Lost in the Sun (22 page)

As big as the ocean. As steep as a roller coaster. As sharp as a cannon. As loud as a runaway train. As sweet as a swim in a deep, deep pool.

It was sudden, Fallon's scream. And it was loud, and it was long.

It was wonderful.

I joined in, as loud and as long and as wonderful as I could scream, too. We screamed, the two of us together, alone on that island. Because we could. Because no one could hear us. Because it was perfect, to be alone on an island, with your best friend, screaming at the top of your lungs. We held hands and hollered at the nearly frozen lake. And the screaming
turned to laughter, and back into screaming, and I don't know how Fallon felt about it—that was a thing you could never know for sure—but as I watched her, she tilted her head far back on her neck so her whole body got in on the act, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, she was feeling brave.

I hoped so.

We screamed until our voices went hoarse, until our throats scratched and burned. And this probably wasn't true at all, but I could've sworn that some of the ice that had settled along the edges of the lake began to crack and break apart, just a little, with the screaming.

When we didn't have any screams left inside us, we collapsed back onto the cold, pebbly shore and sat there, not saying anything at all, just watching the lake lap icy waves near our toes. And we were still sitting there, not too long, in silence, when we heard a sharp
splash!
behind us, and the sound of boots on rocks. And we turned, both of us I'm sure expecting it to be Aaron, sneaking up on us around the side of the island where we wouldn't see. But it wasn't. It was an old man in a gray wool cap, with a thick beard. He had some sort of rubbery overalls on, and giant boots. Out fishing, probably.

“You kids okay?” he asked us. He was all a-huff. Out of breath. “I heard you screaming, from way out there.” He pointed. “Never heard screaming like that in my life. You were
loud.
”

And Fallon—she didn't even answer. She rolled over on her side, right in the pebbles, laughing. Sucking in air with the giggles like she couldn't get enough.

The fisherman looked at us like he thought we might be lunatics. “Is she okay?” he asked me.

It was Fallon who answered. Although I don't think her answer would've made much sense to anyone but me. “I can scream,” she said, still laughing into the rocks. “I can scream.”

“She's fine,” I told the fisherman. “We both are.”

Monday morning, Aaron and I were sitting at the breakfast table, waiting. He was trying to get me to try his coffee, which he said was good, but I'd tried coffee before, and I already knew it tasted like boiled garbage.

“You want eggs or something?” Aaron said. He was bored, I could tell. He kept looking at his watch. “I could make you eggs.”

It seemed to me that Aaron had changed a lot, the past year. Doug, he was always the same—even when you looked at photos of him when he was two, it was the same old goofy Doug, trying to make everybody laugh. But Aaron, he had gotten way bigger. Taller. I was pretty sure he was shaving at least three times a week already. He told me he'd teach me how, but I had nothing there to shave.

“Since when do you know how to make eggs?” I asked him.

“Dad taught me,” he said. “It's easy. I make them for dinner sometimes when I visit on weekends.” He took a gulp of his coffee and
wiped his chin with his hand. Then suddenly he sat up straight in his chair. “That's him,” he whispered. “You ready?”

“Yup,” I said.

It had been my idea, after all.

As Doug came stumbling out of his room with his hair slabbed down on one side of his head, Aaron and I shot up from our seats and began frantically stuffing papers into our backpacks.

“Oh man, Doug!” Aaron called to the doorway. “Did you just get up?”

Doug rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “My alarm just went off.”

“Wait, seriously?” I said. “We thought you'd been up for a while.”

Doug yawned, still standing in the doorway. “Nah, I just got up.” He scratched at the sliver of skin between his pajama bottoms and his sleep T-shirt. “So what time is it?”

Aaron, still busy flipping through his chemistry folder to make sure he'd brought his homework, waved over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “It's
late,
” he said.

The clock on the wall read 7:48. The clock on the stove did, too. The one on the microwave said 7:50.

Doug's eyes went huge. “Mom's gonna be so mad!” he said.

“Mom already left for work,” I told him. “You're gonna have to walk to school.”

“No, wait,” Aaron said. And I did my best not to smile, because this part had been my idea, too. “I can drive you. But only if you're ready in like”—he darted an eye at the clock on the stove—“one
minute. I've already been late once this week, and Mr. Vallera's gonna kill me.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Doug said. And I was kind of surprised, actually, that he hadn't started to catch on to anything yet, because even though Doug was usually pretty easy to prank, this one had been going on a while. “Here, let me just . . .” And he raced down the hallway to his room and came back not three seconds later wearing a pair of jeans that had clearly been crumpled in a ball on his floor. He had on the same T-shirt he'd been sleeping in, and as he walked, he was trying to cram his bare feet into already-laced-up sneakers. “I'm ready!” he called, doing his best to hoist his backpack onto his shoulders.

Aaron and I shot each other a quick glance. We hadn't really figured that things would go this well. But we did what any seasoned pranksters would do in such a situation—we improvised.

“Can you drive me too?” I asked Aaron. No way was I missing any of this. “I'm right on the way.”

Aaron pretended to think about it. “Okay,” he said, and he tilted his head back to slam down the rest of his coffee. “Everyone get in the car.”

We raced to Aaron's beat-up car in the driveway, and I thought Doug would catch on then—the pitch-black sky, the silent neighborhood, no Mr. Normore walking his wiener dog across the street, or the mailman in his tiny white truck.

But no. We piled into the car.

And I
swear
it wasn't until we'd pulled onto the boulevard and were halfway to Cedar Middle that Doug, his face still marked with pillowcase wrinkles, leaned forward from the backseat and poked his
head between me and Aaron and said, “Aaron, your clock's wrong. It says four thirty-five.”

And I kept it together, I totally did. But Aaron, he cracked. He let out one wicked
garumph!
of a snort. And, okay, then I lost it too.

“Wait . . . ,” Doug said slowly, looking outside the window at the dark world around him as in the front seat Aaron and I dissolved into total bellyaching laughter. “Oh, man,” he said, finally realizing. “Oh,
man.
”

“It was Trent's idea,” Aaron said, making a U-turn on the empty boulevard and heading back toward home.

Doug sat back in his seat. “It was pretty good,” he admitted.

I smiled to myself as I stared out the window, watching us near our street in the black predawn. “Thanks,” I said.

“No way I'm getting back to sleep,” Aaron said. “I never should've downed that coffee. But I was so
committed to the moment.
”

I laughed. The way Aaron was with pranks, you'd think he was going for an Oscar.

“It was good,” Doug said again. And I could tell, without even looking at him, that the wheels in his brain were spinning.

“Uh oh,” Aaron told me. “Looks like someone's planning his revenge. I'd be on the lookout, little brother.”

I settled into my seat as the tip of our roof appeared around the corner. “Bring it on,” I said.

•   •   •

That morning, when I walked into the gym for P.E. first period, I'd made up my mind. I passed Mr. Gorman, holding his clipboard in
the doorway, and without him even asking, I told him, “You're going to like the kid you meet today.” That's what I'd worked out I was going to say when Ray was helping me with my swing over the weekend. Then I went to the locker room with the other guys and dressed for P.E. That's what I'd worked out I was going to do, too. Ray said visualizing what you wanted to achieve was an important part of any sport.

I bet most athletes didn't have to visualize lacing up their sneakers without their arms getting all clammy, but anyway, it worked, so I guess I couldn't complain.

I even served twice in volleyball. (I'd only visualized that happening once, so it was a nice surprise.)

Noah looked a little lonely up there on the bleachers, but I figured he'd be okay. After all, he had a good book.

•   •   •

“You want to come over and watch a movie this afternoon?” Fallon asked me at lunch. She was flipping through my new drawings in my Book of Thoughts. I had lots from the lake, and not to brag, but they were pretty good. I was getting better. “It's been a while. Have you ever seen
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi
? It's
weird.
”

I was pretty stoked Fallon wanted to watch a movie with me again, but I guess I was surprised, too. “Don't you have play practice?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “I'm thinking of quitting. It turns out I kind of hate being a tree.”

“You shouldn't be a tree,” I told her. “Anyway, I do want to see
another movie, but I probably can't do it till the weekend. Is that okay?”

She looked up from the notebook. “You got plans or something, Zimmerman?” she asked.

I knew I should speak truths, but I wasn't totally ready yet, so I decided not to say anything. “Maybe,” I said. “I'm not totally sure.” And that wasn't really a lie.

“Well, this weekend should be fine, anyway. My dad said next time you come over, you have to stay for dinner and he'll make you his famous Bolognese.”

“It's a deal.”

Fallon came to the last picture in the Book of Thoughts then, my favorite so far. It was a close-up of Fallon's face, the way she was when she didn't know anyone was looking at her. I thought I'd done a really good job on that one. Her frizzy hair. Her big brown eyes. The way her lip curled into her scar just the tiniest bit. She studied it a long time, and then she shut the book.

“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.