What Lies Beyond the Veil(Of Flesh & Bone #1)(18)

“Sure.” I hand it over quickly, even though I really ain’t done with it.

“Do you like to read?” I ask, looking for a conversation to start. We ain’t barely talked since I first came cross the street. Even though I like drawing with the chalk, I want us to be friends, too. Lansing’s been lonely without any, especially since I ain’t got Nia no more.

“Yep,” Charlotte says without looking up, “I love to read.”

I watch her for a few seconds, notice the way she scrunches up her face when she’s tryna draw a straight line. “Have you read Anne of Green Gables?”

Charlotte quickly looks up. “No, but all my friends at school have that book!” Her response is more excited than I expect. She’s smiling from ear to ear now. “I really, really, really want to read it! But my mom won’t buy it for me. She says it’s too grown-up for my reading level.”

“Well, how old are you?” I ask.

“Ten,” replies Charlotte.

“Me, too!” I exclaim. “But I’ll be eleven next month,” I finish, in my most mature voice. “So why can’t you read the book, then, if we the same age?”

“I’m not sure.” Charlotte stops to consider my question. Then whispers, I think to herself, “She never lets me do anything.” Her head stays down after that. She looks sad now, with her head low and her tiny lips forming a pout.

“You can read mine,” I say, quiet. I ain’t sure I wanna offer her my best book, but now I’ve done it and it’s too late to stuff the words back up in my mouth.

“Really?” Charlotte’s eyes open wide and round like saucers.

“Sure,” I respond, even though I’m not sure at all. Charlotte don’t say thank you after that, but I can see the thank you stretched cross her face. I wonder if I have time to read my book one more time, before I give it to her. But I don’t say that. I’m happy to have something that’s like a treasure. My book helped me make a friend. A friend that likes to draw and read and has a mean older brother. Just like me and mean Nia.

It’s funny, though, cause Charlotte’s so much like me—same age, likes the same stuff—but when I watch her wipe her dirty hands on her clean shirt without worrying bout gettin’ in trouble for dirtying up new clothes, we also seem real different.

Just then, Bobby comes back. He’s changed into a new T-shirt with a big picture of Superman on the front and is carrying a large suitcase in his hands.

“What’s that?” I ask, forgetting for a second that Bobby’s been trying real hard to ignore me from the beginning. I figure maybe he’ll start liking me if I say and do the right stuff, just like Charlotte did.

Bobby hesitates, then finally says, “Wanna see?” I nod enthusiastically and stand to move in his direction. Charlotte keeps drawing.

Bobby settles down on the edge of the perfectly cut grass, resting the suitcase on a patch of colored sidewalk. The suitcase is brown and tattered and ugly. But he carries it like it’s important, so I’m anxious to see what’s inside. He opens one silver latch, and next the other. Then creaks the lid open til the hinge clicks in place. I look eagerly, but ain’t nothin’ inside but a bunch of dirty-looking rocks.

“It’s my rock collection,” he declares proudly. I try to hide my disappointment by pretending to cough. “See, I’ve been collecting these rocks since I was seven.” He begins pulling rocks from the pile.

I decide to take a closer look. There are big rocks and small rocks. Some that look like sparkly diamonds and others that look a lot like dog poop. I try to quickly count how many rocks he got. I count twenty-nine, then stop cause Bobby is looking at me funny.

“Can I touch ’em?” My question is cautious, but he responds with a smile.

“Sure.” Bobby hands me a rock the size of a peach pit. Its weight in my hands is solid. I run my hands cross the face of the rock, which is smooth and cold like metal. But the underside of the rock is the opposite. Jagged with dips and dents and bumps. Where it’s jagged, the rock is brown like dirt, but where it’s smooth it’s the color of half-burnt charcoal. I ain’t ever seen a rock look like this one.

“Where’d you get it?” I ask.

“I found that one when I was nine,” starts Bobby, “when I went away to summer camp for the first time.”

“Summer camp?” I repeat as I turn the rock over and over in my hands. Each time it turns, it changes into something new. Up, flat and shiny. Down, coarse and dull. Up, gray like fog. Down, brown like mud. Up, beautiful. Down, flawed.

“Yeah,” continues Bobby, “it’s a science camp that I go to every year. But that year was my first. I didn’t have any friends yet, so I kept to myself, mostly. Until I found this rock.” He takes the rock from my hands and holds it up proudly. “This rock is how I made friends.”

“Really? How?” I scoot closer. If a little, ugly rock made Bobby some friends at summer camp, maybe it can work for us now, too.

“Well, it was our third night of camp,” begins Bobby’s story. I settle in to listen, while Charlotte continues to color. “Like I said, I didn’t have any friends yet. It was time for Campfire Circle and—”

“Campfire Circle?” I interrupt.