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“And how’s Simon doing?”
Layne glanced at her brother. He wants to know how you’re doing.
I know. I can read his lips. Simon jabbed his fork into his chicken, making a loud clink when it connected with the plate.
He can ask me himself.
Do you want me to tell him about what happened in the hallway?
NO.
Their father glanced up from the paper. “What’s going on?”
“Simon just made the JV basketball team,” she said smoothly, used to covering for her brother’s hostile signing. Their father knew enough ASL to get by, but he’d never put the time in that Layne and her mother had. Most of what Simon said went right over his head.
Something that irritated Simon to no end.
Her brother could talk, though. He just refused to do it, since the first day of high school when half the freshman class had decided his affected speech meant Simon was a retard. She’d just about fallen over when he’d spoken in front of Gabriel Merrick.
Especially since their father had tried no shortage of threats to get Simon to speak at home.
“Basketball?” said their father. “Is that possible?”
Simon flung his fork against the plate and shoved away from the table.
“Get back here,” their father snapped. The paper dropped to the table. They had his full attention now but Simon’s back was turned, and he was already going through the doorway.
“He played all through middle school,” she whispered un-necessarily, since Simon couldn’t hear her.
“That was different,” said her father.
She thought of those bullies in the hallway and agreed with him.
Though she’d never say that to Simon, of course.
“How’s the chicken?” she asked.
“It’s fine,” said her father, spearing another piece before picking up the newspaper again.
She’d burned two pieces before figuring out the timing, but she’d made sure to give her father one of the good ones.
She’d already failed one parent.
She couldn’t afford to let it happen again.
CHAPTER 7
Fire surrounded him.
Gabriel dropped to his knees and ran a hand through the flames. It reached for him, licking along his palm.
A blanket of flame no, bigger than that. A carpet of flame, the size of his bedroom. The fire singed the edge of his jeans, and he told it to find something else to burn. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it could definitely burn his clothes off.
The flames flicked higher than his head, now that he was sitting. One of the trees at the edge of the circle caught and started to burn.
Then another.
“Easy,” he breathed, feeding it his own energy, trying to pull it back, to keep it contained. Usually when he played with fire, Nick was with him, choking oxygen from the air if the flames got to be too much.
