Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I nod, words trapped in my throat.
“I will.” Why is he saying this again to me when he just said it to both me and Rhett? “It’ll be my most important thing.”
He gives me a smile, something he rarely directs at us. “I know it will. Your brother can get distracted by school and those sorts of responsibilities, but those things aren’t your strengths. You’re a little…softer, like your mother, so there are certain situations where you’re more suited to help.”
Now it’s me sinking in on myself. For Dad, being the kind of boy Rhett is, caring so much about being the best at everything, is better than being like me. Right now, he tries to pretend being softer is a good thing, but he doesn’t believe that, not really.
“Can I go see her now?” I’d much rather be cuddled in bed with her than in this room with him.
“Let her rest, Morgan. You can see her later.”
I nod and leave the room.
“What did he say?” Rhett asks the moment I get into the living room.
“None of your business,” I snap, going to the back door.
“You’re so annoying. Dad can’t even count on you like he can me.”
“You kiss his butt all the time!” I throw back before slamming the door and not giving him the chance to reply.
The front of our stupid too-big house faces the water, the back toward the woods. My feet carry me straight for the trees. It’s a two-mile walk to Dusty’s place. His place is smaller than ours, homier. His parents work what my dad calls blue-collar jobs, whatever that means. Maybe if he had one of those too, he would spend more time with us like Dusty’s dad does.
Dusty’s the only one who knows how annoying Rhett is and how I feel about my dad. He’s the only person I can talk to about stuff besides Mom, but a lot of what I feel would make her sad, so I keep it inside.
Dusty is the best friend ever. Just throwing rocks in the creek with him usually makes me feel better.
I can walk this path with my eyes closed, know exactly where to turn and which trees mark how far away Dusty’s place is, so I’m able to turn off my brain as I go. It doesn’t take me long to get to the one-story, white house his parents have been fixing up.
I knock on the door, and his mom answers. She works at night and his dad during the day. “Hi, Mrs. James. Can Dusty play?”
“Of course, sweetheart. How are you?” She ruffles my hair just like she would with Dusty, just like my mom does with me. She and Mom talk sometimes. We tried to get the families together, but my dad and his dad didn’t have much to talk about, so it didn’t work that well. Mom can and does make friends with anyone.
“I’m good,” I say as I hear Dusty’s footsteps running down the hallway.
“Wanna go in my room? We can build Legos,” he says, his blond hair messy, a smudge of dirt across his cheek. He’s got a hole in the knee of his jeans, something my parents would never let happen. He pushes his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. He’s only had to wear glasses a year, but he’s already broken three pairs when we were out playing and roughhousing. His mom always says they didn’t have eight-year-old boys in mind when they made glasses, and that just keeping him in them will put them on the streets. I don’t think she really means that. I wouldn’t let that happen, even if I had to sneak them into our house myself.
“Can we go outside?” I ask, and his smile evens out some. Not because he doesn’t want to go outside, but because he knows I’m upset. I don’t know how Dusty can always tell, but he can.
“Yeah. Sure.” He shoves his feet into his shoes with a hole in them. His mom doesn’t let him wear his nice school shoes outside the way mine does. If mine get dirty, we just buy new ones, but that’s not something Dusty’s family can do. Thinking about that makes my heart hurt. I don’t ever want Dusty to go without something.
“Inside before the streetlights come on,” she warns. While the back of his house bumps up against the woods, the front is on a street with other houses. The neighbors get together and have block parties, which Dusty always invites me to.
While it’s still early in the afternoon, she knows time can get away from us. We could run around playing all day and night if they’d let us.
“We’ll be back!” Dusty says, then to me, “Race you!” And we’re off, out the door and running through the woods. We’ll head back to the road when it’s close to streetlight time.