One pink sneaker touches the ground, tentative, then firmer. “Am I down?” Tully quavers.

I swallow and let go of the ladder. “Yep ... last foot and you’re home free.”

Now both her feet are on the ground. She sags against the ladder, her forehead resting on one of the rungs. “Stupid robin,” she says.

I step back.

Slowly she straightens and turns around. Her eyes are a shade between green and brown, like the river when it runs under the trees in summer. Hey, who needs Wordsworth when you’ve got Brick MacAvoy?

She says, “I don’t like you. Never have.”

I take another step back. “I have to go home. Cassie needs her breakfast.”

And I thought Floyd’s slaps hurt.

“I haven’t finished!” She jams her hands in her pockets. “Thank you for getting me down from the roof. And for putting the bird back in the nest. It was ... kind of you.”

Kind. She looks at me and I look at her.

Kind Brick MacAvoy? Perfect example of an oxymoron. I go for the truth. Or at least, part of it. “I wasn’t being kind.”

Although was I, just maybe, giving empathy a dry run?

Nah. It was Tully’s ankles.

I dig my toes into the grass, but she grips my wrist before I can run, and says, “Cassie won’t starve in the next two minutes.”

“I don’t have to stick around and be insulted by you.”

“I can’t figure you out! You knocked Lorne down at school and threw rocks at Igor, but you’re mostly nice to Cassie—although sometimes she goes mute when you’re anywhere near. Snyder and his gang banged you up pretty bad, which means you’re likely into drugs. Then today you put that little bird back in its nest like you really cared what happened to it.”

I tug my arm free. “I didn’t care.”

Her eyes are like skewers. “You’re so full of it.”

In desperation, I opt for the truth. “The bird was trying so hard to fly on its own. Once I picked it up ... I guess I did care. A bit.”

“Are you into drugs, Brick?”

Now what do I say? If I deny it, she’ll start wondering if someone other than Snyder beat me up. I can’t afford to have Tully Langille wondering about every bruise and scrape. There’s nothing wrong with her brains—wondering could lead her straight to Floyd. I say roughly, “Just leave me alone.”

“Drugs are a dead-end street! Don’t you see how stupid you’re being?”

“Quit preaching! And if you hate me so much, why didn’t you tell your parents I’m a bully?”

Her shoulders sag. “Dad needed help with the scraping and I knew I could keep an eye on you.”