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Answers, lies and truths, shot through his brain. But in the end, all he said was, “Things are weird right now. The girls are okay. They understand. That’s all.”
“How are things weird?” Brian’s dad asked.
“I—things have been weird since we, um, had that thing. In the fall,” said Brian. “Where we all went missing.” Which wasn’t even a lie, in its way.
“I knew it,” said his mother. The look she turned on him was about eighteen times more worried. Her knuckles were white on her teacup. “I knew they spray the corn here with awful pesticides, chemicals, it’s probably affecting your mind—that’s what the scientists said—”
“Erm, no,” said Brian. “No, that’s not it. It’s just weird, not being able to remember.”
That was a complete lie, and he felt himself cringing as he said it.
“Yes,” said his dad, in a softer tone. “It would be.”
Brian added, “I promise I’ll do better in school and sports. Just—I love boats. Like you, Dad. Born to sail. Can I please go sailing? Please?”
A long silence as his parents looked at each other again.
Then his mom said, “It might do you some good—a break. All right. You can go. But, Brian, if something’s wrong, you tell us. And you need to spend some more afternoons at home, until your grades improve. And also help us finish weeding on Sunday. The summer garden won’t grow itself.”
“Okay,” said Brian. Words—a million more words—seemed to collect in his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any of them.
What if he nabs our parents too?
Just like Ollie, Brian would do anything to prevent that. Anything at all.
Well, he thought, turning up the stairs for his own room, peering out into the streaming, wet April dusk before he did. At least he was going sailing.
If nothing happened first.
What did that circle mean?
4
THE NEXT MORNING dawned gray, and the sun looked like a half-drowned face staring out between thick, wet clouds. Brian left for school, his head stuffy with tiredness.
The rain had slacked off since the night before, but only a bit. Waiting for the bus at the corner of Crossett Hill, the hood of his rain jacket over his head, Brian eyed the sky. Would they go sailing after all? It was already Wednesday. Hopefully the weather would improve before the weekend.
The bus came, and Brian got on. The driver was Ms. Hodges, like always. Brian checked every time now. Just to be safe. The day everything had changed, their bus driver had been different. Was Ms. Hodges looking at him strangely? No, he was imagining it.
He looked up and down the rows. Usually Ollie got picked up before he did, but Ollie wasn’t there now. Late, maybe. Ollie was late a lot.
Phil Greenblatt was sitting three rows from the back, scribbling. Brian went over. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” said Phil, distracted. He was finishing his English homework, a little wild-eyed. That day’s English homework was getting graded.
“Can I sit down?” Brian asked. “I won’t bug you.” The bus jolted into motion, and he hung on to the seat back.
Phil glanced up, looking surprised. Brian used to sit with Phil all the time, although these days he mostly sat with Ollie and Coco. “Um, yeah,” said Phil. “Sure.”
Brian sat down, feeling awkward. Weirdly, because he and Phil had been friends since preschool.
Phil didn’t say anything else, just bent his head to his homework. Phil Greenblatt had curly, floppy brown hair and a big, nice face, with little eyes like two raisins right in the middle. He was the goalie on their hockey team. Brian and Phil used to hang out all the time. Best friends.
Brian hadn’t known that things had gotten awkward between them. It wasn’t awkward playing hockey, of course, or talking about the team. But now, just sitting together on a bus, with no hockey practice coming up and no one else to talk to, Brian realized that he didn’t know what to say. To Phil Greenblatt, of all people. It made him sad. No wonder his parents were freaked out.
His eye fell on Phil’s homework. It was an essay question about a poem by Robert Frost. Vermont kids read a lot of Robert Frost, since he wrote his poems in and about Vermont.
Brian had read the poem yesterday afternoon and written his essay right away. English was the only class where his grades hadn’t slipped. He loved reading; at least that hadn’t changed. Even if he was tired of ghost stories.
