Unspeakable Things(54)

He shrugged. “I suppose. My parents were fighting a lot then. That’s mostly what I noticed.”

I stopped.

He went another three feet before he stopped. “What?” he asked, turning to stare at me, squinting against the sun.

“You just told me something about your family.” Dad would be so angry if I ever did that, ever spilled something real about our home life.

“Yeah?” he asked, waiting for me to explain.

Rather than answer him, I let that warmth move over my skin, that feeling of a thread connecting me to him. Frank had shared something with me. I’d do the same. “Hey, you know the band teacher, Mr. Connelly?”

“Yeah?” Frank said again. He hadn’t gotten back on his bike, even though we were at the top of the hill.

“Two nights ago, I stopped by his place with some friends. I spotted Clam inside his house. The kid who was attacked?”

Frank made a low whistle. “You think Connelly attacked him?”

It’d crossed my mind. But hearing that thought come out of Frank’s mouth, past lips that didn’t know how awesome and friendly and good Mr. Connelly was, it sounded bananas. “Naw,” I said. “I think he was probably trying to help Clam. Maybe get him to join band.”

I was grateful Frank didn’t question that, because while I didn’t believe Mr. Connelly would attack Clam and then invite him into his house, I also didn’t believe Clam had stopped over to talk about his classes. It was something I’d need to ask Clam about directly. Maybe we’d track him down today.

We hopped back on our bikes and raced down the other side of the hill, yodeling as we glided into town. It had taken us thirty-three minutes to bike the four miles. Not a record, but not the worst ever.

“Is that Evie?” Frank was standing on his pedals, coasting, hip cocked to one side. He pointed his head toward Van der Queen Park.

I shaded my face. “Looks like.”

Two other kids played nearby, one swinging next to Evie and the other on the slide. I didn’t know if they were together on purpose or had simply found themselves at the park at the same time. “The other two girls are going to be in your grade in the fall. I can’t remember their names.”

“No boys out,” he observed.

“It’s early,” I said, just to say something. “Take a right here. That white house is Mr. Connelly’s.”

Frank shot me a look.

“I want to check in about the popcorn sales. You remember me talking about that.”

Because I had the popcorn brochure including the order form, there wasn’t really a reason for us to stop by Mr. Connelly’s. I guess I needed to see him in the light was all. I hadn’t thought to call ahead, though, and so when another guy stepped outside of Mr. Connelly’s back door, right next to those savage rosebushes, and Mr. Connelly gave him a hug before sending him on his way, I blushed as if I’d just walked into Mr. Connelly’s own bedroom uninvited.

Mr. Connelly still wore a smile as his friend drove away and his eyes landed on mine. “Cassandra?”

“Hi, Mr. Connelly!” I hollered before biking up his driveway. “This is my friend Frank.” My voice was too loud.

Mr. Connelly stood there like it was the most normal thing in the world that I was here with a stranger and yelling at him.

“Nice to meet you, Frank,” Mr. Connelly said when Frank dismounted and walked up the sidewalk. “That’s a beautiful bike you have there.”

Frank puffed up like a bird in a bath. “Thank you.”

Mr. Connelly smiled. “And what school do you go to?”

“Lilydale come fall,” I said, inserting myself back into the conversation. “But he was there for a couple days last week.”

Mr. Connelly held out his hand. “I’d love for you to join band.”

A loud scratching noise came from inside Connelly’s house, and his eyes flashed. He retracted his hand. “That’s my cat. She’s supposed to be on a diet, but she makes my life miserable if I don’t feed her.”

I kept a smile pinned on. That hadn’t sounded like a cat. I wanted to ask Mr. Connelly about Clam, but I couldn’t, not without explaining that I was a no-good spy who’d peeped on him.

“Would you like to come in for some water?” Mr. Connelly asked, stepping aside. He sounded concerned.

I held up the brochure that I’d tucked into my waistband. “Can’t! We have popcorn to sell.”

I could see into the hallway behind him. I was surprised to catch a view of crowded knickknacks stuffed on tables and shelves built just for them, red-cheeked ceramic creatures. It was a glimpse of a fussy house, built for walking through rather than living in, with lots to dust. There was a metronome at the end of the hallway, ticktocking back and forth.

Click click. Click click.

I pointed at it. “Do you always keep your metronome going?”

He glanced over his shoulder, a rueful smile on his face when he turned back. “Once a music teacher, always a music teacher, even in the summer. But no, I don’t always have it on. Just warming it up for Gabriel’s lesson. He should be by any minute.”

I gasped audibly. Gabriel. I’m sure my crush was written on my face in blinking neon.

“I remember you were thinking about taking lessons here, too. The offer still stands, Cassandra.”