Mom sighs. “Just don’t make a habit of it.” She swats me on the butt to show me it’s okay but I’d better not do it again. “Go wash up. Your face is all sweaty and your hands are dirty.”

I head for the bathroom and lean against the door for a second. I fooled her. She believed me. I don’t know whether to feel good or bad about it, but if I’d told the truth, there’d be no more bike rides to the tree house.

After dinner I text Skylar.

Hi, it’s me. Are you still mad?

Nope. Are you?

No way.

Tree house tomorrow?

Sure.

We sign off with some funny emojis. I get in bed with my iPad and stream a science fiction series about the end of the world after a plague, which I hope will never happen, but maybe I should be prepared in case it does. If you expect the worst, it won’t happen. At least that’s what I like to think.

2

Skylar shows up around eleven. I’ve got two bottles of water in my backpack, along with peanut butter sandwiches and a couple of apples for Skylar and me in case she forgets to bring lunch. I also have Never Let Me Go, one of the books on our summer reading list.

My backpack is hot and heavy on my shoulder, but I’ll have enough water for the ride home. Skylar never worries about stuff like dehydration, but I’ve read enough to know you can die of heat exhaustion in weather like this.

Her mom waves to us from the front porch. “Have fun, girls,” she calls. “And be sure to come home before five, Abbi.”

I glance at Skylar. “Your mom called last night,” she says, “and told my mom to keep a better eye on you.”

My face burns with embarrassment. It’s not like Ms. Freeman is my babysitter. She’s a kindergarten teacher, so she has summers off. The bank is open all year round, so Mom doesn’t. She has an arrangement with Ms. Freeman to keep an eye on me. Now it seems my mom is expecting Ms. Freeman to make sure I’m home before five. Considering how long she’s been friends with Ms. Freeman, she should know that Skylar’s mom isn’t likely to notice what I do any more than she notices what Skylar or Rob do.

We leave our neighborhood and coast downhill to Grant Road. At the old railroad station, now a fancy restaurant, we turn down a narrow road, hardly more than a path, that runs along the train tracks. A sign says For Railroad Use Only, but we ignore it. We’re pretty sure it’s a shortcut to the tree house.