Lost in the Sun (9 page)

“Aaron!” Doug shouted. “Let him eat his soup!”

“Oh,” Aaron said. He could barely contain his laughter. “Sorry.”

I lifted the spoon full of soup to my lips. One noodle lay in the center, next to a single slice of carrot. In my head, I visualized exactly the face I was going to make. Flat, like I was playing poker. I'd take one huge swallow, tilt my head to the side like there was some flavor in the soup I couldn't quite put my finger on, and then look right at Doug and say, “This is great!” and then take another spoonful. It would freak him out. Wouldn't even occur to him that
his
was the one with the hot sauce until he took his own bite.

“Doug, aren't you going to eat your soup?” Mom asked across the table. He still hadn't started.

Doug shook his head above his hot sauce–laced bowl. Aaron had stirred it well, I had to admit. You couldn't even see the hot sauce in it. It looked almost the same as my normal bowl. “Trent, take a bite!” Doug shouted at me.

“Boys are weird,” Mom said to Annie beside her.

I opened my mouth wide, and stuck in the spoonful of soup.

OhgoodnessholyswampcrittersfromAlabama.
That was
hot!

I shot eyes at Aaron, who smiled a wicked smile at me. Why, that
little
 . . . That fink had swapped the bowls on me. I had fallen for the classic double-reverse prank.

“How's the soup?” Doug asked me eagerly as the burning liquid roared its way down my throat. I could feel it heating my cheeks, my chest, my shoulders. Next to Doug, Annie was watching me, too. Glaring.

I didn't like it.

I was stuck, I realized. I couldn't say anything about the hot sauce, or we'd all get in trouble for pranking. And I couldn't get up and dump my bowl in the sink either, because Mom's rule about never leaving the table before you'd finished your dinner was even more serious than her rule about pranking. No way I was going to put myself on double lawn-mowing duty because of Doug's stupid hot sauce idea.

I was stuck. And I was stuck in front of
Annie Richards.

As far as I could figure, there was only one way out.

I held my spoon out to the side and slowly tilted my head, like there was some flavor in the soup I couldn't quite put my finger on. I
looked right at Doug, then at Aaron, who were both smiling smugly like they were so
positive
they'd gotten me better than ever. I did
not
look at Annie, who I'm sure was still glaring. And I said, “This is great!”

Then I took another spoonful.

Doug's mouth fell open. Aaron coughed so hard, he nearly choked on his own soup. Annie probably still kept glaring—I don't know—I wasn't looking. But I kept smiling, even as the hot sauce worked its way into my nose, into my eyes, into my hairline. I could feel every individual taste bud on my tongue screaming at me. I blinked away the tears that were forming in the corners of my eyes.

Swallowed the soup on down.

“Is something going on?” Mom asked, finally looking up from her bowl and noticing everyone else watching me eat soup like they were watching the World Series. “Trent, what are you doing?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you pulling some sort of prank? You know what I said would happen the next time one of you pulled a prank. . . .”

“Me?” I said. I spooned more soup out of the bowl and brought it to my face. “I'm not doing anything. I'm eating soup.”

And I downed that bite, too, while everyone watched. “Tastes great,” I said. “Thanks for making dinner, Doug.”

Doug scowled. I bet if Aaron hadn't betrayed me and we actually
had
reverse-pranked Doug, Doug would've been a real baby about it. He would've ratted us all out for his stupid prank, and he would've done it with his stupid lip sticking out, too. I took another spoonful of soup.

Slowly, everyone turned their attention away from me and back
to their own bowls of soup. Mom asked everyone how they were liking the school year so far, trying to start up a conversation.

And me, I kept eating soup. One spoonful at a time. Burning, burning, burning, with every bite. It was making a trail of fire down to my stomach now. I could feel exactly where my intestines were inside me. If I paused for even a second, I knew I'd give up for good, never get going again. So I didn't stop. Didn't talk. Didn't look at anybody. I just kept on dipping my spoon. Bringing it to my mouth. Swallowing the soup on down.

Dip, mouth, swallow.

There was a crack in my lip I hadn't noticed before. It was raging with pain, and licking it didn't help.

Dip, mouth, swallow.

I could feel a trickle of sweat threatening to roll down my forehead.

Dip, mouth, swallow.

My body was one large flame.

Dip, mouth, swallow.

And my chest. My chest. I shifted in my seat.

Dip, mouth, swallow.

Maybe ten spoonfuls left. I could do it. I really could. Man, I was going to get Aaron and Doug back
good
after this.

Dip, mouth—

A bubble of hot sauce must've been trapped in a noodle or something, because there was a burst of fiery flame on my tongue that was hotter than anything I'd tasted before. I started choking.

“You okay, sport?” Mom asked. “You need some water?”

I couldn't stop choking.

“It's the hot sauce,” Annie said. First thing she'd said in five minutes, and she said it with that glare of hers. “Doug put hot sauce in his bowl. Tons. Trent's been eating it the whole time.”

Three spoons, clanging into three bowls, that's what I heard over the sound of my choking.

“Doug did
what
?” my mom cried.

“What's
wrong
with you?” I said to Annie. Maybe I shouted it, I don't know, but I didn't care, either. Because maybe I deserved the glaring, maybe I did, but I didn't deserve to get into trouble for some stupid prank. “I was doing
fine
!” I said. I was up on my feet before I planned on getting there. The fire in my chest was burning hot. “I was going to
finish
it!” And I swear I didn't hit it, but somehow my bowl flew across the table, those ten remaining spoonfuls sloshing everywhere. Doug's napkin. Annie's hair.

“Trent!” Mom shouted. She was on her feet, too. “Go to your room!”

“Already going!” I shouted. I still had a couple of chokes left in me, but I wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of hearing me cough. I stomped off to my room and slammed the door closed, throwing myself across the bed. My insides were fire, from hot sauce or what, I wasn't sure.

I could hear them in the kitchen, muttering about me. Clanking my bowl off the floor. I couldn't tell what they were saying, but I guess I could figure it out well enough.

My Book of Thoughts was on the floor by my bed, but I didn't pick it up. Just stared at its black cover as I listened to the sounds of
dinner being finished, cleaned up. Of Annie going home. I didn't feel like drawing anything. My thoughts were so screwed up anyway, what was the point?

•   •   •

Mom let me out of my room, once, about eight o'clock, when Dad called me to yell at me for missing my weekend with him and being such a screw-up. Too bad for him I already knew what a screw-up I was so I didn't need him telling me.

“This is my
time
with you,” he said into the phone. “It is my
right
as your
father
to
see
you. You can't just skip out on dinners and weekends when you feel like it. You don't get to choose those things.
I
choose. I am your
father.
”

I let him yell at me, because sometimes with Dad the best thing to do was let him yell. He wasn't going to finish until he felt like it anyway, no matter what you said. While he yelled, I decided to count all the things he
didn't
say.

1. I really like spending time with you.
   
2. I've really missed seeing you this week.
   
3. How are you doing, Trent, really?
   
4. Anything you'd like to talk about?
   

When he was finished yelling, he did say the fourth thing, actually. Well, almost.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Trent?” he bellowed into the phone. Not quite yelling, but close. “I'd really like to hear it.”

“I can't come to any more dinners,” I told him. “Not for the rest of the school year.”

“Oh, yeah?” He was back to yelling now, for sure. “Is that so? And exactly why not, Trent?”

“Because,” I said. I kept my voice as calm as possible. The exact opposite of yelling. “I'm in a club now. The Movie Club. And unfortunately, it meets Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” I paused, waiting for him to yell some more, but I guess he was too surprised by that, because he didn't. “Sorry,” I said. “I'm
really
going to miss spending time with you.”

And I hung up the phone.

Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” Mom asked the next morning while I didn't eat my cereal at the breakfast table. I had my Book of Thoughts open in front of me, but I didn't draw anything, just sort of stared at the white page. I guess I wasn't really having any thoughts worth drawing.

“No thanks,” I said. I shut the book and went back to staring at my bowl of cereal.

Mom came over to the table with her half-eaten bagel. Aaron had left early that morning—he said he had before-school tutoring, although if I had to bet on it, I'd say the only person he was probably tutoring was
Clarisse.
Doug was in the bathroom, taking forever to get ready, like usual.

“
I'd
like to talk about what happened last night,” Mom said, pulling out a chair and settling herself on top.

“Then why'd you bother to ask me what I wanted?” I muttered.
Mom gave me a
look
then, so I quick scooped a bite of soggy cereal into my mouth. My insides hadn't quite recovered from the hot-sauce soup the night before, but I figured cold cereal and milk would probably be good for me.

“Trent.” Mom put her hand on my arm, but I didn't look at her. “Let's forget about the pranking for now. I already spoke to your brothers about that, and I know it wasn't your prank. That's not really the issue at the moment.”

“Then what's the issue?” I asked. Not that I wanted to know.

She sighed, which was definitely not a good sign. “Have you ever heard the phrase
shooting yourself in the foot
?” she asked.

I didn't blink or nod or anything. I didn't like where this was going.

“Sometimes lately,” Mom said slowly, “sometimes it feels like you're being nasty to people on purpose. Mean. Just to give them a reason to hate you.”

I didn't move a muscle. Not a twitch of my mouth.

“But the thing is, Trent,” she went on, “I don't get why you do that. Because you're not a mean person. I wish you could just let everyone see the side of you that
I
know. How good and kind and sweet you are.”

I darted my eyes up to Mom then. But I still didn't say anything. Because she was wrong about me, dead wrong.

Good and kind and sweet kids didn't make their mothers look the way she was looking right now.

“I should get ready for school,” I told her. I got up from the table to dump my soggy cereal down the sink.

“Are you really in a movie club?” Mom asked.

I turned around. “Yep,” I said. “It meets Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, after school. In Ms. Emerson's room.” I added that last part because I'd heard once about lying that the more details you added, the more realistic your lie would sound. But then I sort of wished I hadn't, because if my mom decided to call the wrinkled old crone to ask about it, then I'd really be toast. “We watch movies,” I said. That part, at least, wasn't a lie. “Fallon Little's the president.” That could've been true, I guess.

Mom's face lit up at that last part. “That nice girl who came into the store the other day?” I nodded. “Well.” She was thinking. I could tell she was thinking. “I don't like the idea of you missing your time with your dad,” she said after a minute. “We're going to have to figure out something about that. But”—my heart began to lift, just a little, when she said that
but
—“I'm really glad you're making new friends, Trent. That's important.”

“So I can be in the club?” I asked.

“Why don't you try it out for a few days, and we'll see how it goes? I'll talk to your father.”

That was good enough for me. “Thanks!” I said, and I rushed off to my room to get ready for school.

“Hey, Trent?” Mom called when I was already halfway down the hall. I stopped, turned. “Try not to shoot any of your feet today, will you? I'm afraid you'll fall over.”

•   •   •

I did my best not to shoot any of my feet all day. I didn't talk at all in any of the wrinkled old crone's classes, even when she called on me, but that was probably for the best, because if I
did
talk, who knew what
I would say. I didn't participate in P.E. either, but that was probably the best thing, too. I didn't yell at anyone, no one yelled at me, I didn't smash any plants, I didn't get detention. Overall I think Mom would've been proud.

Fallon was so excited when I told her I could go over to her house to watch a movie again that she practically did cartwheels at the lunch table.

“You want to watch
The Sandlot
?” she asked. “That's baseball, too. Wait, you've seen
The Sandlot,
right? You
have
to have seen it. Tell me you've seen it, or I might just die.”

“I've never seen it.”

Fallon pretended to die, right there at the lunch table. She gagged and coughed and even kicked one leg up in the air. A few kids from the next table over scrunched up their faces like the whole thing was so disgusting, but I couldn't help it. I laughed. Fallon sure knew how to be dramatic.

“We're watching it today,” Fallon told me, popping up from her seat, alive and well again.

I was pretty sure I wouldn't have any trouble convincing her we should meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

“Well, you are the president,” I told her.

Fallon didn't even ask what I meant by that. She just grinned huge, the corner of her mouth tucked up inside her scar, and said, “President. I like that.”

•   •   •

Fallon was right.
The Sandlot
was a good movie. It didn't have too many continuity errors, but the ones it did have made Fallon extra-excited.

“Wait, there's one right there!” she shouted, hopping up from the couch to pause the movie. It was hard to get used to, watching a movie with so many interruptions, but I didn't mind as much as you'd think I would. She stood right next to the TV and pointed at the characters on the frozen screen. “Look, you see how Benny's making his killer play right now, sliding into home base?” I nodded. It was hard to miss. “Okay, but check this out.” She rewound the movie just a few seconds. “Look right there, on the TV screen behind Smalls's head.” I looked where she was pointing.

“The TV shows him sliding home before it even happens!” I said, hopping up from the couch too. I couldn't help it. Finding this stuff actually was kind of fun.

When the movie was over, Fallon craned her neck to peer into the kitchen, where her dad was hanging out, pretending he wasn't being really weird reading his tablet at the table when he could've been anywhere else where there weren't two loud kids watching a movie.

“What're we having for dinner?” she called over.

He didn't look up from his tablet. “Pork chops,” he answered. Which might've been the first time I ever heard him speak.

“You want to stay for dinner?” Fallon asked me, without even bothering to check with her dad if it was okay. (If he were
my
dad, I sure as heck would've checked first.)

“I can't,” I said. “Have to get home by five-ten.” The Dodgers were playing the Rockies tonight. They were two games out of first place and with the season coming to an end, they were running out of time to make up ground.

Fallon checked the clock on the wall. “Want to help me take Squillo for a walk?” she asked me.

I still had some time before I missed dinner with my dad, so I said okay.

“Dad, we're taking Squillo out!” Fallon called to the kitchen as she scooped her dog up from where he was napping on the couch. “Be back in a sec, 'kay?”

Her dad grunted in reply.

•   •   •

We took Squillo on the walking path through the park, since Fallon only lived two blocks away. Squillo was a cute dog, but he liked to tug at his leash.

After Squillo did his business in the grass (which was disgusting, by the way—first time I was ever thrilled I didn't own a dog), Fallon asked me to take his leash so she could scoop his poop with the plastic bag she'd brought. And I
thought
I was holding on good and tight—I mean, how tough could it be to keep a grip on a tiny fuzzball like that?—but before I knew what had happened, Squillo had tugged so hard that the leash flew out of my hands. He probably would've been halfway across the state before we caught up with him, but luckily Fallon was paying more attention than I was, and she stepped on his leash, jerking him back.

“You've got to hold on
really
tight,” she told me as she handed back the leash. “Wrap it around your hand. He's stronger than he looks.”

I tried to wrap the leash around my hand, but I guess I didn't really get what Fallon was talking about, because she rolled her eyes at me
and said, “You're
killing
me, Smalls,” like the fat kid in
The Sandlot
—I mean, exactly, same ups and downs to her voice and everything—and rewrapped it for me. I didn't want to admit it, but it did seem much sturdier that way.

She went back to picking up the poop while Squillo sniffed at the grass.

“You're really good at that, you know,” I told her.

“What?” Fallon asked, tying up the bag and looking around for a trash can. “Cleaning up dog poo?”

“No.” I laughed. Squillo decided it was time to get moving again, so he tugged and we followed. “Saying lines and stuff. From movies. You always say it exactly like the person. I could never do that.”

“Oh.” Fallon shrugged as she tossed the plastic bag into a trash can. “Thanks. It's fun, I guess.”

“Maybe you should try to be an actress,” I told her. “Instead of a script person. You'd be really good at it, I bet.”

Fallon wrinkled her nose.

“What?” I asked her. “You don't like acting?” But as soon as I said it, I knew the answer. I could see it in her face. In her eyes. You couldn't hide a thing like that.

“You think you can't do it,” I said. I didn't mean to say it out loud. But then once I said it, there was no stopping. “Because of your scar.” What a moron I am, I thought, telling Fallon she should be an actress. She probably wanted to be an actress, more than anything else in her life. But.

But.

You couldn't be an actress with a giant scar across your face. What parts would she play? Girl with a Scar? Other Girl with a Scar?

I felt like a real jackass.

I was just opening my mouth to tell her what a jackass I was, hoping she wouldn't be too mad and we could just forget about the whole thing. But before I got a chance to say anything at all, Fallon said something first.

“Why doesn't anybody ever get hungry at the beach?”

That's what she said.

“Huh?” I asked. Squillo stopped to sniff at the roots of a tree, so I stopped too.

“Why doesn't anybody ever get hungry at the beach?” she said again. She was tugging at the bottom hem of her sweatshirt (it was bright green, with cartoon peas all over it, and said “Visualize Whirled Peas”). Suddenly it occurred to me.

A joke. She was trying to tell me a joke.

“Um, I don't know,” I said. “Why?”

Fallon bent down to scratch Squillo behind his ears, her head tilted up to look at me. “Because,” she said, raising her eyebrows at me like this was about to be the most hilarious joke I'd ever heard, “of all the sandwiches there.”

I wrapped the leash tighter around my wrist. “What?” I said.

“Get it?” she asked, even though very clearly I hadn't. “Because of all the
sand which is there
?” She enunciated each word. “At the beach?”

I blinked at her. “That's the dumbest joke I ever heard.”

Fallon laughed out loud at that. She was pretty when she laughed, actually, because she had this way of throwing her head
back, and her whole face got into the act, not just her mouth the way some people laughed. “Yeah,” she said. She wiped at her eyes. “Right? It's so terrible!”

I was pretty sure she was losing her mind.

“My uncle used to tell me that joke,” Fallon said, “when I was a kid. Uncle Steve. And I mean, he told it to me
every single time
I saw him. Christmas, Easter, birthday parties, whatever. Over and over and over. And I'd laugh, every time, just to be polite. Finally on my ninth birthday I told him, ‘Uncle Steve, you already told me that joke.' And he said, ‘Yeah, I know, I was just waiting till you said something.'” She snorted, then looked off to the far end of the park, where some kids were throwing a Frisbee. Then she looked back at me, shrugged, and said, “I know it's not funny, it just sort of cracks me up still, you know?”

I tugged at Squillo a tiny bit, until he gave up on the tree and was ready to start moving again.

We walked a few minutes in silence.

There was something about Fallon, I'd noticed, that wasn't what it seemed. Something sad. She was like Mom's coffee—it always
smelled
sweet, and then you took a sip and realized it was nothing but bitter.

“It's a pretty funny joke,” I told her at last.

“You still owe me a picture, you know,” she replied.

I sighed. “No pictures,” I said. “I don't even have my notebook anyway.”

“Liar.” She tapped the front pocket of my sweatshirt, and my Book of Thoughts let out a hollow thud. “You always have it.”

“Well, I'm not drawing you any pictures anyway. I don't draw stuff for other people, just for me.”

She snorted like she didn't believe me. “Just wait till you hear the
real
way I got my scar,” she said. She flipped around backward so she could face me as the two of us walked together. “Then you'll be dying to draw it.” I sighed again. I didn't even have to wait to hear it—I knew it was going to be another weird lie. I couldn't say why for sure, but I hated when Fallon told stupid lies about her scar.