As Cassie gives me one of her looks, I can almost read Tully’s mind. Poor kid’s so scared of Brick she won’t open her mouth. Fine by me. It feels a whole lot safer with Tully in hostility mode.

But when she turns to Cassie, she’s all smiles. “How about I fix Caramel’s line so he can’t be seen from the road?”

Cassie skips into the backyard. “C’mon, Caramel.”

Tully wedges several clothes pegs to the line to keep Caramel’s rope behind the house, then attaches the puppy’s collar to the rope. When she throws the new rubber ball, Caramel and Cassie chase after it. Caramel wins. Sitting on the ATV, I run my hands over the bristles on my scalp, take out Docker’s book, and study the photos, listening to Cassie and Tully laugh. I’m used to being on my own. Why would I want to join them?

Can’t bring myself to practice any blocks and kicks. Tully would think I’m working on Bullying for Dummies.

*

FLOYD AND Opal are out when we arrive home. I deal with supper, dishes, TV, Cassie’s bath, three picture books, pleas for more, and a kiss good night, and finally I’m alone in my room.

Ever since we met Kendra, my chest has felt clogged. It’s not ordinary, everyday anger. It’s rage. I contemplate going downstairs, taking Floyd’s Eric Lindros mug out of the cupboard, and smashing it in the sink. I pick up the tennis book, put it down again. Floyd’s right. I’m chinless, useless, gutless, hopeless.

Kendra did phone me. Twice. She tried again last night.

Of all the kids, you were the one I missed the most.

She missed me ... Kendra missed me. Every day after school, she used to give me a chocolate chip cookie on my special plate, which had blue dolphins leaping around the edge. It didn’t matter to me that by Friday the cookies were getting stale.

She saved my life.

I sit down on the bed, listening to the maple leaves brush against the window. Happiness because Kendra cared enough to miss me, sadness because I lost her, gratitude that she found me again ... and underneath it all, rage that Floyd was so mean. So freaking, goddamn mean.

*

SUNDAY.FLOYD and Opal come downstairs at noon, her in a clinging, satin robe. I stare into the saucepan where I’m heating hot dogs for Cassie. The water’s simmering, a film of grease on the surface.

Opal says blankly, “Your hair! You look like Thaddeus. Doesn’t he, Floyd?”

Floyd’s gone dead white, as though a ghost with a buzz cut is cooking the hot dogs.

“Be quiet, Opal.”