Chapter 2 – Methods

•••

For everyone else, the real trouble started on Wednesday.

It didn’t take long—Conor had been on the bus for less than five minutes when Eichardt, making his way down the aisle, timed things so that the bus jerked into motion just as he was passing Timothy’s seat. The older boy fell deliberately, driving his elbow squarely into the sixth grader’s gut. Conor and several other boys leaped to their feet at once, but the damage was done—smirking, Eichardt sauntered on toward the back while Timothy doubled up, wheezing, tears streaming openly down his face. It wasn’t until they pulled into the parking lot that he was able to uncurl and take a full breath. Conor made sure to stay between them as the bus emptied, but neither made a move toward the other. As they passed through the cars of the front circle, each went his separate way—Timothy toward the library, Eichardt toward the cafeteria, and Conor to the flagpole in between.

Of course, they first had to pass through the police cordon, which in addition to patdowns and drug-sniffing dogs now had officers inspecting the hands and fingertips of every single student. A blood-red eagle—the mascot of Central High—had been spray-painted across the front doors of the office during the night, and the cops were looking for traces of red paint. The janitor was hard at work, scrubbing away at the glass with chemicals, but much of the eagle was still visible, drawing baleful looks from every corner of the courtyard.

The brazen act of vandalism triggered widespread resentment against the new Central students, many of whom had apparently been rather unpleasant the day before. Every time Conor stepped out into the hallways for class change, there was another story of someone being cornered in a bathroom or hurled into a locker door. It didn’t help that the newcomers were the only kids in the whole school without uniforms—each time one of them tried to disappear into the crowd, the crowd solidified, bouncing the unfortunate student back into the arms of their pursuers. By the middle of the day, they were moving around the campus in packs, bristling at anyone who looked their way.

Meanwhile, the classes themselves were almost surrealistically normal, as if the teachers were trying not to think about it—or trying not to let them think about it. Conor’s homeroom turned out to be the same as his math classroom; Mrs. Atkins introduced him to the rest of the group—most of whom he’d known since kindergarten—and assigned him a seat at a table with Holt. They left for English together, and on the way were told by a breathless Eddie that someone had somehow filled a locker in the civics wing so full of shaving cream that it had poured out of the vents and made a puddle on the floor five feet across.

Conor had been looking forward to Ms. Palmano’s class, but it turned out to be far less interesting than…whatever the word was, for what had happened the day before. When they entered the room, the words KEEP GOING were written in foot-high letters on the board, and those students already seated were bent over their papers, working silently. Apart from a whispered bless you when Holt sneezed and borrowing an eraser from Jennifer, Conor said nothing the whole period.

Then it was off to Spanish, his first elective, and after that break, followed by Science, Social Studies, and Math, all in a row. They were getting into actual work, now, and Conor went up to his teachers at the end of each class, collecting homework for Ashleigh in a folder. Back out in the halls, he overheard a rumor that Mr. Sykes had already suspended fifteen of the new Central students, for their own protection—no, it was fifteen Bulldogs, as the East Binder students were suddenly calling themselves, and the Central kids were all in the nurse’s office. No, it wasn’t fifteen, it was only three—two Bulldogs and one Eagle—but the police had taken all three of them away in handcuffs.

“Ándale,” said Holt. “That’s right—one of them had a grenade, and the other two were fighting with knives dipped in the poisonous juice of the bullshit berry.” He winked, and Conor laughed. They listened to fewer rumors after that, but there was no denying that at least a few of the stories had a kernel of truth in them—Conor had spotted Mr. Sykes when he passed the office on his way back from the electives building, and the grey-haired AP was talking in low, serious tones with Officer Grimsley. The grownups didn’t see him, and he ducked quickly around a corner, taking a longer route to his next class.

Now, it was lunchtime. Conor, unwilling to put up with Eddie’s idiocy, split off from the others and sat down at a table with a group of eighth graders he didn’t know. Instantly, it was as if he’d built a wall around himself—the older boys ignored him completely, and when one of them spilled his drink next to Conor’s tray, he wiped it up without speaking, as if Conor and his food were simply part of the furniture.

Conor had slipped the little leatherbound journal into his bookbag that morning, and he opened it now, setting it on the table as he ate. He’d thought he might use the book to keep in touch with Ashleigh during his suspension—with no phone or computer for the next two weeks, and only a couple of minutes each afternoon to drop off the other boy’s homework, there was no time for anything like a real conversation. Conor figured he could write in the journal during the day, and leave it with Ashleigh overnight, collecting it from Timothy on the morning bus ride along with Ashleigh’s completed assignments.

It had seemed like an excellent plan, at breakfast. But now, he hesitated, the blank page stark and vast and intimidating. He’d opened it up half a dozen times already that morning, each time putting it away without writing anything. There was at once too much and too little to say, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to write down the things that actually mattered.

Maybe start with “Dear Ashleigh.”

But even that turned out not to be simple. As he had the night before, he wrote Dear, then Hey, then Hi, and finally What’s up? before giving up and settling on Ash. Then he moved his pencil to the next line, where it hovered, waiting.

A minute passed. Conor squeezed his eyes shut.

That’s what you get for trying to use your brain inside the cafeteria.

The sheer volume of noise made it almost impossible to think, five hundred voices all striving to be heard over each other. Setting the pencil down, Conor took a sip of chocolate milk.

The problem was, there really weren’t any other good times left. After lunch, there was just Activity (where he wouldn’t be able to bring the little book at all), then Art, then homeroom, and the bus ride home. He could try writing something during Social Studies tomorrow, maybe—

No. It has to be today.

He paused, taken aback at the forcefulness of the thought.

It…doesn’t?

It didn’t have to be any time at all. He would see Ashleigh later that afternoon, in person. The book was just in case…

(He felt another twinge.)

In case?

…in case what?

Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, Conor felt his way around the edges of the thought, asked himself—gently—what might be inside of it.

It’s okay, he whispered, feeling ridiculous. It’s okay.

Fragments began to float to the surface, his mind relinquishing them one at a time. Ashleigh’s refusal to talk, outside the bus, and his brief but undeniable cold shoulder outside Mr. Sykes’s office. The way he still hadn’t responded to any of Conor’s calls or texts. The fact that he’d slept outside on Monday night, and not at Conor’s house, the way Conor would have expected him to, if he ever needed to not-go-home for some reason…

The way he turned and ran when he saw you coming around the gym.

Conor took a deep breath.

It’s in case he’s decided he’s just not going to talk to me at all.

A part of him scoffed that he was being paranoid, dramatic. But he recognized in that a hint of something like performance. Self-consciousness, audience-awareness. Like he needed to look like he wasn’t concerned…

But there was no one watching. No one to look cool in front of, no need to pretend, inside his own head, that he wasn’t worried.

Which he was.

The very idea that Ashleigh might have—have cut him off, might be intentionally refusing to talk to him—

(And refusing to acknowledge it, either, pretending like it wasn’t happening, Conor knew exactly how the conversation would go, could hear the words in his mind, so plausible—what are you talking about, I was grounded, stop overreacting—)

Hey, um. What? Can we, like, slow the fuck down?

He took another deep breath.

(And then a third, when the second did no good, and then a fourth after that, and then he gave up.)

Okay, fine, maybe he was being paranoid, some part of him jumping to conclusions. Maybe he would knock on Ashleigh’s door in a couple of hours and everything would be—well, not normal, surely. But fine, maybe. Maybe everything was fine.

But something had spooked him. Spooked the animal parts of him—the parts that knew things without knowing why, without being able to justify or explain. Some part of Conor was scared, and it hadn’t been scared on Sunday. Had become scared in the subsequent day-and-a-half, as Ashleigh’s silence stretched and stretched.

He looked down at the empty page.

Ashleigh was grounded.

That wouldn’t stop him, though.

And that was it, really. Conor wasn’t sure what the other boy’s silence meant, but it was silence—conspicuously so. And that—

That was new.

(A memory tickled at the back of his mind, from the spring of fifth grade, when his parents had quietly left a copy of It’s Perfectly Normal on his pillow. He’d messaged Ashleigh that evening to say that the two of them needed to look into this whole jerking off thing, only for the other boy to respond two hours later with field notes.)

There had never been any sort of barrier between them, not in four full years of friendship. They shared everything, without shame or judgment, each of them the one person to whom the other could say anything, anything at all…

Slow down.

He slowed.

…it could just be coincidence. Or—not coincidence, exactly, but boring, normal. The situation with Guyler was pretty serious—maybe Ashleigh was actually grounded, in a way he was nervous about trying to circumvent.

Maybe.

But maybe not.

And if not—what then? What would he do—what would it mean, if his best friend really, truly did not want to talk?

Slow. Down.

Conor gnawed at his lip.

You don’t have to have an answer. Nothing’s happened yet.

And maybe nothing would. Maybe it was enough that he had recognized the fear, named it—that his brain had let him in on the secret, and he was no longer flying blind—

A sudden hush made him look up, a flash of movement catching his eye. A few tables away, over on the high school side, three boys in the blue-and-gold sweatshirts of the East Binder uniform were looming menacingly over a fourth in jeans and a t-shirt. The fourth boy was seated, but he tried now to rise, and as he did so, one of the Bulldogs put a hand on his chest and shoved, sending him crashing backwards to the floor, his tray and food flying, his head hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud that was audible even thirty feet away.

Fast.

The teachers were already on their feet, had already been closing in, and in another heartbeat they were there, hustling the three antagonists away, helping the fallen boy up to a sitting position.

Fat lot of good, whispered Ashleigh’s voice, in the back of Conor’s head. It was just like Eichardt’s strike on Timothy, on the bus, the damage done too quickly to be stopped, and the punishments were never enough to stop the bullies from doing it in the first place…

(Conor was surprised to see that none of the other Central students were nearby, or had rallied to the boy’s defense, but a moment later he understood: the victim had the scrawny, underfed look of an outcast, and had been eating lunch alone, without protectors or allies.)

Speaking of which.

He threw a sidelong glance at his tablemates. They were paying no attention to him, were watching the aftermath of the confrontation with satisfaction on their faces.

Conor tugged anxiously at the neck of his sweatshirt.

He hadn’t thought about it, because he was used to not having to think about it, because Ashleigh was always, always there. The stuff that was happening to the Central students—it was sudden, it was coordinated, there was more of it than he was used to seeing, but none of it was unusual, really. Incidents like the one he’d just witnessed happened pretty much every week, if not every day, and the standard advice was simple: never be alone.

Picking up his pencil, he began to write, thinking as little as possible, putting down words as soon as they came to mind. When he reached the bottom of the page, he stopped, scribbled his name, and read back over it.

Ash,

Hope your doing ok at home. I cant call or message you bc I’m grounded bc I didn’t leave a note when I went to try to meet you yesterday before school. I did try to meet you just like I tryed to call you. We got to talk about Gyler and stuff. I dont know what your mom knows, my parents know most of it, there not too mad tho. I’m not mad ether so if you thot I was dont worry. I’m just worreid about you (not to be gay) and I dont know what hapend.

Schools ok. I found out were your locker is and its pretty close to mine (449). We have English together and I’m pretty sure your in pe with me to. Tim got hurt on the bus but I guess you already know that by now but it wasnt like a big fight. Sorry. Ill try to watch out for him better. PS I cleaned up the mess we left and put it all in a BAG. Let me know if you wont any of it back or Ill just throw it away. Write me back if you wont. Ill come get this in the morning b4 school

Conor

He sighed. It was not at all what he wanted. He had hoped to convey concern—respect—understanding—forgiveness—all of the things his father had given him, in their conversation the night before. Most of all, he’d wanted to show that things were the same between them—that he was fine, that they were fine—that there was no need for this to be different than any of the hundred other misadventures they’d survived together.

But the right words hadn’t come, and in their place was this stumbling, disjointed mess. It made Conor uneasy, because he couldn’t work out why all of this was suddenly so hard.

He traced his eyes over the words again, considered starting over.

Just leave it.

It wasn’t like a second draft would be any better. And this one was honest, at least. Maybe Ashleigh would pick up on that, and respond to it.

The bell rang. Closing the book, Conor stood, joining the crush as he threw away his trash and dropped his tray into the bin.

Two more hours.

Just two more hours, and he would be on his way home.

Of course, he’d have to share a bus with Eichardt to get there, and once he did, he had little to look forward to except yardwork and homework until he fell asleep and it all started over again. With any luck, he’d see Ashleigh, but with a half-mile walk each way, they would have at most something like three minutes to actually talk. Not so much two hours as two weeks, really—then, hopefully, things would start to return to normal.

But two hours first.

•••

There was no circle of onlookers outside of bus 134, and Conor permitted himself a small sigh of relief. Both Timothy and Eichardt were in the crowd—they were far apart and seemed to be ignoring each other, but he maneuvered quietly between them anyway, waiting for the driver to arrive and open the door.

For the most part, East Binder was split between the four halls of the high school and the three wings of the middle, the main quad a vast buffer between them. Some places, like the cafeteria and the electives building, brought the two populations together, but there was still segregation, supervision—structure.

Not so on the buses. Here, and here alone, sixth graders rubbed shoulders with seniors without guards or chaperones. There were rules, but they were emergent, natural, the fragile equilibrium of a lawless frontier.

A little over half of the middle schoolers were bus riders, with the rest being dropped off and picked up by one parent or another. There were fewer high schoolers—most of the older kids had cars, or rode with other kids who had cars, meaning that the juniors and seniors still on the bus were those who were too poor, too reckless, or too antisocial to get to school any other way. They were massively outnumbered by the younger kids, but they were the ones who set the grid—everyone else just fell into place.

This year, there were only four seniors, and they claimed the wide bench at the back as their own. Immediately in front of them sat the small handful of juniors (with the druggies and the dealers tending to cluster together on the left side, where they couldn’t be seen as well by the driver).

Conor supposed that outside of East Binder, it was those upperclassmen who would be the most dangerous—two of them at least were rumored to be actual gang members, and he had watched with his own eyes as one of them quietly dropped a knife out of the window last year when the old AP had boarded the bus.

But in practical terms, the oldest kids were nothing to worry about. None of them had the slightest interest in terrorizing little kids—even for the bullies among them, the novelty had long since worn off, and they largely picked on people their own size.

Of greater concern was the next tier—the tenth, ninth, and eighth graders, posers and wannabes who clustered on the border of the older kids’ territory. They were the ones most likely to cause real trouble, picking fights, floating from seat to seat in search of prey. They tended to work a year or two down, trying to impress those above by intimidating those below, and sometimes the scuffles got genuinely mean.

Eichardt was among them—was one of the smallest and youngest, and thus keenly motivated to show off, appear tough. Conor watched as the eighth grader carefully chose a seat in the middle of a near-empty section in the rear third of the bus. It was deliberate—the bullies spread themselves out, leaving open spaces to draw their victims in.

(The sixth graders were in particular peril. Usually the last to board and—this early in the year—the least aware of the danger, and almost never able to force someone else to scoot over and give them room. Some of them found shelter at the very front, in the seats closest to the driver where no bully bothered to operate. But that was the loser’s haven, the province of those who valued safety and comfort over social status, and they sat three to a seat in awkward quiet.)

Conor had settled himself in the sixth row, his usual spot—close enough to the front for peace, but not so close as to invite mockery. Ashleigh’s place beside him, against the window, was empty. He could hear Eichardt’s voice, overloud, telling outrageously filthy jokes, and he listened with half an ear as he peered out through the glass, looking for Timothy.

The younger boy still hadn’t boarded, and as Conor counted the remaining seats, he felt the muscles in his shoulders beginning to knot and clench. Yesterday’s ride had been uneventful, Ashleigh’s bizarre stunt serving as a kind of shield, keeping the bullies at bay. But Eichardt’s attack that morning was proof that the effect had worn off. Given the chance, he would make trouble.

Conor held the spot beside him as long as he could, but eventually had to yield it to another seventh grader, who grumbled about not getting the aisle before sliding sullenly in. By the time Timothy came through the door and started down the row, there were only a few obvious places left, and all of them in hostile territory.

C’mon, Timothy, make somebody scoot over.

(He didn’t say it aloud, of course.)

But the younger boy showed no sign of slowing. Glancing backward, Conor saw a feral grin on Eichardt’s face as he watched his victim’s approach. Making a swift decision, Conor stood up, blocking the younger boy’s progress down the aisle.

“Here,” he said, gesturing. “Take my seat.”

Timothy stopped short, frowning. His eyes flickered down at the open spot, then back to where Eichardt was waiting, then back up to meet Conor’s. “Why?”

Conor dropped his voice to a murmur. “Are you kidding? Just take it, thank me later. I’ll sit back there with the sharks.”

The sixth grader’s frown deepened. “No,” he said flatly.

“What? Why?”

“Move.”

“But—”

“Move.”

“Timothy—”

“Move.”

Conor hesitated, and the other students waiting in the aisle began to call and complain. In a moment, Conor was shouted down, and he sank back into his seat, turning to watch as Timothy carried on toward the back.

“I’ll sit there, if you want to move so bad,” the boy next to him said.

Conor ignored him.

A prickle of foreboding worked its way up his spine as the younger boy headed straight for Eichardt. The eighth grader was sitting longways, by himself, shoulders against the window, arm draped casually over the seat back. Timothy stopped directly in front of his outstretched feet and turned toward him, unshouldering his bookbag. He said nothing—only stared, until Eichardt opened his mouth. Then Timothy spoke, too—quickly, his words cutting across the older boy’s.

“What do you—”

“You gonna move your legs, or not?”

Eichardt’s grin slipped, but he recovered quickly. “Sorry, kiddo,” he said airily. “Afraid this seat’s taken.”

He smiled again, crocodilian, and crossed his legs, his shoes brushing against Timothy’s knees.

“Bull,” Timothy said, and around him, conversations fell quiet. The two kids closest in the aisle behind him each took a step back, distancing themselves from the situation.

“What’d you say, shithead?”

“You heard me, IEP. I said bull.” Timothy’s voice was clear and unafraid, and he glanced at the watching faces around him. “I got an older brother—you think I don’t know how this dumb shit works? You find out what I want, hold it over my head, make me beg and cry—that how you make yourself look big and bad? Playing keep-away like a kindergartener?”

Eichardt’s face darkened. That was how it worked—usually. But suddenly it was Eichardt who looked small, and pathetic. It was a cheat, but a good one—the other bullies were laughing now, and not at Timothy.

“Anyway,” the sixth grader continued. “I was just asking. There’s a seat here, and there’s three of us waiting. But if your ass is so fat you need the whole thing all to your—”

Too far. The eighth grader surged to his feet, lunging at the younger boy with hands curled into claws, snarling with rage.

But Timothy was ready. At exactly the right moment, when Eichardt’s body left the seat, he swung the bookbag, slamming it into the bully’s face. With so little room to work with, he couldn’t muster enough force to do any real damage, but it completely broke the older boy’s momentum, throwing him off balance, knocking him right back the way he’d come—against the window, leaving a space by the aisle.

Quick as an adder, Timothy slipped into the seat, dropping his bookbag onto the floor. “Hey, thanks!” he chirped, just before Eichardt lunged again, grabbing him by the throat and sending both of them tumbling out between the seats.

Conor was helpless, cut off by the two students still standing in the way. But they weren’t helpless, and neither was the tall black boy who had been sitting by himself in the next row back. In a second, the two combatants were separated, and suddenly the tables were turned as the black boy pinned Eichardt up against the window by his throat, leaning across the seat back between them.

Everyone froze. The black boy wasn’t wearing a uniform—was from Central, and an unknown quantity. A couple of the older East Binder boys began to rise, but he stopped them with a glare and a raised finger. “Hold on, there, folks,” he said, his voice an exaggerated drawl. “Let’s just everybody calm the fuck down, shall we?”

He looked to be sixteen at least, thin but tightly muscled, with hair in a short afro and fingers that spread easily across Eichardt’s neck, touching the glass behind on either side. Conor’s eyes flickered up toward the driver, but the whole fight had taken place under the radar, and even now the standoff wasn’t clearly visible in the grownup’s mirrors.

Slowly, the boy released his hold on Eichardt’s throat, putting a hand on the eighth grader’s chest instead, pressing him back against the window. “It seems to me our little man here just demonstrated that there’s plenty of room in your seat, don’t you think?” He glanced down at Timothy, who was frozen along with everyone else, still sitting on the floor of the aisle. “Now, I’m kind of new around here—”

The boy broke off, looking over his shoulder. Following his gaze, Conor saw that he had locked eyes with the largest senior in the back—the one who had ditched the knife the year before, who Conor would bet five bucks to a nickel was carrying one right now. Something passed between them, and the senior lifted a finger dismissively, as if to say go ahead. Raising his chin respectfully in acknowledgement, the boy turned back to Eichardt.

“—but where I’m from, it’s considered rude to jump a guy who’s just trying to make friends, know what I’m saying?”

Eichardt had no response. He sat rigid, as if cast from iron, only his eyes moving as they darted wildly from side to side. Conor was struck by how small the eighth grader looked, stripped of his usual bluster—much smaller than the Central student, and no different from any other scared little kid.

Timothy, on the other hand, spoke up in a ringing voice. “Hey, little man, did I ask for your fucking help?”

The bus grew suddenly airless as the spectators sucked in a collective breath. Slowly, the black boy’s head turned toward the sixth grader on the floor, his expression blank and unreadable.

Every fucking time—

It had to be genetic, Timothy’s knack for throwing sparks, so similar to Ashleigh’s. But there was no explosion. Instead, the older boy burst into a laugh of deep, rich amusement. “Well, well,” he said, looking around as though inviting everyone else to join in on the joke. “Seems our little man don’t want a hand. All right, all right—no hand it is.”

He pulled his own away from Eichardt’s chest, raising it in mock surrender, and settled back into his seat. “You two can work this shit out on your own, then.”

All eyes turned to Eichardt, who seemed to search among them, looking for sympathy or support. Finding neither, he cut his losses.

“Fucking psychos,” he spat. “You and your retard brother both. It’s just a seat—who gives a shit?”

But the words were hollow, the retreat obvious. The bully’s face burned as he turned to stare out the window, muttering balefully under his breath.

Timothy stood and took his seat, carefully keeping his distance. The other two kids in the aisle quickly found places—nobody making any pretense at refusing to make room—and as the bus shuddered into motion, the tension in the air slowly, slowly, slowly drained away.

Conor continued to watch, sitting backwards in his seat, trying to decipher Timothy’s intentions. If the younger boy had been attempting to get Eichardt off his back, he had failed spectacularly—by the look on the bully’s face, if there had been fewer witnesses, Timothy might have found himself following Guyler into the hospital.

…was that the point? To provoke him, goad him into some rash attack? Conor thought back to the words that Timothy had thrown at the older boy, how they had been perfectly chosen to work their way under Eichardt’s skin.

Younger brother.

More than once, Timothy’s best defense against Ashleigh had been to push him over the edge just before their mother walked into the room. But a strategy that worked with family was risky when applied to outsiders. Ashleigh loved Timothy, and so even in his blindest furies there was a check on his capacity for violence. Eichardt had no such built-in safety, and there was no mother to intervene.

And Timothy had now been the instrument of the eighth grader’s humiliation three times running…

(A memory of flashing lights rose in Conor’s mind, and he swallowed.)

“Hey—little man. My name’s Devon. What’s yours?”

Conor’s ears perked up.

“Listen, little man, you want me to stop calling you little man, I’m down, but you gotta give me something to work with.”

There was no arguing with that.

“Timothy.”

“And your brother, the one with the chip on his shoulder. Where’s he?”

So Devon saw that.

(Or heard about it later, maybe.)

“Suspended,” Timothy growled.

“Ain’t that the shit. How long?”

Timothy said nothing.

“C’mon, don’t be all puffed up and grouchy. I’m trying to have a conversation. Was it two weeks?”

No answer.

“Bet it was two weeks. Old man Sykes, he loves that two-week suspension. ‘Discretion,’ and all that.”

Devon peered at Timothy, who continued to stare straight ahead. “Maybe you don’t know him yet, and that’s why you’re not laughing,” he said. “Sorry. Just thought I’d share some sympathy with another victim of the system. Me, I only spent twenty-seven weeks in school last year.”

“Ashleigh’s not a victim,” Timothy spat. “He deserved it.”

“Hey, look—it talks!” Devon grinned. “Big bro done pissed you off, huh? Me, I’mm’a say that just because he deserved it don’t mean he ain’t a victim. Ten other motherfuckers on this bus deserve it, too, but they ain’t suspended, are they?”

Timothy bristled. “What do you want?”

“Like I said. Just making conversation.”

“Well, get to the point.”

“Ain’t no point, friend. Small talk. I say shit you don’t care about, you say shit I don’t care about. You know it’s supposed to get up to eighty degrees on Friday? Y’all motherfuckers in them damn sweatshirts are fucked.”

“I don’t like small talk.”

“Oh? Well then, how about big talk? Like how this motherfucker here is sitting there scheming about how he’s going to whoop your ass first chance he gets?”

Eichardt, who had been staring out the window the whole time, stiffened noticeably.

“Yeah, that’s right, you—what’s your name, kid?”

Reluctantly, Eichardt turned so that Devon could see his face. “Craig,” he said sullenly.

“Craig, you gonna tell me I’m lying?”

Eichardt said nothing.

“Hey, Craig, let me ask you something. If I told you not to lay a finger on little man’s head, would you do it anyway?” Devon leaned forward as he spoke, his eyes glittering.

Eichardt said nothing.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But I haven’t told you that—have I, Craig? Funny, huh?” He turned back to Timothy. “Want me to tell him that, Tim?”

Timothy glowered.

“Boy, you two don’t ever shut up, do you?” There was no answer, and Devon laughed. “Well, shit. Looks like I got nobody to talk to today. Let me know, you change your mind—I saw the weather report for the whole week this morning, and I could go on for fucking hours.”

Still laughing, he sat back again, his eyes drifting.

Timothy said nothing. Eichardt said nothing. Conor watched as they rode in silence, surrounded by the chatter of the other riders. Bit by bit, the bus emptied out, and soon it came to a stop at the corner by Timothy’s house. Without so much as a glance at either of the two older boys, the sixth grader stood, shouldering his bag and pushing his way down the aisle. Conor watched him go, wrestling with indecision—

“Seriously? Seriously? You’re following me to my fucking house? What the hell is wrong with all of you?”

They had gone a dozen steps before the sound of the bus had faded enough for Timothy to realize that Conor was behind him.

“What?” Conor replied, confused.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You, and my asshole brother, and that fucking rando—let’s all look after the baby, he can’t take care of himself, we’d better hold his hand or he’ll get lost and start crying.” The words boiled out past clenched teeth. “Did any of you stop to think that if I wanted your goddamn help, I’d ask for it?”

Conor opened his mouth—hesitated—

“Seven classes yesterday, and all I hear is ‘Oh, so you’re Ashleigh’s little brother!’ And then today, everybody’s all ‘Dude, did your brother really take down an eighth grader?’ Like I’m not even there, like I don’t count for shit, and it’s your fault, you and Ashleigh both—you think I didn’t know Eichardt was going to try something yesterday? I wanted him to try something. So what if I lost? Even getting the shit kicked out of you is better than being rescued. Princesses get rescued. And now you’re literally trying to walk me to my house?”

“No,” Conor interrupted, and the younger boy broke off, his chest heaving. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn’t—”

He fumbled at his bag, pulling out the folder with Ashleigh’s assignments. “That’s not—look, I’ve got Ashleigh’s homework. His makeup work. Both.”

Timothy glared at him suspiciously. “Why didn’t you give it to me on the bus?”

You were busy.

“I wanted to say hi.”

“He’s not allowed visitors.”

Conor blinked, and then mentally kicked himself. Right. He’d been so focused on getting permission from his own parents that he hadn’t thought to check—

“Did she take his phone?”

Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

Conor chewed at his lip. “How long is he grounded?”

The younger boy shrugged, his expression still dark. “She didn’t say. He’s lucky she only knows about the suspension—I didn’t tell her he was gone all night Monday.” Conor gave him a look, and he shrugged again. “She was at work. I told her I was asleep when the cops came by.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“What do you think?”

Conor winced. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.” Timothy shifted, crossing his arms. “What did happen?”

“I don’t know.”

The younger boy’s eyes narrowed again.

“I don’t, seriously. I was—we were together, and then we—we got separated, and it all happened while I was, um, around the corner.”

Something moved behind the narrow eyes.

“They’re saying the other guy ended up in the emergency room,” Timothy said quietly.

“Yeah. He’s out now. Should be fine. Eventually.”

“They said Ashleigh broke his nose and his ribs.”

“Yeah.”

“Wonder why.”

“Me, too.”

The two of them stood for an awkward moment. Then Timothy gestured to the folder and the book. “Want me to take those?”

Conor hesitated. “Is your mom home?”

Timothy scoffed. “You think I’m going to let you in?”

“I’ll owe you one.”

“How about you don’t, since every time you try to help you just make things worse.” He turned and began walking up the driveway. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder.

Conor followed him into the house. It was a tired, messy place, with stacks of paper and magazines covering every surface and toys and clothes lying here and there where they had been abandoned, some of them years earlier. In the sink, the pile of unwashed dishes was partially obscured by a layer of empty boxes and tattered plastic wrappers, Eggo and Lunchables and Top Ramen.

“He’s upstairs,” Timothy said. “Or at least, that’s where he stayed all last night. Mom gets home at five, so watch it.”

Conor turned, climbing the creaking, warped staircase to the second story. Ashleigh’s room was to the right, at the end of the hall, overlooking the driveway where Conor had stood the morning before, throwing acorns. The door was shut, a stripe of light shining at the bottom. Walking softly toward it, he knocked. “Ashleigh?” he called out.

There was no answer.

“Ash, it’s me—Conor,” he said, and he waited for a slow ten-count before reaching out to try the knob.

Locked.

He knocked again, more firmly this time, and jumped when he heard Timothy’s voice behind him.

“Use the paperclip.”

The younger boy was standing in the doorway of his own bedroom, holding a glass of water and a plate with two uncooked s’mores Pop Tarts. He gestured. “On top of the doorframe. You can use it to pick the lock.”

I know where the paperclip is.

“Are you sure he’s in there?”

A shrug. “Find out.”

And with that, Timothy disappeared into his own room.

Conor knocked for a third time. “Ashleigh,” he said again. “Open up, I brought your homework.” He pressed his ear against the wood, listening for movement.

Nothing.

He looked up at the top of the doorframe, seven feet off the ground.

He sighed. Either Ashleigh was in the room, in which case he didn’t want the door opened, or he wasn’t, in which case there was no point.

Again, Conor felt a swirl of twisting, queasy panic, as if the floor had tilted under his feet. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what he should do, whether he was supposed to be pushy or patient or what. He had the sense that something was happening—still happening—like some rift had opened up between them, and was widening, or like the space between them had been filled with concrete that was slowly drying.

Or—hear me out—I’m just in there taking a nap.

Yes. Although that line of thinking was starting to feel…a little bit pathetic. Sort of vaguely Eddie-shaped, in a way that Conor felt better-than.

He looked down at the folder in his hands, and the little leatherbound journal on top of it. There was a right answer, here—he was sure of it. Ashleigh’s cold shoulder could be sincere, or it could be a cry for help. It might be an act, or a test; it might have no meaning whatsoever beyond the other boy being stubborn and dramatic.

But Conor didn’t know, couldn’t tell, had no experience to draw from. They’d had fights before, disagreements—squabbles of various kinds—but it had been literal years since they’d gone forty-eight hours without at least a word.

“Ash,” he called out again—

(And he couldn’t help but notice that his voice had pitched itself half-loud, as if to avoid waking the other boy, or to avoid being loud enough that the other boy would have woken, would have heard even through headphones, would have no excuse to hide behind.)

“—I’m leaving your stuff out here in the hall, okay?”

Silence.

He set the folder and the journal down on the rough wood of the hallway floor.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

And then he turned to leave, feeling small, and defeated, and very, very alone.

•••

One last drag of the rake, a final flutter of ochre and amber, and the backyard was clean. Conor leaned on the slim shaft of the rake handle, feeling it flex as he looked out over the ragged, abused lawn. It was almost seven, and the sun had already slipped below the trees; he had worked for over two hours to get the whole thing done.

He heaved a sigh, and his breath caught in his throat, turning into a cough. After leaving Ashleigh’s house, he had run the half-mile back, hoping to make it home within the time limit of twenty minutes. His parents were at work, and would never have known either way, but with so much else off-balance in his life, he wanted to avoid the lie if he could.

The run had taken him barely five minutes, but it had left him completely winded; upon tagging his mailbox, he had needed to walk around the yard three times before his breathing slowed enough for him to drink a glass of water. Another half hour had passed before his heart rate fell all the way back to normal, and even now his chest felt dry and tight.

It bothered him more than he would have expected, to discover this weakness in himself. Conor had never been athletic, not even a little—on the Vikings, his soccer team, they’d dropped him at fullback in second grade and left him there ever since. His father had tried to interest him in running and swimming and even a little light weightlifting, but none of it had stuck. His body worked just fine, as far as he was concerned, and he’d never seen the point in fitness for its own sake…

…until the warehouse.

The warehouse, which had been his first climb, and his first failure, his arms quivering, Ashleigh’s laughter ringing in his ears, good-natured but still somehow cutting.

He had come back alone the next day, and again the day after that, fighting fear and exhaustion in equal measure, working each impossible step until it became possible…

…and then working each one further, until he almost couldn’t get them wrong. It took three full weeks, but the look on Ashleigh’s face the next time they happened to pass by together had made it all worth it.

And then Ashleigh insisted that Conor do it again, show him how each step was done, and the course of their summer was set. Their next triumph had been a night mission, at the monstrous Victorian mansion that had been converted into an old folks’ home—Ashleigh had almost gotten them caught when he slipped and came crashing down onto a balcony just a few feet away from an old man sleeping with his window open.

After that had come the Raymond tower downtown, and then they’d begun exploring the school—which had led to the discovery of the Gap—and in the intervening months, Conor had started to think of himself as tough, capable, ready for anything.

Yet now, a simple flat-ground run had brought him almost to his knees, leaving him weak and shaking so that hours later the chill autumn air still burned in the back of his throat. It was embarrassing, shameful—the half mile had beaten him just as thoroughly as any too-high wall or too-wide gap, and he felt an almost primal need to do something about it.

It would have to wait, though. He had learned a few things about weakness, over the long, arduous summer—knew that there was nothing to be gained from punishing his heart and lungs when they’d already been pushed to the limit. Plenty of time to build them up later, after he had recovered—when he could test himself slowly and methodically, map the boundaries of this newfound frailty.

Still. There were other parts of him that weren’t tired, and he itched with unspent energy, his limbs thrumming with nervous tension. The last two days had left him feeling caged and useless, unable to do anything but pace. He needed exhaustion—the weariness of overworked muscles, arms like lead and legs like butter, the ache that worked its way deep into his body, drowning out his thoughts, transforming him into a lower sort of animal.

It was time to be Batman.

Dropping the rake, he strode to the edge of the backyard, where the roots of the old oak tree rose up from the hard, packed earth like the tentacles of a sea monster. Squinting at them critically in the fading light, he chose one that was roughly two inches thick and maybe twice that off the ground. Stepping onto it, he brought his legs together, perching like a bird, balanced on the balls of his feet with the root stretching out to either side.

Balanced, but not steady—for several tense seconds, he swayed back and forth, bowing and straightening, knees bending and unbending as he fought to find a stable equilibrium. Slowly, he coaxed his body into the ideal position—hips slightly back, legs at a boomerang angle, chest and arms forward as if he were scratching behind the ears of an invisible dog. Only then did his body grow still, all but the tiniest adjustments shrinking away as he focused on his target, another thin root emerging from the soil two and a half paces away.

For a single heartbeat, he stood absolutely motionless, everything in perfect balance as he drew in a breath, an archer on the draw.

And then, he jumped.

It all happened in a flash, but to Conor it was like a dance, like a poem, each part distinct and necessary. It began with his arms, which swung backwards like the hammer of a gun being cocked as he sank deeper into his half-crouch, leaning forward until it seemed he would fall on his face.

Then—as he passed the point of no return—everything uncoiled, his arms reversing direction, swinging forward as his legs fired explosively, driving him up into the air, his whole body stringing out along a line drawn at forty-five degrees. He rose as he flew, and at the peak of his jump he drew his knees up and in, flashing into a cannonball before once again reversing, his legs now extending out in front of him, feet stretching, reaching, grasping for their target.

He made contact with the root just behind his toes and immediately began to compress, collapsing, absorbing the impact with the muscles of his legs, every joint hinging as he folded back into a ball, ending in a deep crouch. And that was the end, and it would have been perfect, except that he came in slightly too low, had just a hair too much forward momentum and didn’t adequately compensate. Windmilling his arms, he lost his balance and had to step down, down onto the ground in front of the root.

Turning to face the way he’d come, he again assumed the position, finding his balance on the second root. He jumped again, and fell again, this time because he’d overcompensated, had come in too short and ended up staggering backward.

Again he turned, again he stood, again he jumped, and again he fell.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He was seven jumps in before he made his first good landing, but he didn’t pause to celebrate—only spun around without stepping down, found his balance and jumped again, this time arriving with one leg too far forward, so that a jolt of pain stabbed through his heel.

Focus.

Four jumps later, he stuck his second landing, and this time he found the rhythm, making two more before he lost concentration and fell again.

And again.

And again.

Slowly, Conor felt his mind recede, his body’s reflexes gradually assuming control as he sank into the repetition—jump, turn, balance, jump, turn, balance. A dull burn kindled in his thighs and in the arches of his feet as he passed his fifth success in twenty attempts.

I’ll go until I’ve stuck thirty, he decided. Either that, or until it was too dark to see—already the crickets were chirping, and the cars driving past on the street had their headlights on.

He landed another, but badly—heavily—wobbling dangerously on the root, his arms swinging as he fought for balance. Grimacing, he added it to the count of failures and turned around again.

Jump.

After this, I’ll do topovers on Mr. Baker’s wall. Then tomorrow I’ll cut the grass and practice vaulting over the deck railing.

Jump.

Thursday I’ll work on rolls, after I finish stacking the firewood.

Jump.

Friday I can do switchovers and slipthroughs.

Jump.

And I’ll work on running every day. I’ll get off at home, run to Ashleigh’s, and run back.

Jump.

It had quickly become apparent, once they started training together, that Conor and Ashleigh approached their little adventures from very different starting points. For Ashleigh, it seemed to be all about going places—places that no one else had been, places no one else could reach. The other boy climbed for the thrill of the challenge and the joy of exploration—once a particular route had been broken, he saw little point in going back and doing it again.

But Conor had never quite gotten past the sting of that very first failure. He remembered all too well the bitter frustration of seeing the way up, knowing it, understanding exactly how it could be done…

…and coming up short.

It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t as that his body wouldn’t, his survival instincts taking over, his limbs refusing to cooperate even as he screamed at them that it was right there, just reach over and grab it, this isn’t hard—

On that first attempt, he’d gotten stuck hanging from a tiny ledge, unable to go forward, unable to go back—had hung there until his fingers simply could not do it any longer, and then he’d fallen. It was something that Ashleigh—who was a natural athlete, who did not seem to be afraid of anything—would never really understand. In those three long weeks, when Conor had gone back to the warehouse over and over again, he hadn’t just made it to the top. He had become the kind of person who could. The climb had changed him, physically and mentally, and the process of transformation had awakened in him a hunger for more.

It took him three weeks. Ashleigh, following, did it in ten minutes.

Unacceptable.

And so, Conor began to push himself. While scouting out the second climb, he started taking deliberate detours whenever the route became too easy, using his fear as a gauge to make sure he stayed close to the limit of his ability.

(The little copy of Ashleigh that he carried around in his head had been confused—had asked wait, isn’t the whole point of practicing to stop being scared? But Conor had answered no. The point was to make it so that the things he was almost too scared to do were better things. Fear was not the enemy. Fear was part of it.)

As his skill increased, he sought out ever-more-terrifying challenges, striving every day to find the edge so he could practice pushing past it, practice dealing with it anyway. When the natural obstacles weren’t difficult enough, he handicapped himself, skipping handholds or carrying rocks, closing one eye or limiting himself to only three limbs. He practiced slipping, sliding, falling—hung by his fingertips from the top floor of the seven-story parking garage downtown and breathed until his heart quit trying to climb out of his chest.

(It never really got easier. He went back a dozen times, and it always, always, always scared him. But it took twenty minutes to work up the courage that first time, and only two the last.)

It was some time after their third climb, while they were planning out the fourth, that a light went on in Conor’s brain. Kicking off of walls, vaulting over planters, hauling himself up and over ledges—each of these skills was cropping up over and over again, as the most straightforward solution to a certain category of problem. And each of these skills could be strengthened independently of any particular route or climb—could be practiced individually, at ground level, where he would have the freedom to work out the kinks without the threat of falling.

It was a revolutionary shift in his method, no less powerful for being (in retrospect) kind of obvious. Like rock climbing, or skateboarding, or gymnastics—there were basic ingredients to this thing he was discovering, building-block movements that made up the bulk of every route. If he could master those, it would dramatically reduce the time he was spending solving the same problems over and over again, would let him focus his attention on the unique and interesting aspects of each new challenge. It would mean stepping back from the edge, where he’d done all of his growing so far, but it would let him return to that edge with a much more versatile toolkit, ready to tackle significantly harder problems.

It was then that he’d first imagined being Batman.

Oh, he’d been thinking about Batman all along. That’s how the whole thing had gotten started—they were walking down the street, each arguing his favorite superhero’s merits for the thousandth time, and Ashleigh had pointed to the warehouse roof.

“Look,” he’d said. “Spiderman could climb that in ten seconds flat.”

“So could Batman!”

“Not if he can’t use his grappling hook.”

“If Batman can’t use his grappling hook, then Spiderman can’t use his web slingers.”

“And Spiderman wins. Climbing powers. No way Batman could climb that with nothing but his hands.”

Conor had disagreed, and they’d gone back and forth, their voices growing more and more heated until he found himself standing on a dumpster on his tiptoes, straining to reach the two-inch ledge of a rusted metal windowsill. He’d made it, and from there to the next window, too, but not to the pipe beyond that, and Ashleigh had declared victory—until Conor brought him back three weeks later.

He’d pretended to be the caped crusader ever since, romping across the rooftops as Ashleigh fired imaginary webs after him. But it wasn’t until his epiphany that he really felt it, could imagine himself actually standing in the Batcave, plotting out a training regimen, trying to anticipate every physical skill that he would need in the fight against the Gotham underground.

Combat training, sure—every superhero had to be able to throw a punch. But what fascinated Conor most—what drew him to Batman particularly—was the way he used the city as his ally, flitting from rooftop to rooftop, drawing the enemy in. Making the environment work for him, so that every brick and pipe became a tool, a natural extension of his utility belt.

And he got there by practicing. Not by being an alien or getting bitten by a radioactive spider or granted three wishes. In most of the stories Conor knew, Batman’s training was centered on punching bags and sparring drills, endless sets of pushups—but with a thrill of excitement, he realized that there had to be another side to it, a hidden one that the movies and comics rarely mentioned. Conor imagined Bruce Wayne standing before a ten foot wall, running at it, throwing himself to the top, and scrambling over—and then doing it again, nine hundred and ninety-nine more times.

(Sure, it was all make-believe—the stunts Batman pulled weren’t realistic to begin with, which was probably why they didn’t bother to show him training for them in the first place. But hadn’t Conor done something similar, without even really meaning to? Haphazardly, unmethodically, without any goal beyond reaching the top of a particular building—and yet still, he’d grown. Improved. It had made a difference.)

Suddenly, the world around Conor…unfolded. Opened up, transformed. Where before there had been a static and empty environment, now there was a vast mosaic of possibility, a never-ending cascade of what-ifs stretching far beyond the streets and sidewalks he had previously thought of as the playable area.

What if he needed to hide on top of that sculpture?

What if he had to break into that fifth-story window?

What if the bad guy was on the other side of that fence, that ledge, that wall, that gap? What if it was a chase, a race, and every second mattered?

It was his Bat vision, and once it clicked on, he couldn’t turn it off. From then on, Conor found himself constantly evaluating the buildings and structures around him, eyes drawn to odd quirks in architecture and landscaping, always asking himself: what would Batman do?

And could he do it, himself?

He began practicing in earnest, drilling the core movements over and over, building up a repertoire of techniques that he could call upon at any moment. He spent hours studying the movements of the squirrels in his backyard, the cats that ran through the neighborhood, the monkeys on the Discovery Channel. Slowly, through trial and error, he developed his mantra—safety before simplicity, simplicity before speed, and silence wherever possible.

(And then the other rules, as he made mistakes, wisdom hard-won through blood and bruises.)

And all the while, he kept it secret, embarrassed. Because it was silly—wasn’t it? What would he say, if anyone stumbled upon him, dangling by one arm from a low-hanging branch, trying desperately to reach thirty hippopotamus before his screaming muscles refused to hold any longer—oh, yeah, I’m training to be a crime fighter?

It was ridiculous. Exhilarating, intoxicating, the most alive he’d ever felt—and ridiculous. Only Ashleigh would get it, but Conor kept it secret even from him, waiting for the perfect moment to blow his friend away.

That moment came on a hot day in late June, when they’d gone to the park to play on the playground, he and Ashleigh and the rest of them, Holt and Eddie and Nolan and Sam Marlin. One of the neighborhood kids had started a game of freeze tag, and after three rounds in which Conor had evaded capture entirely, they made him it, and he’d started running, and forty-five seconds later the entire playground was still, every kid frozen.

He hadn’t been particularly fast—had won the game by inches, in the closed jumble of the playground architecture, catching each victim on the scrambles as he floated over obstacles that made everyone else falter.

But inches made the difference. For a moment they’d all stared at him, unnerved, until Holt broke the silence, shouting “Es un monito—who are you, monkey boy, and what have you done with Conor?”

Then everyone had laughed, and as the last boy tagged started up the next round, Conor had walked quietly over to the benches and sat down to catch his breath, waiting for Ashleigh. Ten minutes later, they were gone, on their way to the bank where Conor’s favorite practice wall stood. They climbed it fifty times that afternoon before the manager came out and ran them off.

In the weeks that followed, it soon became clear that being Batman wasn’t really Ashleigh’s style. The other boy easily grew restless, was reluctant to drill, itched to move on to the next new thing.

But that was okay, because Conor didn’t have to do his serious work while they were together. It wasn’t long before he settled into a routine—skill sessions in the morning, then edgework with Ashleigh in the afternoon, the pair of them conquering the unknown. He quickly became the stronger of the two, his new discipline adding whipcord muscles to his slender frame, but that was okay, too—Ashleigh still had no fear, and so they remained matched, the other boy’s daring a perfect counterpart to Conor’s steady competence.

That was how they’d made it to the auditorium roof, their fourth major climb—Conor’s careful preparation, dangling off pipes for weeks as he built up his endurance, and Ashleigh’s refusal to quit, bombing up after him with every scrap of energy he had.

(It frustrated Conor sometimes—the way that Ashleigh, without putting in any work at all, was able to follow almost every trail that Conor blazed. But that was just Ashleigh. It wasn’t malicious—he never went anywhere Conor couldn’t follow, or mocked him for taking things slowly.)

Well, except for all that bullshit about how Spiderman doesn’t need to practice.

Conor paused in his jumping, teetering on the root as he wiped his brow. It was almost time to quit—the stars were coming out, and the shadows beneath the oak tree were deep and dark. Turning, he jumped again. Another miss.

Apparently Spiderman doesn’t need to do Binder’s Gap, either.

Conor frowned. That wasn’t right. It was not a contest, and seeing it as one was a good way to get hurt. They weren’t rivals, they were partners.

Besides, the Gap isn’t about practice.

It was about fear, plain and simple. So what if Ashleigh had finally found something he was afraid of? Conor was afraid of plenty. Rule number one was protect yourself—fear was what kept you alive.

He made one last attempt, barely able to see his target in the thickening gloom, and smiled as his feet connected cleanly, his balance holding without a wobble. Eighteen, out of seventy-six. Not bad.

But not great either. Fifty…four? No. Fifty-eight.

Fifty-eight misses. That was what mattered. Not how he stacked up against Ashleigh, but that he’d fallen three times for every good landing he’d made. That was why he practiced—it wasn’t about ego or adrenaline or a sense of accomplishment. It was about perfection. The split second of certainty, before his feet even hit the target, that yes, this jump was good, was going to end exactly as it was supposed to.

It was a small thing. A silly thing to care about. But with everything else spiraling ever further out of his control, there was something nice about the promise of it—the idea that all it took was work. Conor had no influence over Eichardt, no arguments to sway Timothy, no idea how to get through to Ashleigh. All he had was himself—one small, half-trained body that only sometimes did what he told it to.

But more than it used to.

Crossing out of the shadow of the trees and into the next yard, he stepped up to the low brick wall Mr. Baker had built around his air conditioning unit. Grabbing the top with his hands, he squatted down, lifting his feet one at a time, pressing them against the vertical surface so that he was dangling from his fingers in a tucked position, his butt mere inches above the grass. With a titanic heave, he pulled himself upward, hauling his head and chest over the top, his sneakers scraping as he scrambled to his feet and stood atop the narrow row of bricks. Then he reversed the movement, squatting to press his hands down on either side, kicking his legs out behind him, and lowering himself back into the tuck, careful not to dig his chest into the edge or let his feet touch the ground.

One.

Heave. Scramble. Squat. Drop.

Two.

•••

Conor’s father was working in the shop when he came in with the rake, poring over a set of plans on the workbench. “Oh, hey,” he said, without looking up. “Finished with the leaves?”

“All done,” Conor replied, setting the rake on its hook against the wall. He walked back over to his father, peering over his shoulder. “New props?”

“Miniatures.”

The plans were for a scale model of a city, with buildings, streets, and cars all carefully marked out. Next to them was a large plywood board, covered in pencil marks. Conor squinted. It looked a little like a map.

His father was a corporate artist, part of a small production company. He worked in the physical design department, making sets and props for filming. Two years earlier, he had turned their garage into a workshop, filling it with wood and plaster, fabric and paint, so that he could spend more time at home. There was even a machine for injection-molding rubber and plastic, which Conor and Ashleigh had used over the summer to make the masks they were planning to wear for Halloween.

“I’ve got the foundations laid out there,” his father continued, pointing at the plywood board. “We’re going to do it with balsa and hot glue. Should only take a couple of days.”

“Cool,” said Conor, shifting various props aside as he dug through the mess. A realistic plate of plastic pizza made his stomach growl. “Can I smash it when you’re done?”

“Har har,” his father replied. “No, this one’s actually going to get demolished during filming. We’re only painting one side of it. Some kind of Godzilla thing—apparently it’s still cheaper to blow up a model and add the monster than to CG the whole shot.” He looked up to see Conor transferring boxes to the shelf above, making space to search the back. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for those masks we made.”

“You and Ashleigh? I had to move them. I think I put them in the box with the Christmas ornaments.”

“They’re for Halloween.”

“The holiday ornaments.”

Conor snorted, reaching under the workbench for the box. The masks were right on top. He grabbed them and began putting back the rest of the things he’d moved.

“Your mother called,” his father said, yawning and stretching. “She’s going to be late, so we’re on our own for dinner. You want me to cook you something?”

“No, I’ll microwave some Hot Pockets. You going to be out here long?”

“Until she gets home. Remember, no—”

“No computer, no phone. Got it.” Turning, Conor went inside.

It took a few minutes for his dinner to heat up, during which he rifled through his homework folder. There was more than there had been in sixth grade; after only two days, he had something in almost every subject. Sighing, he grabbed the necessary books from his bookbag, adding a glass of chocolate milk to the stack and balancing the plate on his arm as he made his way down the hall to his room. It was easier to focus while he ate, so he set the books aside, toying with the masks as he waited for his food to cool.

They were a matched pair, different in detail, but similar in overall design, made to be pulled down over the head like a balaclava. Conor’s was mostly black, with maroon and dark grey trim along the sides, while Ashleigh’s was a uniformly bright red, relieved only by the dark plastic lens covering the eyes, scavenged from an old pair of ski goggles. Conor’s father had helped them every step of the way, and the final product was impressive—they looked good, real enough to qualify as professionally made.

Makes sense, since they are.

The idea had been Ashleigh’s. It was getting old, going as Batman and Spiderman every year—where was their self-respect? They should invent their own alter egos—new ones, that no one had ever seen before.

Conor had agreed. They’d found the bag on the auditorium roof just a week earlier, and his mind was filled with the thrill of possibility, the idea that they might actually catch a real-life bad guy. They had sketched out the rough beginnings of a design together, arguing back and forth until they settled on something neither Bat nor Spider, but definitely Man. They took the picture to Conor’s father the next morning, and a week later, the masks were cooling on a rack out in the workshop—black for the Tracer, and red for Siphon.

(Ashleigh had pointed out that Tracer was actually already the name of an obscure villain in some Spiderman comic, but Conor kept it anyway.)

They’d been planning to start work on the actual costumes once school started up again. There was a Halloween party at East Binder every year, and Ashleigh figured they had a shot at winning a prize in the competition.

If we even go, now.

Conor set the masks aside. He was tempted, for a moment, to sink back into despair, the grey fugue that had gripped him under the equipment shed and never really let go. It was just one more thing that had changed for the worse when Ashleigh pulled a lighter out of his pocket, sent the first domino tumbling.

But the ache in his arms and legs kept him afloat, kept him from going under. It was an ache he’d felt a hundred times, over the summer—a familiar, friendly pain that spoke of better days to come. He’d made progress today, if only in one insignificant corner of his life, and the next time he went out to do target jumps or topovers, they would come a little bit easier.

Picking up the masks again, he opened his closet and set them on the highest shelf.

No more.

For two full days, he’d been passive, reactive, a passenger in his own story. He’d been in limbo, waiting for things to go back to normal, and it was time to fully face the fact that this was normal—the new normal, whether he liked it or not. There was no point in dwelling on the year he wished he was having, when the real one was trying to knock his feet out from under him.

He closed the closet door, firmly.

They’re still there.

Still there, if Ashleigh asked about them. Still there, if the other boy came around. And if he didn’t…

What would Batman do?

Conor turned back to his desk, and sighed. Probably not a lab report, a current events questionnaire, and a worksheet on negative numbers.

But you played the cards you were dealt. Settling into his chair, Conor opened up his folder, took out the first assignment, and began to write.