Roll Read online

  I feel a flicker of something pass through me. Just because Mom’s club sounds boring doesn’t mean someone should say it sounds boring. Even I know that’s rude.

  To my surprise, I feel my mouth opening. “Well, I don’t think anyone’s asking you to join.”

  Uh-oh.

  I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that Sutton is at least two inches taller than me. Most people my age are at least two inches taller than me. Especially girls. And Sutton looks as though she could hold her own in a fight. Maybe it’s the hair. It’s kind of . . . fierce, you know?

  Luckily, Sutton doesn’t seem mad.

  “Oh.” Sutton looks up again, clicking her little counter thingy as some of the pigeons roll again. I wince as one of them gets a little too close to the ground.

  “Do they ever, um . . .” I search for the right word. “Splat?”

  She stares at me.

  I take it that’s a no.

  “How long will they stay up there?” I ask, hoping to redeem myself. She looks down at her watch. It’s big, with a wide, leather strap. It looks old.

  I’ve never seen anyone our age wearing a watch before, either.

  “They should be coming down soon,” she says. “It depends. Sometimes, they—”

  “Sutton, honey? Are you out there?” It’s a woman’s voice. Sutton’s mom, I’m guessing.

  Sutton pauses mid-sentence, turning to look back at her house.

  “I should go,” I say. I’ve almost forgotten about the fact I’m supposed to be running right now. Dad is probably wondering about my time.

  “All right.” Sutton shrugs. “See you around.”

  “See you around.” With a final glance at the pigeons, I take off toward home.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE SCREEN DOOR screeches as usual, announcing my presence before I’m even inside.

  “Morning, honey,” Mom calls from the kitchen. She glances up from her phone as I walk in, gesturing at the box of frozen waffles on the counter behind her. “There’s breakfast.”

  Mom looks tired.

  I didn’t hear her car pull up last night. She’s Westville’s only veterinarian, which means she’s pretty much always on call. Even in the middle of the night. Or halfway through her son’s first (and only) theater performance.

  To be fair, I played a tree. And it was in the first grade.

  Still, it’s a useful fact to bring up once in a while.

  “Hey, kiddo. Did you mark your miles?” Dad hurries into the kitchen, pouring himself a giant thermos of coffee. The thermos looks small in his hands. Seriously, his hands are so big he can palm a basketball.

  My running log is taped to the freezer door. Grabbing a pen from the counter, I walk over to the piece of graph paper. Dad came up with the idea for the chart years ago, when he used to coach cross-country. Three miles equals a straight line. More than three miles, and the line slants upward. Less than three, it goes down.

  Despite my best efforts, my line graph is currently seven boxes below its starting point.

  As I draw a straight line through the next box, Dad says, “You know, if you want, I could go for some runs with you in the evenings. It might be a good way to get your totals up.”

  I nod, pretending to think about it. “Yeah, maybe.”

  I can tell Dad is disappointed in my graph.

  I’m disappointed, too.

  I don’t understand what happened. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t do my research. I subscribed to Runner’s World. I watched dozens of instructional videos online. I learned how to keep my hands in unclenched fists, like I’m carrying potato chips without crushing them, and how to hold my arms at a ninety-degree angle. I spent two days researching the brand of shoe with the most accommodating toe box.

  I prepared for everything.

  Except for the part where I actually had to, you know . . . run.

  To be honest, I’m actually starting to think twice about joining the cross-country team this fall. Not that I’m planning on telling Dad about that; he’d be crushed. Ever since I mentioned I was thinking of trying out for the team, he’s been going around using phrases like “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” and calling me a “chip off the old block.”

  I think he’s just excited we finally have something to talk about over dinner.

  I lower the pen. “Can you take me to Three Men this afternoon? There’s a new issue of Inferior Five in for me. Well, an old one. From 1968.” Inferior Five is another one of my favorite comics, about these five superheroes who have these pretty much useless powers. Like, the Blimp can fly, but only really, really slowly, and Awkwardman can live underwater, but when he’s on land, he has to keep watering himself with a gardening can.

  Anyway, Three Men and a Comic Book is this awesome comic book store in Rochester, which is about twenty minutes away. My best friend, Aiden, and I go there all the time. Mike, the owner, knows us by name and everything.

  “Which one is Inferior Five again?” Dad asks. “The one with Bunny Girl?”

  “Dumb Bunny,” I correct him. Also known as Athena Tremor, daughter of Princess Power.

  Dad slaps his thigh. “Dumb Bunny. That’s right. ‘Strong as an ox, and almost as smart,’” he says triumphantly.

  “Right,” I say, humoring him.

  He waggles his eyebrows challengingly. “Quick, what’s the name of her sister?”

  “Half sister,” I say. “And it’s Angel. Angel Beatrix O’Day. So can you take me to Three Men?”

  Dad gives an exaggerated sigh of defeat because I won his latest round of comic trivia, then shakes his head. “No can do, kiddo. I’m on site in Fairmont all day. That strip mall I was telling you about. Sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Mom asks, still scrolling through the messages on her phone.

  “Ren wants to go to the cartoon store later.”

  “Comics.”

  “What?”

  I toss the pen back on the countertop. I can already see where this is going. “It’s a comic book store. Not cartoons.” Which he would know, if he actually read them instead of just looking up stuff on the internet.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with looking stuff up on the internet. As far as I’m concerned, the internet is mankind’s single greatest achievement.

  See also: fire, the wheel, and microwave pizza rolls.

  Dad rolls his eyes jokingly in Mom’s direction. “Comics,” he mouths.

  Mom purses her lips. “Sorry, honey. Back-to-back surgeries at eleven thirty. Could we go now?”

  “They don’t open until nine.”

  “I could take you tomorrow,” Dad chimes in. “Any time. Besides, if you’ve waited fifty years to read this one, what’s another day?”

  I get that Dad’s busy, but sometimes it feels like I’m always waiting for another day. Like this spring, when he promised to take me to see the Journey through Space exhibit at the science museum. By the time he had a free day, it was closed. Ditto the Renaissance Faire, last summer.

  I was really looking forward to those giant turkey legs, too.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I tell Dad. Opening the fridge, I grab a soda.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Mom asks, raising her eyebrows. “No soda before three o’clock, you know that.”

  I set the Dr Pepper back down on the refrigerator shelf with more force than is strictly necessary.

  Behind my back, I can feel Mom and Dad exchanging a glance. They’re doing that silent telecommunication thing where they decide which one of them is going to speak first.

  It’s Dad. “Sorry we’ve been gone so much lately, kiddo. Things’ll slow down once the summer’s over.”

  “Hey, tomorrow’s Tuesday,” Mom adds. “Aiden’s still coming over to help with the basement, right?”

  If we lived in town, I wouldn’t need to plan hanging out with my best friend. Aiden’s house was a five-minute walk from ours. I could see him every day if I wanted to. In fact, I pretty much did se
e him every day.

  “Shoot, is that the time?” Mom pushes back her chair. “I have an endoscopy in fifteen minutes!”

  “I should head out, too,” Dad says. Tightening the lid on his thermos, he holds the door open for Mom, who’s busy shoving things into her bag.

  “Have a good day,” Mom calls. “Don’t rot your brain too much!”

  I wait until I can hear the crunch of their cars disappearing up the gravel driveway. Grabbing the Dr Pepper from the fridge, I glance out the window.

  The sky above Sutton’s house is empty.

  CHAPTER 5

  “YO.”

  I stare up at the slanted ceiling, trying to not yawn. Aiden’s call woke me up from a nap, and the edge of my pillow is wet. For some reason, I only drool when I sleep during the day, never at night.

  “Did you know people have been saying ‘yo’ since the fifteenth century?” I ask Aiden. “Seriously. Back in the day, people were probably like, ‘Yo, Shakespeare! What doth be up?’”

  It’s hot in my room. Mom and Dad claim they’re putting in central air, but right now, the box fan in my window is my only defense against heatstroke. I hold the phone a little away from my ear, flapping the neck of my T-shirt open and closed.

  I sneak a quick peek down the front, just in case.

  No chest hair yet.

  “You’re still coming over tomorrow, aren’t you?” I ask. My parents are paying Aiden and me five dollars an hour each to go through all my grandparents’ boxes in the basement. So far the most exciting thing we’ve found has been a dead mouse.

  Frankly, I think we need a raise.

  “Yeah,” Aiden says. “Hey, you haven’t talked to Kurt, have you?”

  Kurt.

  Have I talked to Kurt?

  Have I ever talked to Kurt?

  “Kurt Richardson?” I ask, just to make sure.

  “Do you know anyone else named Kurt?” Aiden sounds impatient.

  “Umm . . .” I say, thinking hard. “Give me a minute.”

  “Yes, Kurt Richardson,” Aiden says.

  I shake my head, even though Aiden can’t see me. “Why would I talk to Kurt Richardson?”

  Kurt Richardson is cool. Which sounds like a weird thing to say, but it’s true. He does jackknives off the high board. He plays basketball. He drinks European soda that his mom has to order on Amazon for him. I do none of those things.

  “He’s having this huge party the last weekend in August,” Aiden says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be talking about Kurt Richardson’s extracurricular activities. “Like a back-to-school sort of thing. His parents put in an aboveground pool.”

  I bring the phone in a little tighter, pressing it against my ear. “Have you guys been hanging out, or something?”

  On the other end of the line, I can picture Aiden shrugging. He’s probably sitting in his dad’s armchair, swiveling back and forth as he talks.

  “Some. At the pool.”

  Aiden and Kurt Richardson have been hanging out. At the pool. A strange feeling spreads through my body. I push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “The normal pool? Or his aboveground pool?” I demand.

  “What? Why? Does it matter?”

  Yes. No. Maybe.

  “Never mind,” I say aloud. “Um, no. I haven’t talked to Kurt. How would he even have our number?”

  “You should get a cell phone, dude. It’s weird, not being able to text you.”

  As if the thought of getting a cell phone had never occurred to me before. Mom and Dad have some sort of ridiculous theory that I shouldn’t be allowed to have one until I’m fourteen.

  “So Kurt’s having a party? And I’m invited?”

  There’s a nanosecond of silence before Aiden replies. “Yeah. He said it was totally cool to bring people.”

  I let this sink in for a second.

  “Totally cool to bring people? So he didn’t actually invite me? I’m, like, your plus one, or something?”

  “It’s not a wedding. Okay? Relax.”

  Relax.

  Aiden never used to tell me to relax.

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Okay. Sounds . . . fun.”

  It does not sound fun. I hope I don’t actually have to go into the pool. I still plug my nose when I go underwater.

  “I should go,” Aiden tells me. “I’ve got to pee.”

  “And I’ve got to Q,” I say automatically. It’s a joke we made up when we were little. Because Q comes after P in the alphabet.

  I never said it was a good joke.

  I wait for the laughter from the other end of the line. Aiden’s laugh is surprisingly deep, for someone who’s barely twelve. It used to sound really funny, back when he was short like me and carrying around about twenty extra pounds. Roly-poly, Mom used to call him.

  That was before he had his growth spurt last spring. He grew four inches in three months. According to Mom, he’s solid now.

  Like a rock.

  Or a Chevy.

  Or someone who hangs out with Kurt Richardson.

  Aiden’s silence seems very loud in my bedroom.

  “Q?” I say again. “R, S, T, U, V?”

  “Right.” Aiden sounds distracted. “Q.”

  I stare down at the hardwood floor, picking out the individual scars in the boards. For some reason, my throat feels weird, like there’s something stuck back there. Probably a Cheeto. I was snacking on them earlier.

  “Okay. Catch you later, man.”

  I swallow, but the lump is still there. “Catch you later.”

  So Aiden’s hanging out with Kurt, I tell myself. So what? I’ve been missing in action all summer; Aiden’s needed someone to hang out with. But school starts next month. Everything will go back to normal then.

  It’s probably not even worth thinking about.

  As I toss the landline onto my nightstand, I glance out the window. The roof of Sutton’s house is just visible.

  I grab my laptop. What did she call her pigeons? Something-ham rollers?

  I Google roll pigeons. The first page listed is a Wikipedia entry for “Birmingham Rollers.”

  Bingo.

  I click on the link.

  A picture of a pigeon pops up in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. A stumpy guy with short legs and tiny, perfectly round eyes. His back and wings are mostly gray, and his tail feathers are white with black stripes. But it’s his neck that I find myself staring at. Flecks of purple, teal, and silver reflect in the light, cascading down from the crown of his head to the top of his back.

  It’s pretty cool-looking, actually.

  Tearing my eyes away from the picture, I start to read. Birmingham Rollers originally came from Birmingham, England. Over the years, people trained them to somersault backward by breeding the ones who rolled together with one another. There’s something called Parlor Rollers, too, only they spin backward on the ground.

  I pull up a video of a bird spinning down a grassy lawn, thunking lopsidedly as it rolls. It looks like a drunk, feathery bowling ball.

  It’s awesome.

  No one is quite sure why the birds roll to begin with, I learn, going back to Wikipedia. Some people think they do it to evade predators. Other people think it’s a genetic defect. A few people think they do it just for fun.

  I like the last theory.

  I’m just clicking on a video of a pigeon rolling in slow motion when I hear the crunch of Mom’s car on the driveway. My stomach growls in response.

  I can’t help it. All I had for lunch was Cheetos.

  I go to shut my laptop, suddenly realizing I didn’t tell Aiden about Sutton or her birds.

  Weird.

  CHAPTER 6

  “KIDDO?” DAD’S KNOCK practically rattles the door off its frame. “It’s six o’clock!”

  I pull my pillow over my ears, groaning.

  “Are you up? Are your feet touching the floor?”

  “Yes!” I shout.

  There�
��s a pause.

  “Liar!” Dad calls cheerfully. And then the knocking starts again. It grows louder and louder until, finally, I can’t stand it anymore.

  It’s a dirty trick. The police use the same technique sometimes, during hostage situations.

  Throwing the pillow against the wall, I push myself out of bed and fling open the door. It’s less dramatic than it sounds, since the door thunks against an unpacked moving box and just kind of stops halfway.

  “Satisfied?” I ask.

  Dad grins at me from the doorway, his coffee thermos in hand. “You’re the one who wanted me to wake you up so you could train,” he points out.

  I try to rub some of the sleep out of my eyes. “You know, the peak time for running isn’t actually first thing in the morning. Your body temperature is low, your lung function is poor, your energy stores are depleted . . .”

  Dad ignores me. “That’s the spirit!” Giving my bicep an encouraging thump, he wanders down the hallway.

  I stare after him, rubbing my arm.

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing in the front yard, trying to stretch my quads as Dad’s Subaru crunches down the driveway.

  As Dad turns the corner, I reluctantly start jogging. The early-morning sun is already hot on my shoulders, and the tag of my T-shirt feels scratchy against my neck.

  I stumble over a loose rock, nearly biting it on the side of the road. “Heel, toe,” I tell myself, trying to concentrate on the way my foot lands on the ground. Thinking about running while you’re actually running is tricky.

  As I head down the hill, nearing Sutton’s driveway, my pace slows.

  Just a little.

  Then a little more.

  And a little more.

  Finally, I stop altogether. Dropping to one knee, I bend to check my shoelace. Running with a loose shoelace can lead to injury.

  I’m pretty sure.

  As I carefully re-loop my bow, I make a deal with myself. I’m going to look up, just once. If Sutton’s pigeons are out, it’ll be a sign. And if not, well . . . That’ll be a sign, too, I guess.

  I raise my head.

  Except for a few clouds, the sky is empty.

  I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. But just as I’m about to take my first step, I hear a screen door slamming in the distance. Something bright red flashes through the trees.