Stones and Spark Read Free Page B

better. So she just didn’t show up.
    The fries are starting to smell cold. I slow to a walk and head down the alley behind our house.
    Quietly I unlock the carriage house and slide back the panel doors. Once upon a time the carriage house kept literal carriages: horses and buggies. Now it’s our garage. My dad’s car is parked beside my mom’s. When I touch the hood, the metal feels hot. I wonder if she’s telling him now, showing him the “evidence” that I’m not their “real” daughter.
    I sneak past the cars, including my sister’s old VW Bug that my dad wouldn’t let her take to college. Helen left for Yale in August—early admission, art scholarship, the whole big nine yards. My sister is a superstar, and when she left, my mom went into a tailspin. But I’m pretty happy with Helen gone. For one thing, she can’t keep me from riding her bike. Which she would if she was here. Helen’s like that.
    I leave my backpack, toss the food bag in the front basket and wheel the bike into the alley. In six months, I’ll be sixteen. Nobody’s even mentioned driving lessons. And I don’t bring it up because my dad’s so stressed. My sister, however, whined for years, until he broke down and bought her exactly what she wanted: an old VW Bug. The hippie mobile. Right now it’s hidden under a tarp, and as I wheel the bike past it, I feel the temptation to spit on it.
    I bike down Monument to The Boulevard then pick up Grove Avenue. Heading west into a sinking sun, I keep scanning the road for a skinny girl with wild brown hair riding a purple Schwinn. Drew’s so compulsive she never changes routes. So if she’s heading to Big Man’s Burgers, I will see her.
    But I don’t.
    Just past Libbie Avenue, I turn into St. Catherine’s School. Episcopalian, not Catholic. But nobody can tell by our uniforms. I circle the buildings then stop at the bike rack behind the gym, where Drew always parks her bike.
    It’s not here.
    Instead, a white panel truck is parked within inches of the bike rack. The truck’s bumper has a sticker that asks, “How’s my driving?”
    Lousy.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” says a guy walking out of the gym. His blue coveralls swim around his body. “Don’t say it.”
    “Say what?”
    “I already got the lecture. Once was plenty.”
    He throws open the back doors, just missing the bike rack.
    “Was there a purple bike here?” I point to the rack he’s almost destroyed.
    “Huh?” He glances over his shoulder. “No, no bike.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Look, you girls want us out of here before the dance starts. So quit bugging me.”
    He yanks some white PVC pipes from the truck, carries them to the gym, throwing open the door. The wail of an electric guitar flies out. The band, I figure. Rehearing for tonight’s dance. I bike away as fast as possible.
    When I coast down Westhampton to Drew’s house, I see her mom’s Volvo in the driveway. It’s packed with those long rectangular boxes that hold foil and Saran Wrap. Drew’s mom is head of public relations for the cooking division of Reynolds Aluminum. Which is pretty ironic since Jayne Levinson doesn’t even know how to boil water. I know, because Drew and I used to meet here every Friday night for cheeseburgers—frozen White Castle burgers nuked in the microwave.
    After eating at Titus’s place, there’s no going back to that.
    I lean my bike against an oak in the back yard and kick through the fallen leaves. The back door is always open and leads into the sunroom, which gets no sun because the trees are so thick.
    I stick my head inside. “Drew?” I whisper.
    The only reply is a hiss.
    Sir Isaac Newton. Their satanic Siamese cat.
    But her mom also calls out, “Drewery?”
    Drew’s full name, which means there was trouble.
    “Drewery, is that you?”
    “No, ma’am,” I call back. “It’s Raleigh.”
    I’m trying to sound polite, but on the list of People I Never Want To Talk To, Especially On Friday night, number one