Page 2 of Morgan

I nod and leave the room.

“What did he say?” Rhett asks the moment I get into the living room.

“None of your business,” I snap, going to the back door.

“You’re so annoying. Dad can’t even count on you like he can me.”

“You kiss his butt all the time!” I throw back before slamming the door and not giving him the chance to reply.

The front of our stupid too-big house faces the water, the back toward the woods. My feet carry me straight for the trees. It’s a two-mile walk to Dusty’s place. His place is smaller than ours, homier. His parents work what my dad calls blue-collar jobs, whatever that means. Maybe if he had one of those too, he would spend more time with us like Dusty’s dad does.

Dusty’s the only one who knows how annoying Rhett is and how I feel about my dad. He’s the only person I can talk to about stuff besides Mom, but a lot of what I feel would make her sad, so I keep it inside.

Dusty is the best friend ever. Just throwing rocks in the creek with him usually makes me feel better.

I can walk this path with my eyes closed, know exactly where to turn and which trees mark how far away Dusty’s place is, so I’m able to turn off my brain as I go. It doesn’t take me long to get to the one-story, white house his parents have been fixing up.

I knock on the door, and his mom answers. She works at night and his dad during the day. “Hi, Mrs. James. Can Dusty play?”

“Of course, sweetheart. How are you?” She ruffles my hair just like she would with Dusty, just like my mom does with me. She and Mom talk sometimes. We tried to get the families together, but my dad and his dad didn’t have much to talk about, so it didn’t work that well. Mom can and does make friends with anyone.

“I’m good,” I say as I hear Dusty’s footsteps running down the hallway.

“Wanna go in my room? We can build Legos,” he says, his blond hair messy, a smudge of dirt across his cheek. He’s got a hole in the knee of his jeans, something my parents would never let happen. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. He’s only had to wear glasses a year, but he’s already broken three pairs when we were out playing and roughhousing. His mom always says they didn’t have eight-year-old boys in mind when they made glasses, and that just keeping him in them will put them on the streets. I don’t think she really means that. I wouldn’t let that happen, even if I had to sneak them into our house myself.

“Can we go outside?” I ask, and his smile evens out some. Not because he doesn’t want to go outside, but because he knows I’m upset. I don’t know how Dusty can always tell, but he can.

“Yeah. Sure.” He shoves his feet into his shoes with a hole in them. His mom doesn’t let him wear his nice school shoes outside the way mine does. If mine get dirty, we just buy new ones, but that’s not something Dusty’s family can do. Thinking about that makes my heart hurt. I don’t ever want Dusty to go without something.

“Inside before the streetlights come on,” she warns. While the back of his house bumps up against the woods, the front is on a street with other houses. The neighbors get together and have block parties, which Dusty always invites me to.

While it’s still early in the afternoon, she knows time can get away from us. We could run around playing all day and night if they’d let us.

“We’ll be back!” Dusty says, then to me, “Race you!” And we’re off, out the door and running through the woods. We’ll head back to the road when it’s close to streetlight time.

He picks up a long stick and starts swinging it like a sword. We’re surrounded by trees, by this huge world of nature we love to explore. Every place should look like Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

“What’s wrong?” Dusty asks.

“Mom’s pregnant.”

“That’s good, right? She wants another baby.”

She does, and I want her to have one, but not if it’s going to make her sick. “Yeah, but Dad said it’s high-risk…and that she might have to stay in bed.”

“Is he gonna stay home and take care of her?”

“No. Me and Rhett gotta help do that.”

Dusty stops walking, reaches out with his free hand, and rests it on my shoulder. He’s warm and comforting. It doesn’t make sense, but somehow, him touching me helps. I want to burrow into him, ask him to get closer, but that feels weird. I don’t want Dusty to think I’m weird.

“You’re worried she’s not gonna be okay?”

I nod.

And then, without me having to ask, Dusty pulls me into a hug. He’s never afraid to do stuff like this the way other kids are, the way my dad or my brother never would either, and I like it, like the ways Dusty shows he cares. He would never think I’m weird, so I don’t know why I was worried.

“I’ll help you with her if she needs it. Mom will too. She’ll be okay. I promise.”

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