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I was already gone by then.
I rub my finger over the lip of the window, the rush of air blowing in tickling my skin.
Maybe he’s the best friend I was hopin’ for.
He obviously likes comic books after all. We don’t have the same favorites—mine is Spider-Man—but that’s okay, because Captain America is so cool. He’s the first Avenger. No one messes with Captain America.
“Principal Gibson said there was a boy this morning by the swings,” Mommy says when there’s a guitar break in the song. “Said he was really nice to you and helped you collect your things.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly, probably too quietly for her to hear.
She lowers the music. “Did you get his name? Maybe you can be friends.”
I swear Mommy has superpowers too, just like Izzy. How did she know I was thinking that?
I shrug and fiddle with my seatbelt. “Don’t remember. He’s new.” My cheeks feel all warm, and I quickly look away, trying not to feel bad for lying.
She nods, humming. “Well, it was nice of him to stand up for you.”
My throat feels weird and I nod, staring out the window at the passing buildings.
The music grows louder once more, and I see Chickie’s appear up ahead.
I slide my finger lower, drawing letters across the glass, seeing them in my head as if I was using a pencil on paper.
A picture for me and me only.
Mason.
His name is Mason.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Momma, who’s Jeremy?”
“Huh?” Momma says with her back to me, hands buried in a sink full of soapy water, hips swayin’ to the music playing from the radio.
It’s stormin’, so I’m stuck inside. Dad had to go work, and couldn’t take me with him this time. It’s a grown-up day, he told me. I shrugged, and ran off to my room, pulling out my favorite Captain America action figure from where I hid it in a rolled up sweater.
I whirl around our small yellow kitchen, pretending Captain America’s my microphone. “The boy in the song. Jeremy the WickEDDD!” I belt out at the top of my lungs, whipping Captain America out like a sword.
Momma turns the faucet off, and looks over her shoulder, blowin’ a piece of brown hair out of her eyes. She blinks a couple times, lookin’ like she’s concentration’ reeeeal hard.
“You probably shouldn’t be listening to this,” she murmurs, and then quickly dries her hands, before going over to the radio.
“NO!”
I jump in between her and the radio, shaking my head. “Please, Momma. I like it,” I whine.
She sighs. “Why don’t you listen to KIDZ BOP like other kids?”
I make a face. “What the hell’s a kid bop?”
“Mason Dean Wyatt.”
I bulge my eyes, making a cringe face and hunch my shoulders. “Sorry, Momma,” I say quickly.
Her lips purse and she shakes her head. She turns around, heading back for the sink, mumblin’ something like, “bad influence,” under her breath.
