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That or they keep changing on me.
He starts to open his mouth to say something, when Izzy’s voice reaches us from the foyer.
“Hi, Will!”
A door clicks shut just as Mason’s shoulders slump, and he looks down, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. “I can’t. Sorry. I?—”
“I know. It’s fine,” I rush out. “I f-forgot.”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He’s her friend too. He can’t just come to my party, then ditch hers to hang out with me.
Not for the first time, I wish, somehow, he never met Izzy. That when we met by the swings that day, I wasn’t so quiet and shy and weird, and was able to make him my friend before he could meet her. Claimed him in some way…
But then I remember he’s in her grade.
And then there’s the piano.
Who would Mason even be without that? It’s as much a part of him, as it is my sister.
In the corner of the room, Waylon’s attention is no longer on the Nintendo, but on the hallway just past me, where I can hear two sets of footsteps drawing closer.
I quickly take the DVD’s stacked in Mason’s hands, duck my head, and turn away before he can say anything. Arms full with comics and movies and a bag of new art supplies hanging from around the crook of my arm, I cut across the living room and into the kitchen.
Behind me, an unfamiliar voice follows just as I round the corner, into the kitchen, disappearing from sight.
“Hi, Way.”
Will.
Izzy told me about him. Said he moved here from Philly. He’s been over a couple times, but I never met him, despite Mom’s and Izzy’s efforts to try and get me to come down. I’ve seen him through my bedroom window though. He has dark blond hair, a little bit darker than mine. And he’s always smiling, every time I’ve seen him. It’s the same kind of smile Izzy wears when she’s up to trouble. But I think that’s just his face.
Izzy told me he’s Waylon’s best friend, though Waylon likes to pretend he hates him.
That didn’t surprise me.
Waylon likes to pretend he hates everyone.
Upstairs, in my room, I’m setting all my things on my bed, when I hear laughter and yelling from outside. I walk over to my window, and look down just as I spot my sister dragging Mason across the yard separating our house from the garage. They’re followed by Will and Waylon—Will’s waving his hands around, and Waylon’s shoulders are shaking, telling me he’s laughing at whatever Will’s going on about.
From here, I can see the garage doors have been pulled back, revealing black and red streamers hanging all around, and tables and chairs set out.
Two more cars pull in. More kids arriving.
I rub my fingers together, and swallow a couple times, taking one step back, then another, then another.
I sit down on my bed, and clutch my knees, staring at the back of my hands, wishing, not for the first time, things were different.
That I was different.
That I could be like Mason and pretend I don’t care what people think.
That I could belong.
Be normal.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
