers my eyes with his hand and leads me around to the other side of my car. Beneath my thin slipper soles, I can feel the pebbles of the driveway, the stepping-stones that run through the gra.s.s alongside the house, and, finally, the gra.s.s itself. We're in the backyard. Our actual house isn't anything special. Like most of the houses in Los Cerros, it's big and new and plain, but I love our yard. There's a path that weaves around all the vegetables and flowers and on the weekends my parents spend hours out here in the dirt, gardening. The best part is that if you stand on the path and look away from the house, you can't even see where the yard ends. It stretches on and on for acres. It's hilly and there are a bunch of ancient oak trees.

He uncovers my eyes, and sweeps his arm out toward a huge pile of wood lying on the brick patio that separates the house from the garden. It's cut in thick planks that are at least ten feet long. Dad's standing there in front of the gigantic messy pile, smiling all proud like he just bought me a beach house in Fiji and a private jet to get me there.

”Wood,” I say, confused.

”It's all sanded already. I got you a top-of-the-line saw, too. That should be coming on Monday.”

”What am I supposed to do with it?”

He shrugs. ”I have no idea,” he says. ”You're the expert.”

My parents have this crazy idea that I'm good at building things just because once I went to this arts-and-crafts summer camp and made a little wooden stepladder that actually turned out okay.

”That was like a million years ago,” I remind my dad. ”I was twelve.”

”I'm sure you'll get the hang of it again soon.”

”This is a lot of wood.”

”There's plenty more when you need it. I don't want you to feel limited.”

All I can do is nod my head up and down, up and down. I mean, I know what's going on. I hear my parents talking about me, sounding all worried. I know that this is supposed to be some alternative to therapy. Dad thinks it's a really great gift that will take my mind off my screwed-up life.

He stands there, looking hopeful, waiting for me to react. Finally, I walk over to the pile and run my fingers across a piece on the top. I knock on it with my knuckles. I can feel him watching me. I look up and force a smile.

”Great,” he says, all final, like something has been decided.

”Yeah,” I say back, like I understand.

10.

The first day Ingrid and I ditched was gray and cold. We left at lunch and I was sure someone would catch us, but no one did.

Once we were safely out of view, we started walking up this hill to where the condos are all jammed up against one another; windows look into neighbors' living rooms. It was so quiet.

The diner or the mall? Ingrid asked. Ingrid asked.

Too many people at the mall. I kicked at some rocks on the path and watched the dust rise. I kicked at some rocks on the path and watched the dust rise.

When we got to the top of the hill, Ingrid ran into the middle of an empty street. She turned to face me, wavy hair blown across her face, arms lifted until they stuck straight out at her sides. She started twirling. Her red skirt billowed. The wind blew harder and she spun so fast she was a blur. When she stopped she crouched over.

Oh my G.o.d. She laughed. Oh my G.o.d, my head Oh my G.o.d, my head.

She tried to walk back over to me, stumbled, and laughed harder.

You're such a nerd, I said. I said.

A middle-aged woman came toward us from between two condos and my stomach tightened. But she just walked by us, didn't even say anything. We were at the top of this hill and we didn't have anywhere to go.

I turned around. Look, Look, I said. I said.

Below us was our school, a collection of rectangular boxes. Even though we knew that the kids were studying for tests and kissing and worrying about one another, in that moment they were so small-only colorful specks moving around.

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