Cover

Title Page

Dedication

For Ann

In memory of our tree house,

of the mysteries we hoped to solve,

of bicycles and roller skates

and swimming pools,

of books and paper dolls

and dollhouses,

of woods and trees

and creeks and railroad tracks,

of all the things our mothers didn’t know

but didn’t matter

as long as we were home in time for dinner.

1

For some reason, boredom maybe, Skylar picks the hottest day of the summer to ride our bikes all the way to the town limits.

I ask her why, and she says, “Don’t you want to see exactly where Evansburg stops and Newton starts? Haven’t you ever wondered about endings and beginnings?”

“Not really,” I say. “I’d rather talk your mother into driving us to the pool.”

“I’m not in the mood for swimming. I want to do something different.”

“Like have heatstroke and go to the hospital?”

“Oh, come on, Abbi. School starts in a few weeks. Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been. Aren’t you tired of doing the same old boring thing day after day? Pool, mall, library. Pool, mall, library.”

I try to reason with her. “In case you forgot, that side of town is where that girl we call Slap Your Face lives. What if we see her and she starts calling us names like she does in school? Or she slaps us like she slapped Lindsey?”

“She must be in juvie by now,” Skylar says. “I know for a fact she shoplifts at the mall.”

“How about Jason and Carter? They live over there too.”

Skylar shrugs. “They’re probably in the state pen.”

“I wish.”

“We’ll take some pictures and go home, Abbi. We won’t be there long enough to see anybody we know.”

Even though I think it’s a dumb thing to do, I run out of arguments and end up letting her talk me into a long, hot bike ride to a place I don’t want to go.

We take Grant Road to Route 203 and ride along the shoulder. Traffic roars past close enough to touch. The sun beats down on us. The smell of diesel fumes chokes me. I’m scared I’ll fall off my bike and an eighteen-wheeler will run me over.

We turn off the highway and take the road to Newton. Skylar coasts to a stop and checks the mileage on her bike. “We’ve only ridden five miles,” she says. “That’s hardly any distance.”

“If you added extra for the hills, it would be twenty miles,” I say. “And if you factored in the temperature, it would be fifty miles.”