Текст книги "Rock"

Автор книги: Anyta Sunday

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rock

anyta sunday

First published in 2014 by Anyta Sunday,

Contact at Buerogemeinschaft ATP24, Am Treptower Park 24, 12435 Berlin, Germany

An Anyta Sunday publication

www.anytasunday.com

Copyright 2014 Anyta Sunday

Cover Design Natasha Snow

Content Editor: Teresa Crawford

Line Editor: HJS Editing

Proof Editor: Lynda Lamb

All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book contains sexual content.

This is the story of how I fall in love.

This is the story of how my home breaks and is rebuilt.

This is the story of how I became a rock.

part one: igneous

igneous: of and pertaining to fire.

gabbro

New day, new stone.

Today’s is a small trapezium of coarse-grained gabbro that’s spilling through the fence of our

neighbor’s yard. I squat to pick up the grey-black stone, jumping when a fresh raindrop slides across it

and splashes onto my wrist. I squeeze the stone. Stone 3621.

The gabbro’s subtle weight increases as I tell it all the crap that happened today, my last day of

intermediate school. Nothing dramatic, just saying goodbye to my teachers and high-fiving my mates

going to St. Patrick’s and Scott’s College next year.

I drop the stone into my pocket and breathe in the perfumed air rising from the magnolias that flank

the street. Today smells different, like the cusp of summer.

Home looms before me, and I swing my backpack off before peeking into the letterbox. Emptied

already. I fling our gate open. Its squeals match the rickety fence and clumps of wildflowers I trample as

I walk across the front lawn. Ivy climbs the wooden pillars that support the veranda roof and give our

home a cottage-like look. Small and cozy.

Except something is off. The door is held open by a faded kitchen-appliance box and—

A high-pitched gurgle. I quicken my steps toward the sound.

My older sister Annie is sitting at the end of the veranda, huddled against the side of the house in a

crimson sundress, head bowed into her hands.

“Annie?” I drop my backpack onto the cracked brick path. Annie’s tears drop onto her Roman

sandals. “What happened?” I crouch and grab her knees.

Her green eyes resemble mine, flecked with hazel, one ever so slightly brighter than the other.

Enough to make strangers look twice.

Except now, as Annie blinks, she looks different. The skin around her eyes is swollen and red, and

the mascara she’s not allowed to wear weaves complicated webs over her cheeks.

Her mouth opens and shuts, and another sob rattles her. I don’t know what to do. She’s my big sis;

she’s usually the one comforting me.

I pat her shoulder. She rests her head against my arm, smudging her black tears across my skin. It

tickles, but I shake it off. “Did . . .” I swallow. “Did someone die?”

She shakes her head and relief sweetens my next gulp of air. I rock back on my feet. So long as no

one is dead, I can handle anything. Maybe her first boyfriend dumped her? Two days before her

fourteenth birthday, though? I’m only twelve, but getting dumped like that would have to suck.

Annie sniffs hard, as if trying to regain control. She wipes her tears, drawing the mascara outward

so it resembles cat whiskers.

“Our home is breaking, Cooper,” she says. All thoughts of cats flee my mind.

The appliance box that’s propping the front door open takes on a new significance. “What do you

mean?” I ask. But I already know.

My sister’s voice grows taut, strangled and angry. “It means a week here, a week there. It means

choosing Mum’s side or Dad’s. It means we have a new family.”

I don’t understand this last part; in fact, I can’t quite grip the first part either.

Clouds pass over the afternoon sun, and the veranda darkens like a bad omen.

“They’re getting a divorce?” It comes out like a question, but it isn’t. Of course that’s what she

means. They’re getting a divorce.

“It’s more than that.” Annie glares at me. “Dad has someone else. Do you understand? He has this

whole other life we don’t know about. He wants to move in with her, because she’s the real love of his

life. All those business trips? It was him being with her. With them.”

My breath comes in and out fast. I’m not sure I want more details, but I ask anyway. “Them?” This

can’t be real. Sure, Dad leaves for two weeks out of the month, but he always brings back gifts for us.

Always says he loves us to the moon and back. “Them?” I ask firmly.

“The bitch has a son and is pregnant.”

I flinch. “A son? Dad’s?” Our . . . brother?

“The son isn’t his, but the baby—” Her voice breaks. “I’m staying with Mum. I don’t want

anything to do with him. I hate him.”

Footsteps creak over the wooden boards. I don’t know how long Dad’s been standing there, but his

expression is tight and pain flashes in his gaze—green like ours. We are our father’s children.

But for how much longer?

Dad folds his arms across his old, oil-smeared shirt. He’s fit for thirty-eight, but the creased skin

around his eyes can’t be denied. I’d like to believe that his crow’s feet came from endless smiles, but all

I ever see are frowns.

I guess the smiling must have happened when he was with her. With them.

Dad looks from Annie to me, and his sad frown hits me like a punch to my gut. I can’t breathe.

“Cooper,” he says. It comes out raspy, like he’s been crying. “Cooper,” he pleas.

I glance from Annie to Dad, feeling like I have to choose. My breathing quickens and I need my

stone. Like, right now. I plunge my hand into my pocket and strangle this bad memory into the gabbro. I

look at Annie. At Dad.

Choose! Choose! Choose!

But I can’t.

basalt

Mum begs me to spend the weekend with Dad.

She stands tall and fair, with freckles that I didn’t inherit—save the ones on my toe and under my eye—

as she pulls out T-shirts, shorts, and socks from my dresser drawers. I hurry over to take care of my own

boxer shorts, thank you very much.

She pauses, arms full of clothes that are ready to collect her tears, but she holds back. I’m not

fooled by the façade of strength.

I understand why Annie wants to take sides; why she chose Mum’s.

“We were both to blame. Things haven’t been working out for a long time,” she says with a smile

far too bright to be real. “Don’t be as stubborn as your sister. It hurts him, not seeing you.”

“It’s only been a month.”

“He’s called every second day.”

“He left you, right? So he chose this.” But those are Annie’s words, not mine, and I feel guilty for

saying them.

“He left, but we were already broken.”

“Have you met his new . . . woman?” I ask, for lack of a better word—and because it sounds rude

and mean, and I want to spite her.

She pauses and unzips my duffel bag with a swift flick of her wrist. “Yes.” She looks away, but not

before I see tears finally rimming her eyes. “Lila was once a friend of mine. We’ve known each other

since our first day of university. In fact, she introduced me to your father.”

She packs my bags even though I can easily do it myself. But she needs something to keep her

busy, so I let her. She tosses in my journal, throws in last week’s collection of stones, and places my

magnifying glass between piles of clothes.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay, Cooper. You’ll see.”

Mum drops me off outside Dad’s house. The worst part of going to Dad’s is how close it is to

Mum’s. I’d always thought Dad was in Auckland the weeks he wasn’t with us, but his other life had

been only a few neighborhoods over the whole time.

How long? I asked Dad that day on the veranda. When he didn’t answer, I shouted. How long?

“Guess this is it, then,” I say. Mum glances toward his house—his mansion.

Château de Dad has a large, freshly-mowed lawn that glints in the mid-morning light so that the

grass glimmers like a moat. Except this castle is modern, all straight lines and glass, and crowned by a

hilly forest in the distance. It makes a simple, powerful statement: We’re better than you.

I understand why Mum looks away.

I want to lean over and hug her, but Mum isn’t the hugging type. Instead, I shrink into my seat and

refuse to unbuckle my seatbelt.

Maybe this weekend isn’t such a great idea after all.

“We can go back home,” I say, running a hand through my messy locks as if I’m trying to be like

them, trying to prove I’m just as good even though I’m not the one Dad chose. “I wish Annie was

coming.”

“She’ll get there, sooner or later.” Mum grips the wheel like she’s ready to leave. “She needs more

time to adjust.”

I don’t tell her maybe I need that time too. She’s counting on me to be the peace offering; to show

that she is all fine and dandy with this. Like she wants to prove that she’s the reasonable, accepting one.

Like she wants Dad to know that nothing can get to her, and that she’s not turning us against him. She’s

no bitch. She’s gracious. Tolerant. Accepting. She wants to rub what he’s thrown away in his face.

And I want to give that to her.

But I am nervous, and my belly is lurching like it needs food, even though that’s the last thing I

want. I rub my sweaty palms over my shorts and grab the duffel bag between my feet, hauling it onto

my lap. “It’s only the weekend.”

“Just the weekend,” she repeats. Something in her monotonous tone makes me shiver. Does she

think because it’s a mansion I won’t come home?

I don’t care that she doesn’t like hugs; I give her one anyway. The angle is awkward and her short

hair finds its way up my nose. Even though she doesn’t hug back, she warms me inside and out. “Love

you.” I draw away and finally undo my seatbelt.

“I was young,” she says, “when I met your father. I thought we were in love.”

I fumble to open the door. A rush of sweet summer air washes into the car. Mum snaps out of her

reverie and laughs. “Whatever you do, Cooper, don’t fall—I hope it’s different for you and Annie.”

pumice

I walk to the front porch through the moat instead of on the path. I dig my heels in a bit too, hoping

to make my stride look clumpy and ripe with attitude. I dump my duffel bag on the porch and ring the

bell. When no one answers, I check the windows.

A familiar yell comes from the distance; it’s my dad’s voice, but it’s attached to laughter. My spirits

fall to the freckle on my large toe. I kick at the skirting of the house but it does nothing except make my

foot throb. “Shit!” I hop around to the side of the house and stop in the shadows.

My dad is kicking a soccer ball to a boy whose back is to me. The boy has short brown hair and

skin that’s seen some sun, judging by the tan. The way he moves forward to meet the ball with a precise,

hefty kick suggests he’s the cocky type who knows he’s good and flaunts it.

With a grin, Dad catches the ball on his knee and heads it. He lets it fall behind him, using his heel

to kick it over to the front again. He passes it back to the boy. “Try that on for size.”

The boy sniggers and repeats the juggling without a slip. He smoothly kicks the ball back. “Give

me a real challenge, Dad.”

I must not have heard him right. I shake my head. Dad?

I wait for Dad to correct him, to remind this presumptuous boy that he should call him David, not

Dad. But he doesn’t. He smiles.

My vision blurs with angry tears. He’s my dad. How dare this cocky dickweed call him that! Cold

fury fills me, and I stalk out from behind the side of the house.

Dad sees me first. His kick misfires, and the ball hurtles toward me. Dad looks suddenly nervous,

then excited, and then nervous again as he glances from the boy to me.

I stop the ball right before the boy turns around.

A breeze makes the trees in the hills shiver, while the sun brightens. The heat soaks into my skin

and sweat drips down my back.

I stare at him. He’s older than me, maybe my sister’s age. He’s tall, teetering on the edge of

lankiness, like he’s a few summers off from growing into his build. His lips are curved into a half grin,

confirming my suspicions. Cocky, like we’ve started a game that he knows he’s going to win. He

glances over at my dad, then turns his blue eyes on me. They are the blue of the rubbish bags Mum uses

for the bathroom bin; the blue of oily seawater; the blue of regurgitated fish scales.

“Cooper,” Dad says, waving me closer. “You’re here early.”

I glare at the boy, who doesn’t appear intimidated or nervous. In fact, his smile might be growing.

“Gonna pass the ball or what?” he asks. He chuckles and taps a fist against his chest. “I’m Jace, by the

way.”

Jace? What type of name is that?

A nice one.

I hate it.

Tears blur my vision. Dad knows this boy, knows Jace. Knows him like a . . .

I stare at the soccer ball at my feet. I move my foot back, aligning it perfectly. If Jace thinks he’s

the only one who’s good with a ball, he’s wrong. I kick hard and whisper, “Heads up.”

The ball smacks him in the face as he’s turning.

“Fuck!” His garbled words spill out as he clutches his nose. “What the hell?” He spits onto the

grass and I proudly note the blood.

I want to give myself a high-five, but the gleam in his regurgitated fish-scale eyes changes my

mind. I start forward, apologies on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I wish I hadn’t done it. Maybe.

He stares hard at me. The cockiness is gone, replaced with something colder and more calculating. I

have a feeling he’s going to remember every detail of this moment for the rest of his life.

Dad hollers something about brothers, but his voice softens as if he pities me.

I stare at my Puma shoes, fascinated by the slowly-unraveling double knots and dirt clods clumped

into the sole.

Jace wipes away the tiny trail of blood seeping from his nose. When he speaks, his words crawl

across my skin and give me goose bumps.

“Well, Dad,” he says tightly, “isn’t this the brother I’ve always wanted?”

* * *

Jace plants himself onto the kitchen counter and slaps an ice pack against his face.

“Fucker,” he mutters, scowling at me.

“Dickweed,” I retort. I’m sitting at the large dining table scowling back.

“Cooper.” Dad slaps his palm onto my shoulder. “This is not how I wanted you two to start.”

“Start? Start what?”

Dad answers, “Our new life.”

He says more but I can’t hear the words. His voice drones and hurts my head. “I hate you.” This

time they are not my sister’s words. They’re all mine. “Five years? Five?” My voice breaks. “How

could you? I’ll never forgive you.”

My chair protests with a squeal as I push it back and stand. I turn my back to them and rush away,

refusing to run, though my blood is pumping like it’s chanting for me to run. But I can’t because . . .

because . . .

Because I want dad to pull me into a hug and tell me this is all a joke, all a mistake, and he’s

coming home. I’d settle for him telling me that Annie and I are just as good as his new family—but if

that were true, he never would have left us.

I grab my duffel bag and march over the grassy moat to the street. I have some loose change in my

pocket, so I head toward the bus stop and search the sidewalk for a stone. Preferably something sharp,

something broken. A cracked corner of the gutter catches my eye.

Concrete is made of rock, sand, and gravel—sometimes even pumice for the lightweight stuff. It’d

have to do.

I kick a wedge of it loose and try to stuff it into my pocket. A hand grabs my arm and pulls me

around.

My heart lifts, and I almost drop the concrete. “Dad.” I turn to face him.

Except it’s Jace.

I have to raise my chin to look at him. A frown cuts across his brow. He loosens his grip on me, but

he doesn’t let go until I pointedly glance at his hand.

“You’re still a shit,” he says. His voice softens. “It sucks. I mean it really sucks. Like raw nerves

and lemon juice and”—he looks over his shoulder—“I always wondered who you were.”

The duffel bag handles are cutting into one of my palms, and the jagged rock is scraping the other. I

clutch them tightly as I think how to respond. He always wondered? Always? But that must mean

–“You knew about us?”

Jace takes the duffel bag from my grasp. “Just come back to the house,” he says with a quizzical

glance to the rock in my hand. I push the stone deep into my pocket, ripping the seams a little. “If not

for Dad, then for answers to your questions.”

I might have gone had he not said Dad, but that one word catapults me back toward the bus stop.

Jace can have my stupid duffel bag. I don’t care. I’ll be all right. I have my rock. “Tell him he can visit

me, but I’m never coming back here again.”

tuff

Dad stops by to visit me and Annie, but my sister refuses to see him. Dad settles on taking me for a

walk through the town belt. For three hours we hike the hills and weave through the woods in the crisp

air. Birds tweet like they’re gossiping about us.

They don’t talk much these two, do they?

The smaller one looks like he’s swallowed sour worms, poor thing.

What about the taller one? He looks one peck of the beak away from crying.

They need to talk.

How can we make them?

Sparrow, are you fully digested yet?

Aim. Load. Fire—

Bird shit lands on my cap. “Gross!” I yank the cap off.

Dad chuckles and takes care of it. “There, all gone.” He hands it back to me and I reluctantly slip it

on again. “It’s good luck you know.”

“Really? Will it make you come home again?”

Dad sighs and sits on a bench, patting the space next to him. “I’m sorry things are hard for you and

Annie.”

“Do you love her? Is she really your true love? Did you ever care for Mum?”

“Your mum and I have a complicated history.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we were on again, off again when we first got together. She’s got a wonderful spirit, your

mum, and we cared for each other a lot—”

“But?”

“Relationships don’t always work. Fifteen years ago, I thought we were broken up for good.”

“Why’d you get back together then?”

“Three or four months after we broke up, she brought me the news that she was pregnant. I cared

about her, Cooper. I wanted to do the right thing.”

“So you had a shot-gun wedding, and the baby came early?”

Dad frowns. “Everyone knew about the baby already. Annie came out on time. Her tiny, red hands

gripped my finger so tightly, I knew she needed me. She needed her father, and I wanted to be the best I

could for her. It worked for a time after that. Your mum and me, I mean. We had a routine and we both

loved Annie so much, and we’d laugh at each other when we were too tired to do anything else. And

then, Annie was about six months old when your mum got pregnant again.”

“Ever heard of contraception?” I ask, although I’m not too mad at his lack of foresight, considering

I came into the world and all. But still.

“She was on the mini-pill. We thought we were good.”

“So I was a mistake?”

“Cooper, when I found out your mum was pregnant, all I could think was how much I loved your

sister and how happy I was she’d have a sibling.”

“So what happened? When did it all go downhill?”

“It wasn’t working.” He sighs and shakes his head. “We were fooling ourselves.”

“Got it,” I say, jumping up from the bench. “Then you met her and realized she was the love of

your life. You decide to cheat on Mum for five years, and boom, now it’s all blowing up in your face.

Well it’s tuff, isn’t it?” Tuff. The debris from a volcanic eruption.

This whole situation is his mess. He will have to clean it up.

Dad scrambles after me. “Cooper, wait. It didn’t work out how we hoped, but I didn’t go behind

your mother’s back—”

“Her son starts calling you Dad, and you just go with it?”

“Cooper, wait—”

I raise a hand. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

obsidian

The first weeks at Newtown High go by quickly. I attend classes, do my homework, and even make

a couple of friends—aptly nicknamed Ernie and Bert for their size difference and close friendship.

The first months with separated parents drag. Dad keeps calling, I keep ignoring. Annie does the

same, and her skirts have all shrunk a couple of sizes.

We’re in desperate need of black obsidian to ward off our negativity.

Beginning of the third week of school, the phone rings.

Mum waits four counts, willing me or Annie to step up to the plate. We don’t bite.

She sighs and answers the phone. “David,” she says tightly. “The kids still need a bit of time—”

Mum frowns and twists her back to us. “Oh, David. I’m sorry to hear that. Will she be okay?”

Annie and I, sharing a couch, shuffle forward. I tense, waiting for what Mum will say next. Even

Annie is gripping the arm of the couch.

Did Dad call to say he made a mistake? Is he coming home?

I hold my breath as Mum glances at us. “Yes. I’ll tell them. Take care.” She hangs up.

She sits on the armchair across from our couch, her mouth set in a grim line. She leans forward and

clasps her fingers.

“That was your dad with some sad news. Lila lost her baby.”

“How far along was she?” Annie asks.

“Four months.”

Annie quiets and starts sucking her lips in on one side.

She doesn’t hate Dad. Does that make me a worse person than her?

I don’t know how I feel about the pregnancy not taking. I want to feel sad for Lila. I know that I

probably should, but I’m stopped by the lightness in my belly and a selfish whisper: Maybe Dad will

come back now.

ocean jasper

I stroll across the school courtyard to Ernie and Bert, who are lounging against an old brick wall

with their arms crossed, checking out all the girls.

Dozens of people mill about, talking loudly and laughing at things on their phones. The sun

provides a steady heat, with only light breezes whipping at the posters plastered on the school buildings.

Most of the benches are occupied by groups of three or four, except for his.

Jace sits alone on the bench in the middle of the courtyard, elbows on his knees, staring at his

shoes. He’s wearing black from head to toe.

I arrow through a crowd gossiping about the upcoming dance, and I weave around a pair of

skateboarders. Considering the last time I spoke to Jace, do I even have the right to walk over there and

say hi? Maybe it’s the guilt, but something pushes me closer.

Maybe Dad will come back now.

The moment he notices me, Jace straightens his shoulders and slips on his mask of nonchalance.

The cold stare he gives me doesn’t tame the tiredness in his eyes or the slight puffiness at their edges.

“I didn’t even know you went to this school,” I say, sliding onto the bench next to him.

He shrugs. “Well, I do.”

I want to acknowledge his mourning somehow, but guilt holds my tongue captive. I am beginning

to feel sorry that the pregnancy didn’t take, but I still can’t silence that other whisper: We’re better than

you.

I wish I hadn’t sat. Sweat glazes my hands and the backs of my knees. I instinctively search the

ground for a rock, a pebble, a stone. Close to Jace’s heel, a colorful beach stone with spots at one end

seems to wink at me. If it represented the moment, it would be ocean jasper, a stone known for helping

people cope with change.

I lean forward to pick it up, but I misjudge the angle and hit my nose against Jace’s knee.

He shuffles to the side as I swing up, gripping the stone. Almost immediately—and even though

heat is rushing to my cheeks—my breathing steadies. The smooth stone massages and revitalizes my

skin as the sediments absorb my stress. I can do this.

“You’re weird,” Jace says, staring at my fist.

“You mean Dad hasn’t told you?”

Now I feel weird. I glance away, but when I look back, Jace is eying me carefully, from my sandals

to my turquoise shorts and white Music Rocks T-shirt. He lingers on the shirt. “He said you have a few

ticks.”

I nod. “Only this, really. But I flip out if I—” I decide not to go into the rest. What’s the point? It’s

not as though we have to be friends now that our families are somewhat connected. “It doesn’t matter.”

I want to walk away but Jace catches my gaze. “Why’d you come over?” he asks.

I shrug. Because it sucks. Raw nerves and lemon juice.

He shrugs and mutters, “Not that I care or anything, but Dad misses you.”

I try to shake off his words as I slouch my way to Ernie and Bert. Ernie might be short, but he

makes up for it by being loud and obnoxious. But hey, friends are friends. At least I have someone to eat

lunch with. “You look like your balls are being stung by wetas,” he says.

Bert, who’s big and beefy and plays rugby like he needs to declare the gospel and convert

everyone, punches Ernie on the arm. “You talk about balls so much I’m beginning to think you’re a

fag.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Bert says, “I don’t think I’m having you over for sleepovers anymore.”

Ernie flips him off and scooches over enough that I can rest against the wall. I drop my shoulder

bag between my feet. Their shit-talking is stupid, but I know they don’t mean it. At least, I hope they

don’t. Some people at school are known for getting stupid with their fists, though, and I steer clear of

their radar.

“So what’s up your ass?” Ernie asks.

I pull out a sandwich from my bag. “Nothing.”

Bert and Ernie share a look I’m not privy to, but their raised brows suggest they’re secretly plotting

a way to get a real answer out of me.

They can try as hard as they like, but I’m not talking about Dad or Jace to either of them.

They prod a few more times but eventually give up and change topics. “Are we going to the dance

or what?” Ernie asks, winking at a girl who looks like Annie.

“No,” I say. “What’s the point?”

This earns me a whack on the back of the head. “But there’ll be tits galore—”

“Yeah,” I say, and add a firm, “No.” Because it’s not happening.

And it doesn’t.

Bert and Ernie go to the dance alone.

granite

The next six months, Jace is everywhere.

We never talk but he’s always around; he’s in the courtyard, in the music room, on the soccer field,

or waiting for the bus on the other side of the street like he is right now. I’m waiting for bus 10 to take

me back to Mum’s; he’s waiting for bus 02 to take him to Dad’s.

A few others are hanging around. Annie is chatting to a large Maori dude, who’s smiling as though

he might get lucky.

I hang a few meters back and rest against the brick part of the school fence. On his side of the

street, Jace has adopted a spot against a concrete wall with a book in his hand.

It’s a pose we’ve been holding for months. We’ve perfected the art of pretending to read while

surreptitiously peeking at each other. Looking without getting caught has become our game. When we

do catch each other, we scowl and mutter various insults. I like “dickweed” best, but my exceptional lipreading

skills tell me Jace hasn’t settled on a favorite insult, though he is particularly creative.

I open my geology textbook and stare blankly at a summary on plate tectonics. I flip a page and

glance up. Jace is frowning into a brown book that’s a shade or two lighter than his hair—still pretty

dark. I risk staring for three counts before I fake-read some more.

I take my time and savor the tingling that prickles the back of my neck as Jace watches me. It’s like

a game of I Spy, but somehow it feels risky. Like we’re two cowboys about to draw our guns. Like it’s a

contest to prove who is better.

I grit my teeth and mutter, “Dickweed.”

A shadow falls over me, and I snap the book shut. The puff of air makes me cough. Jace has

crossed the street and is standing in front of me.

“Little shit,” he murmurs, but his lips are twitching at the edges as if he’s holding back a grin.

“What do you want?”

“You didn’t pick up a stone today.” He gestures to the chipped brick at my feet. “You usually do.”

“So you’ve noticed. That’s a bit stalkerish of you, don’t you think?”

He snorts and ignores the dig. “Dad’s birthday is coming up.”

I reign in the urge to shove him, opting instead for a tight smile. “Stop calling him your dad.”

Jace shrugs it off. “He wants you and Annie there.”

Dad’s birthday is on Halloween, and his greatest wish is to make people love it. Halloween, that is.

He decorates every year—well, he used to decorate every year. He’d invite all the neighbors to tour our

haunted maze, then tally-up how many people screamed so he could beat his record the following year.

Our Halloween tradition was the best. We planned for months, practically the entire year. Jace and

Lila won’t even come close to pulling off such a feat.

This fact makes me smug, and my tight smile turns into a grin.

We’re better than you.

Not at this.

“I’ll be there,” I say, hoping Annie will come along as well. Maybe Dad will tell us our Halloween

birthdays are the best. He won’t even have to say it because I’ll be able to read his Frankenstein face.

“Really? You’ll come?” Jace shifts, and the afternoon sun hits my face.

I raise a hand to block it out. Jace corrects his position so I’m once again in his shadow. Even

though other students are chatting, tires are bumping over the road, and somewhere in the distance an

ambulance is calling, we stare each other down in silence.

“Okay. Cool.” He turns, then swivels back. “Oh, and before I forget.” He digs into his pocket and

pulls out a small stone. He stuffs it into my hand. It’s smooth and warm, like he’s been holding it for a

while. “Found it on my side of the road.”

The sun pelts my face with bright warmth, and by the time I adjust to the light, Jace has crossed the

road and taken up his spot at the wall.

We return to reading—or pretending to.

The duel has only just begun.

rhyolite

I hold the stone all the way home. It’s a strange stone, this one. I have others of similar shape, size

and sediment, but this one feels glassier and heavier as though it’s laden with one-thousand-year-old

secrets.

I whip out a magnifying glass and study the stone at our dining table.

It’s an igneous rock, I think. Rhyolite, maybe? Could this stone have been born from the eruption of

Mt. Taupo 27,000 years ago?

Maybe, but how did it end up on the side of the road at a bus stop of all places? Unless Jace picked

it up somewhere else?

But why would he do that? Why lie about it if he did? Why am I still picturing his hopeful

expression when I said I’d go to Dad’s party?

I rub the stone until Mum asks me what’s up. She knows I’m imbuing the stone with my memories,

letting it soak up all the day’s events, the highs and lows. I relax as the stone releases my tight knots and