I stretch out my legs. My kneecaps pop up like hills. Skylar’s lucky to have straight legs with muscles instead of bumpy knees and bony shins. I watch her read and wish I looked just like her. Today we’re wearing matching outfits we bought at Target, something we do sometimes. My T-shirt has narrow blue stripes to match my shorts. Skylar has red stripes to match her shorts. Even though our clothes are the same, hers look much better on her than mine do on me. I remind myself that I’ll be thirteen three months before her. And that I’m better in drawing and language arts than she is, but only slightly—the difference between an A minus and a B plus.

She glances up, like she knows I’m looking at her, and grins. I grin back but immediately feel terrible. What kind of person is jealous of her best friend?

We read for a while longer, but we’re distracted by voices. We’re surprised to see Rob and three of his friends riding their bikes across the field toward Marie Drive. They’re talking and laughing and paying no attention to their surroundings. As soon as they’re gone, Skylar scrambles to her feet and starts climbing down. “Come on, let’s follow them.”

I can’t explain it, but I don’t think this is a good idea. Of course there’s no use telling Skylar that. Not when she’s already waiting for me on the ground.

Even though Rob and his friends are out of sight by now, we leave our bikes behind and walk along the edge of Marie Drive, keeping to the bushes in case they suddenly appear. We stop at a driveway, almost hidden in weeds.

Skylar points to bike tracks in the dirt. “They went up here.”

Darting from tree to tree, we sneak up the drive. It’s like playing detective again, just the way we used to.

Finally we see the house. Or what’s left of it. Most of the roof has caved in. The rest is held up by vines growing on the walls.

A gust of air stirs the leaves and twitches the weeds. Somewhere, far away, thunder rumbles, but the sun is shining where we are.

They’ve hidden their bikes in an overgrown straggle of bushes and vines, but sunlight bounces off the handlebars. We crouch behind a tree and watch the house. We listen for voices. Except for a bird chirping in a bush by the door, the house is silent. No one walks past a window or door. We know the boys are in there. Where else could they be?

We make a fast dash across the yard and hide in a tangle of weeds and brambles, ready to run if we have to. A splintered piece of plywood lies on the ground. A Condemned sign is nailed to it.