Mike lowers the brim of his hat. “Pond or no pond?”
I look down toward the end of the cul-de-sac, at the dark trees leaning over Goodie Pond. “No pond.”
Mike smirks. “Chicken.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Whatever, Quinn Parker. Just run.”
With this, Mike jets off down the street, and I take off after him, resenting him for the head start. When we reach the corner, he spins around and waves wildly to the Oldies.
“Have a great day!” he cries, at which the neighbors just glare and grind their teeth in a way that makes us both shiver.
“Let’s go,” I urge, and together, we fly.
CHAPTER 2
For once, Mom is actually home when I get back, and she insists on driving me to school.
I gaze out the window at Mike, who waits for me on the corner. We usually walk to school together and exchange theories, splitting up right before we reach Rocky Hill Middle School so that our friends don’t spot us together. No one can know what we’re up to. Dad could never get other adults to believe him, and he was a cop. I can’t imagine what people would say if they found out about our investigation.
“That’s OK, I don’t mind walking,” I say, pulling my backpack off the kitchen table. I want to talk with Mike about the Oldies. I want to do what Mrs. Carey is always begging us to do in science class: hypothesize.
Mom grabs her keys and tucks her cell phone into one of the pockets of her blue nursing scrubs. “Don’t be silly, Quinn. My shift doesn’t start until eight thirty. Plenty of time.” She tosses a dog treat to Billy, who perks his head up slightly from his worn bed, pushed into the spot where Dad used to keep his running shoes.
I frown at Mom’s insistence, say goodbye to Billy, and follow her out the door.
It’s even more humid on the now-empty street than it was an hour ago, and I think about what a beast track practice is going to be this afternoon.
As if she read my thoughts, Mom says, “Drink lots of water today. We’ve had a handful of cases of dehydration at the hospital because the kids just didn’t drink enough water. Especially at practices.”
“I know,” I say before flashing an apologetic look to Mike across the street.
Mom notices and waves to Mike. “Hi, Michael! You want a ride to school?”
I feel my face redden as Mike smiles under his Yankees hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Parker,” he says, his voice full of charm. “Thanks a lot for the offer, but I’m going to walk.”
“You sure?” Mom asks.
“He’s sure,” I urge. “Let’s go.”
“I’m sure,” Mike agrees.
“OK,” Mom says. “Hey, I haven’t seen your mom around in a while. Say hi to her for me.”
“Will do, Mrs. Parker.” Mike tugs on the end of his baseball hat as if he’s some kind of cowboy. “Have a good day.” His eyes flicker to mine before I fall into the car.
“Such a nice boy,” Mom says, turning the key in the ignition. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been running together in the morning. Do you two hang out at school?”
“No,” I say quickly, turning my head toward the window.
“Must be nice to have a running partner again, you know, since your dad . . .” She trails off, clearing her throat before continuing. “And poor Billy. His arthritis is flaring. He’s not much of a running buddy these days.”
“Billy’s fine,” I say. I reach over and push on the radio, making it loud enough to give my mom the hint that I don’t feel like talking. Mike throws a slight wave as we drive past. I touch the glass and mouth the word Later.
Just as we’re about to turn the corner, I spot the front door opening at the Browns’ house. Holding my breath, I’m able to make out the toe of Mr. Brown’s white sneaker before Mom juts the car in the opposite direction, off of Goodie Lane and onto Main Street.
My fingers tingle as I text Mike: Are you watching?
He writes back immediately: I’m on it.
I sink back into the seat, wishing that I was with him. Mom turns down the radio and continues to rattle on beside me, oblivious.
“And Grandma Jane said she might be stopping by tonight . . .”
At this I perk up. “Really? Is she cooking for us?”
Mom’s eyes widen. “You know your grandma. When has she ever gone anywhere without bringing food?”
My whole body warms. No one can cook like Grandma Jane. No one.
“Are you going to be home for dinner?” I ask.
“I can’t. I’m working a twelve-hour shift today, unless I get someone to swap with me.” I’m not surprised by her words. She’s been working more hours at the hospital since Dad passed. “Sorry, honey,” she says, turning to face me after she parks in front of the school.
“It’s fine,” I mumble.
“How about tomorrow you and I go out to dinner? We can go to Cucina Della Nonna if you want. Your favorite.”
“Sure,” I say, climbing out of the car.
On the sidewalk, I join the sea of seventh graders as we all make our way toward Rocky Hill Middle School. Once inside, I immediately spot Zoe at her locker, and she waves me down in a panic.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” she cries, her green eyes widened in relief. “I forgot to do my math homework last night. Can I copy yours? Mrs. Pugliese said she’s going to call home if I miss another assignment, and Dad said he will take away my phone if he gets another call . . .”
I dig in my backpack for my math notebook, handing it to Zoe. “Want to come over for dinner tonight?” I ask, swapping the books in my backpack and my locker. “Mom said Grandma Jane might stop by.”
“Is she cooking?”
“Yup.”
“Then I’m definitely in. I’ll meet you after practice.”
We chat until the bell rings. I catch a glimpse of Mike just as my homeroom teacher, Mr. Feagin, shuts the door, and I sigh because now I’m not going to get to talk to him until practice. Maybe then we can sneak in a minute or two for him to fill me in about Mr. Brown. But first I have to get through school.
Rocky Hill is painful this time of year. Summer vacation is just a month away, and even the teachers are antsy and twitching.
“I can’t wait for vacation,” Zoe moans at lunch. “I really thought I was going to faint in Language Arts. It reeked.” She dissects her sandwich before putting it back together and taking a bite, chewing with her mouth open. Her sparkle lip gloss leaves traces of pink shimmer along the bread.
“Yeah,” I agree, cringing. “What was that smell?”
Our friend Kaylee looks thoughtful across the table. “It kind of reminded me of feet and pastrami, and some kind of moldy cheese.”
Lex puts down her sandwich. “Hello. I’m eating.”
I take a bite out of my own sandwich: cheddar cheese and pickle slices, my favorite combination. Dad used to make this for me when I was little. I make my own sandwiches now, since Mom doesn’t really have time, but even though they’re the same ingredients, they don’t taste quite as good as when Dad made them.
“Let’s just talk about something else,” Lex says. “Like my pool! We finally opened it this weekend. I plan on spending the entire summer just floating around and tanning.”