Roll Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my dad

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgments

  Ren’s Pigeon Facts

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  OKAY.

  There are birds falling out of the sky.

  I’m not an expert on bird behavior or anything, but I’m pretty sure birds aren’t just supposed to fall out of the sky.

  I mean, right? We can all agree that’s weird?

  Speaking of weird, my name is Lauren . . . and I’m a boy.

  Pretty good segue, huh? Dad says I have a gift for changing the conversation. He’s also the one who decided to call me Lauren, so I take his compliments with a grain of salt.

  To be fair, I was named after my grandpa, who died the week before I was born. Grandpa was six feet tall and a retired Navy SEAL, which means he was the kind of guy who could pull off a name like “Lauren.”

  I, on the other hand, am not.

  For starters, I’m short. In fact, I’m the shortest eleven-year-old I know. I wear glasses. And read comics. Add that all up with the fact that one time, in gym class, David Stadler accidentally knocked me unconscious with a volleyball, and, well . . .

  Just trust me; being named Lauren is the worst. Even though everyone calls me “Ren.”

  I’ve thought about it a lot over the years, and I’m pretty sure Grandpa would have agreed with me. If he could have talked at the end, he probably would have sat up on his deathbed and proclaimed something along the lines of, “Do not name your child ‘Lauren,’ my son. It’s a terrible idea.”

  But I’m getting off topic here. The point is: Birds are falling from the sky.

  Wait.

  Birds were falling from the sky. I swear they were, just a second ago.

  But now they’re just kind of . . . there. Drifting above the neighbors’ tree line and flying back and forth in a circle and acting like, well, birds.

  Huh.

  Maybe I’m imagining things.

  Maybe all these years of being forced to answer to the name Lauren have finally driven me over the edge.

  Maybe waking up at six a.m. on my summer vacation has cooked my brain.

  Or maybe—oh, no, wait! They’re doing it again!

  I sit up from my spot in the grass, unsticking my sweaty “Free Bananaman” T-shirt from my back.

  Bananaman is my favorite comic of all time. It was popular back in the eighties, in England, but shockingly no one’s ever heard of it here in the US.

  It’s kind of ridiculous, but pretty funny, too. There’s this kid named Eric Wimp, who’s about my age, and when he eats a banana, he turns into this superhero named Bananaman. Bananaman has the strength of twenty men (twenty big men), and he fights all these supervillains who are kind of like joke versions of real supervillains, like Doctor Gloom and Skunk Woman. He has a fortress in the North Pole that’s shaped like a giant banana.

  Like I said, it’s ridiculous.

  I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose for a better look at the birds. I can’t wear contacts, because the idea of touching my eyeball makes me feel gross.

  It turns out I was wrong; the birds aren’t really falling out of the sky. They’re more . . . somersaulting.

  Like someone is sending a secret message to them, telling them to stop flying, freeze in midair for a second, and then throw themselves backward toward the ground like weird, feathery little gymnasts.

  I tense up a little as the kamikaze birds near the tree line. But just as I think they’re about to hit the ground, the little dudes swoop upward again, like nothing ever happened.

  It’s definitely weird.

  But what’s really weird is that it happens again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I’m just starting to worry there’s something seriously wrong with the birds (some new, highly infectious, and awesome strain of avian flu, maybe) when the screen door scrapes open against the porch with a loud screeeeek.

  Dad’s been saying he’s going to fix the door ever since we moved out to the country.

  It’s strange, living in Grandma’s old house. Like it’s not really ours. The bathrooms still smell like her potpourri, her umbrella still sits in its stand next to the door, and Grandpa’s Distinguished Service Medal still hangs on the wall.

  At our old house, in town, the door didn’t stick. The bathrooms smelled like Lysol, and we never used umbrellas.

  Westville is only eight miles away but sometimes it feels like a million.

  I turn to look at the door and see Dad. He owns his own structural engineering firm, so usually he just wears a button-down shirt to work, but he’s meeting some big new client in Fairmont later this morning.

  He looks strange in a suit.

  “Hey, kiddo. How was your run?”

  Exhausting. Boring. Painful.

  “Great,” I lie. “Look at these birds.”

  Dad leans against the door frame. “Did you concentrate on your foot strikes?”

  Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on your foot strikes while you’re running? It’s like trying to pat your stomach and rub your head at the same time. Only sweatier. “Look,” I say again, trying to distract him. “The birds are acting really weird.”

  Dad steps onto the porch, holding the screen door open with his size thirteen foot. Unlike me, everything about Dad is big. He raises his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. “What birds?”

  “Over there.” I point across the field, which slopes downward from our yard until it meets the neighbors’ tree line. Their house is probably about a mile away, if you use the roads. Shorter if you cut through the field, kitty-corner.

  There’s nothing there.

  I mean, the trees are there, obviously. Blue sky, a few clouds, the sun are all accounted for. It’s not like a giant black hole suddenly opened up above the neighbors’ house or anything.

  But the birds are gone.

  “They were right there,” I say, staring at the patch of empty sky. Birds couldn’t just vanish into thin air, could they?

  “Must have flown away,” Dad says, dragging me back to the real world. “Come on in. Mom and I have to leave soon.”

  I wince as he pulls the screen door shut again, seemingly oblivious to its screech.

  Maybe Dad is right. Maybe the birds flew away. But that doesn’t explain where they went. Or what they were doing before they disappeared.

  I sit for another minute, waiting to see if they’ll reappear.

  “Ren?” Dad’s voice drifts through the open door. “What’s the holdup, kiddo?”

  Reluctantly, I push myself to my feet. With a final backward glance at the sky, I head for the house.

  CHAPTER 2

  IF YOU EVER want to freak yourself out, try Googling “birds falling from the sky” sometime.

  It’s pretty disturbing stuff.

  At
least worrying about accidental pesticide poisoning (one reason birds might randomly fall from the sky) gives me something new to focus on during my morning run the next day. Usually, I just count telephone poles and try not to think about the gnats flying up my nose.

  By the time I turn around to start back home, though, even the threat of off-target contaminate drifting can’t keep the boredom at bay. After all, this is Southern Minnesota. If you find soybean fields fascinating, you’re in luck. If not, well . . . Let’s just say I haven’t been feeling particularly lucky lately.

  I know that this whole “joining the cross-country team” thing was my idea to begin with, but I guess I thought running was going to be a little more . . . fun. Honestly, I have no idea why Dad likes it so much.

  My breath comes in short, sharp pants as I struggle up the hill. I can feel a side ache coming on. Hunching over, I ball my fist and press it against my stomach, trying to ease the cramp.

  I probably look like Quasimodo with diarrhea. For once, I’m glad we moved to the middle of nowhere.

  I finally make it past the hill to the intersection and turn back onto our road. I’m almost home when a flicker of movement catches my eye. Peering across the field, I see a dozen or so birds swoop into sight. They’re flying right over the neighbors’ house again.

  I stagger to a stop.

  Sucking air (and the occasional gnat) through my nose, I stare up at them, waiting to see if they’re going to start somersaulting again.

  A long minute passes.

  My side hurts. Sweat drips down my neck. Mosquitoes descend on me like some sort of all-you-can-eat buffet.

  The birds keep circling.

  I’m just about to give up when it happens; pitching suddenly backward, the birds tumble downward, plummeting into the trees.

  I’m not about to let them disappear again.

  Without stopping to think, I plunge into the long grass at the side of the road. Half running, half stumbling, I make my way down into the ditch and up to the other side. My feet sink into the ground as I cut across the field to the neighbors’ property.

  By the time I reach the tree line, I’m out of breath again, and my running shoes are covered with some serious mud.

  Up close, the trees aren’t as thick as they look from the road. I can see flashes of blue sky through the branches. The ground is covered in fallen pine needles.

  It smells kind of like Christmas dinner. With a side of fertilizer.

  Peering through the trees, I check out the neighbors’ house. We haven’t met them yet. What if they’re the kind of people with dogs? Or with guns? Or both?

  The white, shingled farmhouse looks a lot like ours, only the neighbors’ paint is peeling in places, and the grass of their lawn is just a tiny bit too long. There’s a red station wagon parked in the driveway with a bunch of faded bumper stickers on the back.

  I squint, trying to make out the writing. You can tell a lot about a person from their choice of bumper stickers. Luckily, the ones on the neighbors’ car seem okay. There’s one that says “Wage Peace,” which I take as a good sign I won’t be shot on sight for trespassing.

  Fingers crossed, anyway.

  In the field behind the house, a section of weeds has been mown down into stubble. There’s a small building in the middle, about the size of Grandma’s old gardening shed. In fact, it looks just like Grandma’s gardening shed, except for the wire cage sitting on top of the roof.

  There are birds in it, I realize, peering closer. Just a couple of them, from what I can see.

  A girl about my age steps out of the shed’s door, and I dodge behind the nearest tree trunk. I can hear my blood pounding in my ears. Adrenaline whips through my veins.

  This is probably what superheroes feel like all the time.

  I force myself to count to twenty. Then I shift my weight, peeking around the edge of the tree trunk.

  Superheroes probably don’t peek. I’ll bet the word “peek” isn’t even in their vocabulary.

  To be fair, they aren’t real, so their vocabulary is probably pretty limited.

  “What are you doing?”

  I freeze, my arms curled around the tree trunk like I’m in love with it, or something.

  Dendrophilia, a tiny part of my brain whispers. Romantic interest in trees.

  The girl from the shed is standing just a few feet away, staring at me.

  Her hair is red. Really, really red. Unnaturally red. There are some stripes of bright yellow in there, too, and orange.

  Being reasonably smart for my age, I deduce that she’s dyed it.

  I’ve never met anyone our age with dyed hair before.

  It looks cool. Like lava, flowing over the shoulders of her black T-shirt. Like her hair is erupting out of her head.

  We’re still staring at each other. She’s skinny, almost as skinny as me, with a pointy chin and dark blue eyes. Her denim cutoffs are covered with black scribbles. A Sharpie marker from the looks of it. The words are all upside down. Like she got bored, and wrote on her shorts while she was wearing them.

  Mom would kill me if I wrote on my shorts with a Sharpie.

  The girl’s gaze flicks past my shoulder. I turn to look, too. As the birds tumble down in another round of backflips, she raises her hand, holding a thing that looks like a tape measure, only smaller. She clicks it again and again.

  She’s wearing black nail polish, I notice. It’s chipped.

  I suddenly feel out of my league.

  “Are you lost?” The girl’s voice is surprisingly scratchy. It sounds like the way Velcro feels, if that makes sense.

  I push myself away from the tree, wiping my palms on the front of my running shorts. “Um . . . I was running.”

  She looks at me, obviously waiting for me to say more.

  “I saw the birds, and . . .” I trail off, trying to think of what to say next.

  “Do you live around here?” the girl asks, still clicking.

  “We just moved.” I point toward the hill, at Grandma’s house. Or our house, I guess. “From town. I’m not new, or anything.”

  “I am,” the girl says bluntly. She reaches down to scratch a mosquito bite on her leg. “We moved last month. From DC. My name’s Sutton, by the way. Sutton Davies.”

  Sutton. Sutton Davies.

  “Lauren,” I say, bracing myself for the inevitable response. “Lauren Hall.” I wait for the laughter to start.

  Sutton just looks at me. “Lauren?”

  I nod.

  “Have you ever thought about going by your middle name?”

  As if that solution had never occurred to me before. “I don’t have one.”

  She shrugs. “You’re not missing much. Mine’s Priscilla.”

  Priscilla. Sutton Priscilla Davies.

  I don’t know. It has a certain ring to it.

  “Most people call me Ren,” I explain.

  Above us, the birds launch backward again. Sutton raises her hand, clicking the little gadget. “Why do they do that?” I ask.

  Sutton keeps her eyes on the birds. “They’re Birmingham Roller pigeons. That’s what they do.”

  Wait. “Pigeons? You have pigeons as pets?”

  “They’re not pets.” Sutton drops her gaze back to me, lifting her chin. “I’m training them. They’re going to be champions.”

  CHAPTER 3

  UM . . . okay.

  Is it even possible to train pigeons? Aren’t pigeons basically vermin? It’d be like training squirrels. Only harder, because pigeons could fly away from you. Although there are flying squirrels, I guess. But I don’t think they actually fly. Or do they?

  “Training them to do what?” I ask.

  My voice sounds weird. I’m using the same tone Mom used with Grandma near the end, after Grandma moved to the Sunny Pines “retirement community” and sometimes thought the nurses were stealing her socks.

  Sutton raises her arm again, clicking rapidly on the thingy in her hand as the birds fall through the air. “That,
” she says, motioning upward.

  “You’re teaching them to somersault?”

  “It’s called ‘rolling.’ And they already know how to do it.” Sutton pushes her hair back from her face. Even in the shade, the colors seem to glow. Like her head isn’t just any volcano. It’s a radioactive one.

  “But if they already know what they’re doing, then why are you training them?” I ask.

  “I’m trying to get the kit to break together. You want them to roll as long as possible, and . . .” She trails off. “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I can’t help wondering what she was going to say next.

  The birds seem to be slowing down now. A few of them are occasionally still “rolling,” but they’re mostly just flying back and forth above the trees.

  “So what grade are you in?” Sutton asks.

  Technically, since there are four weeks left of summer vacation, I’m not in any grade. But Mom says pointing out that sort of information is, quote, “being obnoxious for the sake of being obnoxious” and “will probably not earn you any friends.”

  Mom has a lot of wisdom like that.

  “I’m going into sixth,” I say aloud. “I’m eleven.”

  Sutton nods. “Me, too. Do you know who your teacher is?”

  “Mr. Weinholt.”

  “I have Mrs. Thompson,” Sutton says. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “I think she’s in PEO with my mom. I don’t really know her, though. She seems okay. She smiles a lot.”

  Sutton tilts her head to one side. Her left, specifically. “What’s PEO?”

  “This club. I’m not really sure what they do.”

  “Well, what does PEO stand for?”

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It’s a secret.” Their Wikipedia page doesn’t even say.

  She looks vaguely impressed. “Your mom’s in a secret club?”

  “Not a secret secret club,” I explain. “She’s not, like, a Freemason, or anything.” Do they even let women become Freemasons? I make a mental note to look it up later. That and flying squirrels. “They do potlucks and have educational speakers, and stuff,” I tell Sutton. “I think they give out college scholarships, too.”

  She considers this for a second. “Oh. Sounds kind of boring.”