Kennedy snatched the comic from his hands and flipped through the pages. Brent turned on his side, bracing his head on his hand.
“Why are all the girls in bikinis?” She looked more closely and added, “Barely.”
Brent chuckled. “That’s just how they draw them.”
“Is that why you think they’re cool?”
“That’s not the only reason,” he hedged.
She adjusted her glasses, waiting for him to continue. Eventually, he did.
“Right after the accident, I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even get out of bed to take a wizz. It drove me nuts. So my father started bringing me stuff to read. Books were too long, I’d fall asleep from the medicine after a few pages. But comics were quick and it was easy to pick up where I’d left off when I woke up. Two weeks after the accident, he bought me Superman #1. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s one of the rarest comic books in the world—worth like, a million dollars. It was wrapped in plastic because that keeps it valuable. My father showed it to me, then tore the plastic right off, because he said being able to watch me read it was worth more than a million dollars.”
“That’s awesome.” Kennedy said breathlessly. She couldn’t imagine her mother being content to watch her read anything—not without telling her she was doing it wrong. “So that’s why you read them all the time, because your father bought you your first one?”
Brent shook his head. “That’s why I started, but I keep reading them because . . . because all the heroes had something bad happen. Really bad. And it . . . changed them. But they weren’t just different afterwards, they were better. More than they ever could’ve been if the bad thing hadn’t happened, you know?”
Kennedy nodded.
“That’s how I want to be too.”
Kennedy handed him back his comic book and smiled. “I think you already are.”
After a quiet moment, she asked, “Is that what you want to do, for your career when you’re older? Collect rare comic books? My Uncle Edgar collects Egyptian artifacts for a living. He smells weird.”
“No, I don’t want to do that. Drawing comic books would be an awesome job, but I suck at drawing. What do you want to do when you get older?”
Kennedy thought about it. “Truth?” she asked him.
“Truth.”
She leaned closer. “I want to do . . . whatever my mother doesn’t want me to.”
****
Four Weeks Later
They were working on their ladder. Prosthetic leg or not, Brent couldn’t climb trees like he used to—and there were a lot of good climbing trees on the acres between their houses. So they’d decided to build a ladder. A good one. A tall one. One that would get him to the highest branch.
And if they had time, Kennedy wanted to build a hut, like the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi. They’d watched the movie in her home theater the other day during a thunderstorm.
Thinking of the movie made her think of where she’d had to go after the movie—to her final dress fitting. For the dress her mother commissioned for Claire’s party. The party that was one week away.
“Are you coming to Claire’s graduation party?” she asked.
Brent took the nail out of his mouth, lined it up, and pounded it into the wood in two quick strikes. “I don’t know. My parents are.”
“Of course your parents are coming. That’s not what I asked.”
He stopped and looked at her, his face serious. Kennedy didn’t like it—it made him look not like Brent. Because her Brent was never serious.
“I don’t think so.”
Kennedy put down the saw and moved closer to him. “Why not?”
Now there was sadness in those round blue eyes.
And it was all wrong.
“I think . . . I think they’re embarrassed of me, Kennedy.”
Anger sparked inside her, quick and hot. “Did they say that to you?”
Brent shook his head. “No, just a feeling, you know?”
The anger fizzled, but only a little. “Your parents love you, Brent.”
He nodded. “I know. But you can love something and still be ashamed of it, can’t you?”
And that was true. She couldn’t lie to him, because it was the story of her life. All she could do was let him know he wasn’t alone. “Then you should definitely come to the party. My mother’s ashamed of me all the time.”
The sadness in his eyes lightened, and he gave her a small smile. Then he put his hand over hers and squeezed.
****
The party was perfect—exactly as her mother planned. A full orchestra filled the night air with elegant music, pristine white tents covered tables with overflowing centerpieces, fine china and high backed chairs. White gloved waiters were everywhere, their trays laden with champagne flutes, caviar and oysters. There was a constant hum of conversation among the hundreds of guests—anyone who was anyone was in attendance. The flash of the photographers’ cameras burst like fireflies on a dark night. Recording these moments for posterity, making the guests feel like they were worthy of their very own paparazzi. And in the center of it all was Claire Randolph, her long blond hair shimmering, her pale yellow ball gown not fit for a princess—but for a queen.