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“You’ll have to meet my brother,” Izzy says excitedly. “He got held back this year—he’s in transition, so he’s not with our grade anymore. Hopefully next year. He’s really shy, but?—”
“Okay, class, time to wrap it up, and throw away our garbage,” Mrs. Chase announces, ringing a little bell.
Grumbles and sighs fill the room, along with the rustling of bags, papers, and footsteps. Izzy blows a raspberry, and shoves away from the desk when Zachary appears. “See ya later, Mason!”
“Later,” I whisper.
Waylon quietly picks up his trash and his chair at the same time, moving it back to his desk. Our gazes meet, and he scowls.
So I scowl back, feeling my fists clench in my lap.
He sits down and turns away, glaring at the front of the room.
Izzy returns, but when she goes to sit down, she pauses and looks over my head, then meets my gaze and comes over. Mrs. Chase calls everyone to sit down, but it sounds very far away.
“Mom says he requires patience,” she says very seriously, sounding way older than she is.
And then she flashes me a smile and whirls around, skipping back over to her desk. She cups a hand around Waylon’s ear, and leans down to whisper something to him. He grins at whatever she says, and his cheeks do this thing where two spots sink in. Dimples, I remember they’re called. Dad has one in his right cheek. I’m like Mom, I don’t have any.
Waylon glances up, meeting my gaze like maybe he sensed me staring. He presses his lips together until they blend in with his skin, hiding his dimples once more.
Forget Izzy being Cyclops—it’s him with the laser eyes.
I narrow my eyes right back.
Steve Rogers could sooo take lame old Scott any day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Izzy and Waylon have a friend coming over after school.
It’s the first time they’ve brought someone home.
She tried to tell me about this new friend yesterday after the bus dropped her off, but Mommy shooed her out of my room to get started on homework, because she and Daddy were going on errands before having dinner with his band.
Izzy loves going on errands. She likes hanging out with Daddy’s band too. Unless it’s to AC Moore or Inferno—the comic store, which is almost an hour-long drive—I don’t like going places. Especially grocery stores, or places I’ve never been before, or with people I don’t really know, like Daddy’s band.
By the time my Izzy got home, I was already in bed, even though it was early. I pretended I was asleep. I didn’t wanna hear about her new friend. It just made me sad that I still didn’t have any of my own. I think she knew I was faking, because she said, “I’ll tell you about him tomorrow,” and closed the door.
Now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, copying a picture of Spider-Man from my comic book onto a blank sheet of paper, while Mommy sets out a bunch of different snacks. Usually she just makes PB&J’s or throws chips and stuff in bowls, but this time there’s like a whole buffet of stuff.
Music plays from the radio next to the sink. I don’t know who it is, but Mommy’s singing along and I’m wiggling my toes to the beat, shading in Spider-Man’s suit with a red colored pencil, tongue poking out of the side of my mouth.
Izzy asked once why I stick my tongue out while I draw, and I said I don’t know. I never noticed, but now I do. I try not to think about it though ’cause then I feel all yucky. And I don’t like feeling yucky when I’m making pictures.
My belly grumbles when I smell peanut butter—I didn’t eat lunch today. Just some salty crackers Mommy said would help my belly after what happened earlier.
“Feeling better?” she yells out to be heard over the music.
I nod, and she comes over with a plate. I pick up a triangle and bite into it, making a face when the sticky peanut butter gets all stuck against the roof of my mouth.
Mommy chuckles and ruffles my hair—or tries to. She sighs, and I look down, feeling bad. I miss my hair too. Cutting it was stupid.
But rather than say anything about it, she just drops a kiss to my fuzzy head, and goes back to making the other sandwiches. And then she’s singing and dancing again, so I guess she’s not too sad about my hair.
Crumbs fly all over my picture, so I brush them away, then scoot over to the next chair so I can eat away from it. I wait to feel sick again, but it never comes. It never does when I’m home. Only at school.
After what happened yesterday, Mommy walked me straight inside this morning, right to my classroom. So if Mason was outside today, I didn’t see him.
