Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“No. Everything’s fine. I gotta go so I don’t miss the bus.” He didn’t wait for her reply, rushing toward the door, where I waited.
He didn’t say a word as we ran to the bus, as we climbed on, as he stood back so I could get into the seat first because Gage knew I liked to look out the window or rest my forehead against the glass. It felt good against my skin.
I sat down, and he slid into the seat beside me. I almost asked him if he was okay, but I knew he wouldn’t answer, not with so many people around. Gage was protective. He was also really good at going through life pretending nothing was wrong, unless he was talking to me.
When my stop came, he asked, “Can I come over?”
I frowned, not because I didn’t want him there, but because I thought he might be sad. I hated it when Gage was sad. It always felt as if his pain lived inside me as well. I wondered if it was like that for him with me, but probably not. Butterflies still danced in my belly around Gage, and I was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to do that—that my dad would hate it, and everyone would tease me, and maybe Gage would hate me too if he knew.
As I hesitated, he said, “What? Are you too cool to hang out with me?”
“Yes, but I’ll make an exception.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled. Gage’s smiles were like having all the chocolate cupcakes I could eat.
We got off the bus. I checked the mail, and then we started walking down the long, gravel driveway toward the house I lived in with my dad. My mom had died when I was still a baby. When Dad got in one of his mean moods, he liked to tell me it was my fault. That she wasn’t right after she had me, that something about me made her sad, so she took her own life. He said it was the most embarrassing thing to happen to him, followed by me. Luckily, he wasn’t always in those mean moods.
“What’s going on at school?” I asked Gage. He’d never gotten the best grades, but the older we got, the more he seemed to struggle. His mom had left when he was young, and his dad never asked him about school, never even cared if Gage went.
“Nothing. It’s stupid, is all. Like, when will we use all that shit?”
“That’s our ticket out of here.”
“That’s your ticket out of here.”
“My ticket is your ticket.” My cheeks flamed. I said stuff like that to Gage sometimes, when it was just the two of us, but he never made me feel stupid over it, never made me feel weird or anything—though that might have been different if he’d known about the butterflies. Besides, it was true. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him.
“You’re such a dork,” he said playfully. “Race you.”
We took off down the driveway. My legs were still way shorter than his, and he won—we both knew he would—and then he turned around and grabbed me, pulled me into a big pile of leaves. I was laughing as we wrestled around in them, thinking I never had as much fun as I did with Gage. I didn’t feel like a shrimp or a twig, which the kids still called me sometimes. I didn’t feel like I made my mom kill herself or like I was too soft. Not with him.
He threw a handful of leaves in my face. One went in my mouth, and I spit it out, making us both laugh again.
When we settled down, he said quietly, “Sometimes the words don’t make sense to me…the letters are all jumbled. I keep trying, and then it gets more and more frustrating, which makes it worse. It’s like they go into my head and get lost, and I don’t remember what I read.”
My heart thudded. I’d heard of learning disabilities that affected reading. Maybe Gage had one. “Have you told anyone?”
“What do you think?” he snapped.
“Hey, don’t get mad at me.”
“Sorry.” He shook his head, then rolled out of the leaves and sat with his back to me. I moved over and rested in the grass beside him.
“I can help you. We can work on reading and stuff, and I can help with your homework. We won’t tell anyone.” I’d do all his work for him if I had to.
“God, I hate being stupid.” His hands tangled in his hair.
“You’re not stupid.”
“You want to teach me how to read, Joey. That makes me stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” I said again, my voice stronger.
He hesitated, let go of his hair, but ruffled it with his hand. “Sometimes when you say things, I believe them just because you said them. You make me want to believe them. Maybe ’cause you’re so smart? Or…I don’t know… I’m sure that sounds pretty dumb too.”