I shrug.
He offers a weak smile and jokes, “Running with me will do that to you.”
“I’m fine. I think I just need to eat breakfast,” I lie, as Mike helps me stand up.
In truth, I’m thinking about my dad. My dad was a fast runner, a sprinter in college. He was always ahead of me as we ran together in the mornings, so I had plenty of opportunities to stare at the backs of his legs, to stare at his scar.
He got it on the job. A dog bit him, and it took twelve stitches to sew his calf back together. It was such an unusually shaped scar. Shaped like Florida. Seeing an identical one on someone else takes my breath away.
Mike is watching me intently. “What happened? Was it Mr. Brown?”
I shake my head. “No, I just need to eat something. I’m fine. I can walk.” I step back from his grip, proving that I’m able to move on my own. He remains at my side until we reach my front porch. I look out across the street toward our neighbors’ houses, half expecting to see them watching me again. I think of last night with their skeletal faces in the windows and try to shake away the heavy feeling in my stomach.
“Thanks for the run,” I mutter to Mike, taking Billy’s leash back.
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m fine. Go home, Mike.”
“Are we walking to school together?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you on the corner.”
“Cool.” With this, Mike lowers his hat back onto his head and saunters off.
When he’s gone, I close the door, unhook Billy, and escape up to my room, my legs still feeling weak. I immediately start riffling through old family photos from my shoebox collection, separating them into hurried, haphazard piles on my bed. It doesn’t take long before I find the one I’m looking for—it’s a shot of Dad at the beach wearing his favorite shark-printed swim trunks, looking out into the waves. Most important, when I took the picture I captured his whole body, including the backs of his legs, including his scar shaped like Florida.
I tuck my dad’s picture into my backpack before hastily putting the rest of the photos away. I get myself ready for school in a daze, convincing myself that I didn’t see what I thought I saw. When seven thirty hits, I say goodbye to Billy, grab an apple and my backpack, and head out the door. Mike is already waiting for me outside.
I smooth down my hair, wishing I had spent just a little longer in front of the mirror.
“You look better,” Mike says, studying my face. “You should really eat that apple though so you don’t faint again.”
“I didn’t faint.”
“You almost did,” Mike says. “Face it, Parker. I basically saved your life.” He flashes me that cocky smile of his as I look out across the street.
The Oldies are all out and about, gardening, sipping mugs of tea, reading the paper on their front porches. Mike nudges me and points over to Mr. Brown, who is stretching out his calves by his front steps. His wife is sweeping the sidewalk.
“Nice run, Mr. Brown,” Mike calls over. I want to smack him in the arm, but instead I play it cool and take a large bite of my apple to keep myself from talking.
It’s as if all of the Oldies suddenly stop what they’re doing at once, like figurines in a music box that just ran out of song.
Mr. Brown smiles hard in our direction. “Not bad, right? I could have given Quinn’s old man a run for his money.”
I freeze, mid-bite. Mr. Brown continues to smile.
“No offense, but you couldn’t hold a candle to Mr. Parker,” Mike says. He’s no longer smiling, and he takes what feels like a protective step in front of me. I become aware of my heart beating faster.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, dears?” Ms. Bea is now edging toward us with graceful steps, her heels leaving indentations in the damp grass. She’s also smiling, with her red painted lips, but her eyes remain serpent-like as they narrow in on me and Mike. Her cheekbones jut out to make her look almost skeletal, and once again I’m reminded of last night and the hollow faces in the windows.
Suddenly, beads of icy water hit the front of my arms and legs. Ms. Bea screams.
“Whoa, sorry, Bea,” Mr. Marshall calls from his front yard. He’s wrestling with a garden hose, spraying all of us in the process. Ms. Bea gets hit the worst, and her lavender silk dress turns a deep shade of plum.
“You! Fool!” she cries.
“Sorry!” Mr. Marshall calls. “Faulty valve.” He looks at Mike and me as we shake off the excess water from our backpacks. “You all right, kids?” I notice that his tone is softer than the other Oldies’, even when they’re trying to act nice. His eyes also seem warmer. Kinder. It makes me stiffen. I don’t trust it.
“We’re good,” Mike says, waving him off. “Let’s go, Parker. I think that’s our cue to leave.”
Mike leads me over to the sidewalk as the other Oldies rush to check on Ms. Bea, who’s trudging back across the grass, pulling up the front of the sopping dress in her hands. Mr. Brown bends over to carry Bea’s train, and I can’t help but peek at his leg before Mike and I turn the corner. The bandage is back in place.
“What a bunch of weirdos,” Mike mutters.
“Yeah, something about them is definitely weird.” I exchange looks with Mike. “And it’s our job to figure out what.”
CHAPTER 4
My head is still fuzzy at school. I see Mike in the hallway before first period and he asks me how I’m feeling. I tell him I’m fine and try not to notice the way his lips slightly pucker when he’s concerned.
Zoe notices me notice. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“Late shmate,” she says. Her eyes widen. “Did something happen? Is there like a thing between you two?”
“There’s no thing.” I start walking faster.
But Zoe’s not letting me off that easy, even as we enter our classroom and take our seats in the corner. “Sorry,” she says, “but that was most definitely a thing.”
“We were just talking about something from track,” I lie, not meeting her eyes. “You know, from practice.” I clear my throat and fidget in my chair. “It’s fine, though. It’s nothing.”
Zoe studies me for a moment before shrugging. “Whatever,” she says. I can’t tell whether or not she believes me, but I’m relieved that she at least lets the subject drop.
The bell rings, and Ms. Pennell starts her lesson for the day. We’re talking about some Langston Hughes poem, but I can’t tell you which one because my mind is a mile away, back on Goodie Lane. I wonder what Mr. Brown is doing right now. Did he go to work today?
He and his wife are the owners and directors of Phoenix Funeral Home. It’s the only funeral home in town. Supposedly it’s been in the Brown family for generations, and like the Browns themselves, the Phoenix is a local icon. Mom used it for Dad’s memorial service, despite Grandma Jane begging her to look elsewhere. Mom said she didn’t have it in her to “shop around,” so Dad’s wake was held at the Phoenix.
The Phoenix seemed like a typical funeral home. There were different rooms to choose from, yet they all looked the same with their muted colors and potted plants. Mom liked Mrs. Brown, but I always thought both of the Browns were mean.