I scowl. “But why? You get presents and crap.”

He snorts quietly. “And crap?”

I grin and nod. “Yup.”

Turning, I reach into my backpack and grab the bag of cookies. They got kind of crushed, but it’s okay. Waylon will eat them anyway. He loves junk food. Grams calls him a junk food junkie. He’d never turn down cookies.

I shake the bag in front of his face.

His mouth twists into a shy smile as he takes them from me.

“So why do you hate your birthday?”

He grimaces and stares down at the bag of cookies in his lap. “It’s just stupid.”

“It’s the day you were born. That’s a big deal.”

He gives me a funny look. “Says who?”

I widen my eyes and look around. “Everyone?”

He’s quiet.

I kick his foot with mine. “It’s not a day for sad books.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “My mom died on my birthday.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Seriously?”

He nods, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. “When she had me. I never met her.”

My throat feels oddly tight. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. You didn’t kill her.”

I scrunch up my face. “Well, no. No one did.” I pause, giving him a look. “Right?”

He hunches his shoulders. “No.” I barely hear him.

“I don’t think she’d want you to be sad,” I tell him after a moment. “You never had a mom, but I do, and I’m pretty sure that’s, like, a rule or something. Moms don’t want their kids sad. Especially on birthdays.”

He studies me with an unreadable expression. “Izzy brought me a new book, but I forgot it in my cubby. I was just reading this until you got here.”

“Well,” I say, dragging out the word, “then let’s go get it.”

And with that, I jump up and reach down for his arm.

“What? How? We can’t—”

I roll my eyes, dragging him so he has no choice but to join me as I start heading back toward the school. He rips his hand away from me, so I turn around and skip backward instead.

He’s scowling, black hair curling up into the soft breeze. I like it when it does that, but it also makes me want to touch it. Pat it down.

Just another little secret of mine.

“We can’t go inside the school,” he grumbles, and yet he still walks along. “It’s closed.”

“So? Come on.” Turning, I pick up my speed, smiling when I hear him huff behind me, shortly followed by his sneakers pounding on the pavement to catch up.