Then she slipped her glasses on and was able to see what Brent’s face actually looked like. Pale. Tight. His breath escaped fast and hard.
Then she wasn’t laughing anymore. Because she realized what she hadn’t before: Bad things, terrible things really did happen. And Brent knew that better than anyone—because they had happened to him.
The smile fell from her lips. She crawled forward, rose to her knees. “Brent, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it was stupid. I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t look at her right away. He stood, turned around, his hands on his hips.
And Kennedy wanted to cry. She could do it, easily, because she felt so awful.
When he did finally face her, his eyes were hard, two sharp-cut sapphires. Then he forced out a big breath. “It was stupid. And do you know what happens to stupid girls?”
“What?”
“They get the mud.”
Kennedy wasn’t familiar with that expression. But as she started to ask what the heck he was talking about, a glob of cold, wet mud landed on her shirt—splattering across her chest and neck.
“Ah!” She yelled out.
She looked between her muddy shirt and the boy who’d made it that way. And he was smiling again.
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “You are so dead.”
She scooped up the wet earth and formed a ball in her hand, like a mucky snowball.
Brent wiggled his muddy fingers at her. “Oooh, I’m so scared.”
Kennedy Randolph didn’t just spit like a girl—she threw like one too.
A girl with perfect aim.
Brent tried to dodge the attack, but a moment later the back of his white t-shirt resembled the Rorschach Test. And it was on. They scrambled and crawled, flung and smeared, screamed and shouted and trash talked. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean spot between the two of them. Brent spit brown saliva. Kennedy used a leaf to wipe off her glasses.
“If my mother saw me right now, she’d shite bricks.”
“What?” Brent laughed.
“Seamus, our new driver is Irish. That’s how he says the s-word—shite. I like the way it sounds. Shite bricks. It makes me feel powerful.”
Brent fell on his back, still laughing. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Kennedy shrugged. “I’d rather be crazy than boring.” Then she smacked Brent’s leg – leaving a muddy handprint behind. “Let’s ride down to the river and clean up.”
Brent sobered as they stood and walked toward the bike. “Maybe we shouldn’t ride anymore.”
“Why not?”
“We could fall again. You might get hurt, Kennedy.”
The small girl turned to him, hands on her hips, stubbornness in her jaw. “We probably will fall again—and that’s why we have to get back on and keep riding. The ride is the only thing that makes falling worth it.”
Brent squinted. “Okay, human fortune cookie.”
Kennedy stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be such a *cat.”
He just looked at her blankly. “What the heck does that mean?”
“I heard Seamus say it to the gardener. He said, ‘Don’t be a *,’” She shrugged. “I think he meant *cat, like ‘Don’t be a chicken.’”
“I don’t think Seamus is gonna be your driver for very long,” Brent said before reluctantly climbing on the bike with Kennedy on the handle bars.
He rode slower at first, but when she begged him to go faster, he did.
Because he was no *cat.
****
Three Weeks Later
They were by the pool. Mrs. Mason hyperventilated when the Mason’s butler, Henderson, caught them swimming in the river—even though Brent’s physical therapist said his prosthetic was saltwater grade. She made him promise that the only place he’d swim was here at the pool, with Henderson close by. There wasn’t anything Brent hated more than seeing his mother upset, so he made a promise—and stuck to it.
So, they were poolside, in the shade of a cherry tree, on two huge cotton towels. Brent liked the pool better anyway—he could swim without his leg, without crawling through the rocky sand to retrieve it, or worrying that it’d be washed away and sink to the bottom of the Potomac River. That would suck.
But he wasn’t swimming now. And Kennedy knew he wasn’t listening either.
Because he was on his back, shirtless and tan, damp hair curving over his forehead, one arm bent behind his head, the other holding a comic book. He always had one with him—in his back pocket. And if they weren’t doing something that required movement, Brent was reading.
“I’m going to shave my head. What do you think about that?” Kennedy asked.
“Cool.”
“And then I’m going to steal a car. Get a tattoo. Change my name to Snowflake.”
“Uh huh.”
Her hair fell over the strap of her green bathing suit as she leaned towards him. “Then I’m going to sneak into your room, take everything you own and sell it at the flea market.”
“That’s nice.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes. And pinched Brent’s bicep.
“Ow! What’d you do that for?”
She waited for him to look at her. Then she asked, “What’s with the comic books?”
Brent shrugged. “They’re cool.” Then he tried to go back to reading.
Tried.