At first, I don’t spot him anywhere, and I wonder if maybe his dad came early today since it’s his birthday and all. I hope not. Just thinking about it makes me angry in a way I don’t understand. I don’t like his dad. He forgets things a lot, and it always makes Waylon angry. And if Waylon’s angry, he gets quiet. And when he’s quiet, that means he’s sad.

I don’t think he knows I’ve caught on to that, but that’s okay. It will be my little secret.

I’m starting to have a couple of those when it comes to him.

Just when I’m convinced he’s not here, and my mood sours, I spot his dark head several feet away, bent over a book while he sits with his back to a big oak tree.

I reach in my pocket for a stick of bubble gum, popping it in my mouth as I make my way toward him.

Like always, when he’s bent over a book, he’s oblivious to my approach. So without warning, I plop down right in front of him and give him a megawatt grin. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Startled, he flinches. His fists tighten around the edges of his paperback as he levels me with a glare.

I pop a bubble and wag my eyebrows.

His mouth twists into a scowl. “You’re so weird.”

I flick the back of his book. “I know you are, but what am I?”

He closes his book and goes to put it in his bag. It makes me remember the earlier days of our friendship, when he’d go out of his way to never read in front of me. And if I caught him, he’d quickly stuff it in his bag before I could see what it was.

Not that I have to really get a good look at this one. He’s only read it a million times, and I’ve probably read it half those times, thanks to him. Not that you’d see me ever complaining. There’s something...nice about the days we just sit and read together.

It doesn’t happen that often, only when he’s not feeling well or not in the mood to play. The quiet days where I feel helpless. Angry, though I don’t understand why. He never wants to talk about what’s bothering him, but he does let me read with him. Sometimes we’ll even read aloud to one another, taking turns every other page or chapter.

We don’t talk about it, but I like to think it helps. Grams always says it’s the little things that can make a whole lick of a difference. Whatever that means.

“It’s your birthday,” I sing-song.

His mouth tightens. Hazel eyes flash up to mine before darting away. “Birthdays are stupid.”