“If you were in danger? Of course he would.”

I run my fingers over the stubble on my head. “I guess he would ... He’s a solid sort of guy.”

“He’s the best. When I get the chance, I’ll talk to him about you and—“

“I don’t want you to! What if it comes out about Floyd?”

“You’ve got to trust me,” she says.

I look at her in silence. The truth’s becoming addictive. “I don’t know if I can. Never learned how. Not just you. Anyone.”

A breeze wafts through the new lattice. It’s as though Floyd’s standing between us, keeping us apart.

“You have to start somewhere,” she says.

“Easy to say.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You know what? Your T-shirt’s gross.”

“In the fall—after school starts—maybe you and I could go to Tim Hortons, have a coffee.”

Did I actually say that?

Her whole face breaks into a smile. “Maybe we could.”

I want to kiss her so bad I can taste it. But there are cobwebs in my hair, dirt under my nails, and my T-shirt is beyond gross. Plus I’ve never figured out which side of the girl’s nose you put your nose. “I better clean up in the river.”

“I’ll carry the bucket if you want to bring the other stuff.”

Once we’ve piled everything outside the shack, I close the door and lean a rock against it. We dump the contents of the bucket under a tree. At the river, I splash water over my face and hands, then wipe them on the hem of the T-shirt.

Tully laughs. “The shack’s cleaner than you. You’ll wash your face before our date, right?”

A date. With Tully Langille. Me, Brick MacAvoy.

“Are we friends?” The words hang in the air. Too late to snatch them back.

She sobers. “We’re heading in that direction.”

“Dumb question.”

“Buddy used to call me the dumbest kid on the block.”

“You? Was he crazy?”

“Could be.” She shivers again, even though it’s hot on the riverbank. “My mom is my hero.”

Then Tully gets her bike, which is leaning against my ATV, and we go our separate ways.

11.1 [self-respect]

THAT AFTERNOON Cassie and I walk the river trail to the hunting shack.

Cassie likes the shack.

Rover likes the shack too.

Cassie wants to sleep here.

Not just tonight, every night.

On a scale of one to ten, the tantrum is a four.

I produce the picnic she didn’t know I’d made.

We eat peanut butter sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and drink apple juice, both of us sitting at the table. I brought an old cushion for her to sit on, and a plastic Sesame Street tablecloth. The place is starting to look like home.

“It’s our secret place, Cassie,” I say. “Tully knows about it— so it’s just the three of us.”