moving. But their eyes on him wrecked the bird and the water and the color, so there was no point in hanging around. That was the problem with living in town. Someone looked at him wherever he went. Even the houses had eyes, watching every move.
Travis headed up the hill, and as he rounded the curve, the sidewalk ended.
The houses became scruffier and farther apart, with shaggy yards and gravel driveways.
The paint- peeling yellow box on the right had an empty yard and drive. No old hound standing out front, waving his thin cord of a tail, droopy red rimmed eyes asking why they'd made him walk the whole twenty miles. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Travis fished the key out of his pocket and opened the door. He made a peanut-butter sandwich and took it out to the back stoop. He pushed Grandpa's stinky soda can of soggy butts away and leaned against the house.
Three school days down. A zillion left to go.
In the back corner of the yard, a little pine tree tried to scraggle its way up past the shade of the tall wooden fence. The other corner was full of dried dog dookey, and a path was beaten all the way around the perimeter where some trapped dog had run in endless circles.
The front door banged.
"Want a doughnut?" Grandpa called.
Footsteps tromped around the house. Then Grandpa stepped out on the stoop, lighting a cigarette.
"It's a sticker out here," he said. "Musta been hot in school. Want a doughnut?"
"You said that already."
Grandpa looked down and gave Travis a very unsmiley smile.
"Did you manage to stay there all day?"
Travis handed him the butt can. Grandpa sat down and tapped the ash of his cigarette. Then he squinted at
Travis through a curl of smoke.
"Everything okay? Teachers and all?" he asked.
Travis shrugged, looking away. Grandpa dragged off the cigarette again, then turned his head sideways to blow out the smoke.
"Can you give it a chance? I miss the woods and the dog, too. But we're both going to have to buck up and make the best of what we've got."
The dull ache chewed on in Travis's chest. Everything he'd ever cared about was gone. Every single thing.
"Okay, don't buck up, then." Grandpa dropped his butt in the can and stood.
"Make it as bad as you want. I'm going to the six- thirty meeting. I'll pick you up a burger on the way home."
Footsteps, bathroom door, shower, and Grandpa headed out to his AA meeting.
He hadn't had a drink since that hot and horrible afternoon in August when Rosco went missing, but he smoked six times as much, and he was full of useless advice. As if not drinking meant he could tell Travis how to feel.
Travis got up and wandered around the yard, stopping at the little pine in the corner. He ran his fingers over the soft needles. Even if it stretched tall enough to look over the fence, it didn't have anything to look at but another scraggy backyard.
Because I saw you give Whistler his shoe back. That's why. Velveeta's voice slipped in and interrupted the chewing ache. That was the best thing anybody had ever said to him inside a school building.
The neighbors' TV noise rose over the drone of the air conditioner next door. A car backfired on the street.
Travis leaned his head against the fence, looking down at the skinny half- bare white pine. He bent over and pressed the green needles to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to fill himself with the smell of woods. The tree had nothing to give.
"It's okay," said Travis, petting the needles like they were Rosco's ears. "Not your fault, trapped here. If I could, I'd dig you up and take you someplace good."
on THURSDAY
Your buddy Connie was lying in wait for me after school.
When I passed the library, she waved me over like some street- corner drug dealer and off ered me a J- O- B. I asked her why, and she said maybe it would make her not miss you so much.
I told her I wasn't going to be joining the old people's canasta club, so forget it.
She said she doesn't want me to play canasta. She just wants me to
Travis headed up the hill, and as he rounded the curve, the sidewalk ended.
The houses became scruffier and farther apart, with shaggy yards and gravel driveways.
The paint- peeling yellow box on the right had an empty yard and drive. No old hound standing out front, waving his thin cord of a tail, droopy red rimmed eyes asking why they'd made him walk the whole twenty miles. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Travis fished the key out of his pocket and opened the door. He made a peanut-butter sandwich and took it out to the back stoop. He pushed Grandpa's stinky soda can of soggy butts away and leaned against the house.
Three school days down. A zillion left to go.
In the back corner of the yard, a little pine tree tried to scraggle its way up past the shade of the tall wooden fence. The other corner was full of dried dog dookey, and a path was beaten all the way around the perimeter where some trapped dog had run in endless circles.
The front door banged.
"Want a doughnut?" Grandpa called.
Footsteps tromped around the house. Then Grandpa stepped out on the stoop, lighting a cigarette.
"It's a sticker out here," he said. "Musta been hot in school. Want a doughnut?"
"You said that already."
Grandpa looked down and gave Travis a very unsmiley smile.
"Did you manage to stay there all day?"
Travis handed him the butt can. Grandpa sat down and tapped the ash of his cigarette. Then he squinted at
Travis through a curl of smoke.
"Everything okay? Teachers and all?" he asked.
Travis shrugged, looking away. Grandpa dragged off the cigarette again, then turned his head sideways to blow out the smoke.
"Can you give it a chance? I miss the woods and the dog, too. But we're both going to have to buck up and make the best of what we've got."
The dull ache chewed on in Travis's chest. Everything he'd ever cared about was gone. Every single thing.
"Okay, don't buck up, then." Grandpa dropped his butt in the can and stood.
"Make it as bad as you want. I'm going to the six- thirty meeting. I'll pick you up a burger on the way home."
Footsteps, bathroom door, shower, and Grandpa headed out to his AA meeting.
He hadn't had a drink since that hot and horrible afternoon in August when Rosco went missing, but he smoked six times as much, and he was full of useless advice. As if not drinking meant he could tell Travis how to feel.
Travis got up and wandered around the yard, stopping at the little pine in the corner. He ran his fingers over the soft needles. Even if it stretched tall enough to look over the fence, it didn't have anything to look at but another scraggy backyard.
Because I saw you give Whistler his shoe back. That's why. Velveeta's voice slipped in and interrupted the chewing ache. That was the best thing anybody had ever said to him inside a school building.
The neighbors' TV noise rose over the drone of the air conditioner next door. A car backfired on the street.
Travis leaned his head against the fence, looking down at the skinny half- bare white pine. He bent over and pressed the green needles to his nose, breathing deeply, trying to fill himself with the smell of woods. The tree had nothing to give.
"It's okay," said Travis, petting the needles like they were Rosco's ears. "Not your fault, trapped here. If I could, I'd dig you up and take you someplace good."
on THURSDAY
Your buddy Connie was lying in wait for me after school.
When I passed the library, she waved me over like some street- corner drug dealer and off ered me a J- O- B. I asked her why, and she said maybe it would make her not miss you so much.
I told her I wasn't going to be joining the old people's canasta club, so forget it.
She said she doesn't want me to play canasta. She just wants me to
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