Lost in the Sun
Page 23
“Sometimes I get jealous of you, you know,” she said. She stared at the cover of the Book of Thoughts when she said it.
“Of me?” Fallon must be crazy. “Why would you be jealous of me? Everyone in this town hates me.”
Fallon rolled her eyes. “First of all, pretty much no one hates you,” she said in that matter-of-fact way she had. “You might wish everyone hates you, but pretty much no one does. And secondly, yeah, I get jealous of you.” She ran a finger over the wired spine of the Book of Thoughts. “When you leave this stupid town one day, you can be anyone you want. You can make up a new life for yourself, a new story, and everyone will believe you. But me . . .” Her voice got really quiet. “I’ll always just be the girl with the scar.”
I felt a ball of fire in my chest then, but it wasn’t rage. It was something else.
“Fallon . . . ,” I started, but she waved her hand at me. Pushed the book my way.
“Never mind,” she told me. “Forget I said anything. I was just feeling sorry for myself. It’s no big deal. Hey, actually, Mrs. Hillard said they’re doing understudy auditions for the play in a few weeks. I could audition to be understudy for the head tree, what do you think? I’d have, like, two lines, even.”
I looked at her then. Really looked at her. Scar and all. That slice that cut through her face. The end of the story that everyone always wondered about.
Except that the story wasn’t nearly over yet.
“You don’t have to be a tree,” I told her.
• • •
When the bell rang after social studies, I walked right up to Ms. Emerson’s stovetop.
“Yes?” she said, looking up slowly.
“I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to water the plants for a while,” I told her.
Ms. Emerson’s mouth twitched, but I couldn’t tell if it was forming into a frown or a smile.
“But it’s not because I’m a screw-up,” I said. “I have to . . . I’m going to try something else.” I cleared my throat. “But I know the plants will still be thirsty, so I found someone to take my place. He should be here in a second.”
The twitch turned into a definite smile.
“Well,” Ms. Emerson said. Slowly. Thoughtfully. “That’s just fine.”
“It is?” I guess I was surprised it was that easy.
She nodded.
“Have a good afternoon,” she told me.
I walked to the door.
“And Trent?” I should have known. I turned, my hand on the doorknob.
“Yeah?”
“The plants and I will be here if you need us.”
• • •
I thought I’d have that walking-through-quicksand feeling, heading out to the field. But I didn’t. Walking there was easier than I thought.
Opening my mouth, that was the hard part.
“Mr. Gorman?” I said.
He turned to look at me. He looked half surprised to see me, half not.
“Trent,” he said. “What brings you here?”
I looked around at all the guys on the ball field, stomping their feet to keep out the cold. Jeremiah Jacobson. Stig Cooper. All sorts of kids. Right away my arms got clammy. My chest tightened so it was hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But I did my best not to freak out. Instead, I practiced what Ray had taught me that weekend, when he was helping me with my swing. I focused my thoughts on what I wanted to have happen. I steadied my breathing, until it was back to normal.
It was hard, what Ray had taught me. But it wasn’t impossible.
“I, um, I know it’s probably too late,” I told Mr. Gorman when I was feeling almost normal again. I focused on him, no one else. He wasn’t so scary, really. “But I wanted to see if I could join intramural baseball for the rest of the season.” I stuck my hands into my pockets. “If that’s okay.”
Mr. Gorman tapped his fingers on the back of his clipboard. At last he said, “Normally I’d tell you it’s far too late,” he replied. “But today must be your lucky day. We’re down one man, since my nephew quit this morning. Something about watering plants.”
I bit my lip.
“So it’s fine with me,” Mr. Gorman said, “if it’s fine with the team. What do you say, gang? All in favor of letting Trent here join us?”
A couple of people didn’t raise their hands. Jeremiah Jacobson and Stig Cooper, for two. But almost everyone did.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a team,” Mr. Gorman told me, and he handed me a bat.
I had to admit, it felt good in my hands.
• • •
It didn’t happen the first time the ball cracked against the bat. Not the second time either. But at some point, during that practice, just as I connected with the ball and the vibrations of it surged all through my body, it occurred to me. It was obvious, really, but I guess it took a long time for me to figure it out.
My story wasn’t over either.
• • •
Dad was shocked, for sure, when I showed up at the St. Albans Diner that evening after baseball with Doug and Aaron. Heck, I was shocked. But I tried not to let it show on my face as I walked through the door. I nodded at him and Kari and even Jewel as I slid into the booth across from them. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” Dad said back. He paused while Aaron and Doug settled in beside me, and then he said, “It’s really good to see you, Trent.”
Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t. But I decided that either way, it was time to give my dad more than one chance.
So I spoke the truth.
“It’s good to see you too,” I said.
TWENTY-SIX
The second day of December was my first Saturday back at Kitch’N’Thingz, now that Basketball Buddies was over. I told Annie I’d still help her with her dribbling, though, and she agreed to come over sometime soon, which was good, because she needed plenty of practice.
I was setting up a display of Santa Claus cookie jars when Fallon came into the store. My mom spotted her before I did, probably because I was on my knees surrounded by cookie jars.
“Hey, Fallon!” she greeted her. “What’s going on?”
Fallon was flushed from the cold. Her scar was a little purpler than normal, so you could tell she was really chilly. But she was grinning all over.
“I had to come over to tell Trent—where’s Trent?”
“Here!” I pulled myself out from the cookie jars. “I’m here. What’s up?”
“Trent!” She came squealing over. I really thought she might break nine Santa noses off their faces the way she was barreling toward me, but she stopped just in time. “Mrs. Hillard called!”
“Who’s Mrs. Hillard?” my mom asked.
“The director of the play,” Fallon said, whipping around to tell her. I guess she didn’t care that Mom was being super snoopy. “The Wizard of Oz.”
“And?” I held my breath. I knew it was going to be good news, from the way Fallon was squealing, but I wanted to hear her say it anyway.
“They want me to understudy the Wicked Witch. Isn’t that awesome?”
“Oh, you’ll be so good!” my mom said. She was squealing now, too.
“‘I’ll get you, my pretty!’” Fallon cackled in her best Wicked Witch voice.
I laughed. “Congratulations,” I told her. “That’s what you wanted, right?”
She nodded at me, suddenly looking shy. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks for making me try out. I mean, I’ll probably never get to actually be the Wicked Witch, but if Sarah gets sick, I get to wear green makeup all over my face, and these killer red nails, and . . .”
“You’ll be awesome,” I told her.
“‘And your little dog, too!’” she cackled.
I let out another laugh. “Want to help me with cookie jars?” I asked her.
She stuck her hands into her coat pockets. “Actually, um . . .” She’d gone shy again.
“What’s up?”
“Do you have your Book of Thoughts?” she asked.
“Sure. Want me to draw you as the Wicked Witch?”
“Something else,” Fallon said. And the way she said it, it made me super curious. “Is it okay if I borrow Trent for a while?” she asked my mom.
“As long as you return him in one piece,” Mom replied.
“Grab your coat,” Fallon told me. And she raised her eyebrows at me, like she knew she was being mysterious.
We left the Santas in the middle of the floor.
• • •
“Where are we going?” I asked Fallon. She tugged me along through Main Street, past the shops, farther, faster, toward the edge of the lake. “Where are you taking me?”
She didn’t answer until we reached the water. It was a spot usually only old people and kids came, where there were a couple of scattered benches and the water was shallow, so it was a good place to toss bread to the ducks. There was no one there today. The benches were covered with a thin layer of frost. All around us, nobody.
“Are we screaming again?” I asked her. Fallon nodded for me to sit on one of the benches, so I did. She sat beside me.
“Nah,” she said. “I already know I can scream.” She held out her hand, and I took it. I was beginning to grow very fond of that red-and-purple mitten. “Now I want to talk.”
I looked up at her. She was staring straight ahead, at the lake, which was just beginning to freeze in larger patches. Icy. Windy. Cold.
She squeezed my gloved hand, and I squeezed back, my Book of Thoughts clutched tight against my other side. I looked out at the lake, too.
“It was seven years ago,” she said softly. “When I got my scar. I was five years old.” And maybe it was my imagination, but I couldn’t help thinking that the wind around us stilled, that the ice spread itself out just a little bit more across the lake, that the clouds froze in place as she spoke.
As she told me the beginning of her story.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!