Brent sat back. Relief turned to understanding. And understanding turned to anger. “You idiot! You scared the crap out of me.”
Disgusted, he scrambled to his feet and walked a few steps away.
“You should’ve seen your face!” Kennedy cackled.
Then she slipped her glasses on and was able to see what Brent’s face actually looked like. Pale. Tight. His breath escaped fast and hard.
Then she wasn’t laughing anymore. Because she realized what she hadn’t before: Bad things, terrible things really did happen. And Brent knew that better than anyone—because they had happened to him.
The smile fell from her lips. She crawled forward, rose to her knees. “Brent, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it was stupid. I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t look at her right away. He stood, turned around, his hands on his hips.
And Kennedy wanted to cry. She could do it, easily, because she felt so awful.
When he did finally face her, his eyes were hard, two sharp-cut sapphires. Then he forced out a big breath. “It was stupid. And do you know what happens to stupid girls?”
“What?”
“They get the mud.”
Kennedy wasn’t familiar with that expression. But as she started to ask what the heck he was talking about, a glob of cold, wet mud landed on her shirt—splattering across her chest and neck.
“Ah!” She yelled out.
She looked between her muddy shirt and the boy who’d made it that way. And he was smiling again.
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “You are so dead.”
She scooped up the wet earth and formed a ball in her hand, like a mucky snowball.
Brent wiggled his muddy fingers at her. “Oooh, I’m so scared.”
Kennedy Randolph didn’t just spit like a girl—she threw like one too.
A girl with perfect aim.
Brent tried to dodge the attack, but a moment later the back of his white t-shirt resembled the Rorschach Test. And it was on. They scrambled and crawled, flung and smeared, screamed and shouted and trash talked. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean spot between the two of them. Brent spit brown saliva. Kennedy used a leaf to wipe off her glasses.
“If my mother saw me right now, she’d shite bricks.”
“What?” Brent laughed.
“Seamus, our new driver is Irish. That’s how he says the s-word—shite. I like the way it sounds. Shite bricks. It makes me feel powerful.”
Brent fell on his back, still laughing. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Kennedy shrugged. “I’d rather be crazy than boring.” Then she smacked Brent’s leg – leaving a muddy handprint behind. “Let’s ride down to the river and clean up.”
Brent sobered as they stood and walked toward the bike. “Maybe we shouldn’t ride anymore.”
“Why not?”
“We could fall again. You might get hurt, Kennedy.”
The small girl turned to him, hands on her hips, stubbornness in her jaw. “We probably will fall again—and that’s why we have to get back on and keep riding. The ride is the only thing that makes falling worth it.”
Brent squinted. “Okay, human fortune cookie.”
Kennedy stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be such a pussycat.”
He just looked at her blankly. “What the heck does that mean?”
“I heard Seamus say it to the gardener. He said, ‘Don’t be a pussy,’” She shrugged. “I think he meant pussycat, like ‘Don’t be a chicken.’”
“I don’t think Seamus is gonna be your driver for very long,” Brent said before reluctantly climbing on the bike with Kennedy on the handle bars.
He rode slower at first, but when she begged him to go faster, he did.
Because he was no pussycat.
****
Three Weeks Later
They were by the pool. Mrs. Mason hyperventilated when the Mason’s butler, Henderson, caught them swimming in the river—even though Brent’s physical therapist said his prosthetic was saltwater grade. She made him promise that the only place he’d swim was here at the pool, with Henderson close by. There wasn’t anything Brent hated more than seeing his mother upset, so he made a promise—and stuck to it.
So, they were poolside, in the shade of a cherry tree, on two huge cotton towels. Brent liked the pool better anyway—he could swim without his leg, without crawling through the rocky sand to retrieve it, or worrying that it’d be washed away and sink to the bottom of the Potomac River. That would suck.
But he wasn’t swimming now. And Kennedy knew he wasn’t listening either.
Because he was on his back, shirtless and tan, damp hair curving over his forehead, one arm bent behind his head, the other holding a comic book. He always had one with him—in his back pocket. And if they weren’t doing something that required movement, Brent was reading.
“I’m going to shave my head. What do you think about that?” Kennedy asked.
“Cool.”
“And then I’m going to steal a car. Get a tattoo. Change my name to Snowflake.”
“Uh huh.”
Her hair fell over the strap of her green bathing suit as she leaned towards him. “Then I’m going to sneak into your room, take everything you own and sell it at the flea market.”
“That’s nice.”
Kennedy rolled her eyes. And pinched Brent’s bicep.
“Ow! What’d you do that for?”
She waited for him to look at her. Then she asked, “What’s with the comic books?”
Brent shrugged. “They’re cool.” Then he tried to go back to reading.
Tried.
Kennedy snatched the comic from his hands and flipped through the pages. Brent turned on his side, bracing his head on his hand.
“Why are all the girls in bikinis?” She looked more closely and added, “Barely.”
Brent chuckled. “That’s just how they draw them.”
“Is that why you think they’re cool?”
“That’s not the only reason,” he hedged.
She adjusted her glasses, waiting for him to continue. Eventually, he did.
“Right after the accident, I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t even get out of bed to take a wizz. It drove me nuts. So my father started bringing me stuff to read. Books were too long, I’d fall asleep from the medicine after a few pages. But comics were quick and it was easy to pick up where I’d left off when I woke up. Two weeks after the accident, he bought me Superman #1. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s one of the rarest comic books in the world—worth like, a million dollars. It was wrapped in plastic because that keeps it valuable. My father showed it to me, then tore the plastic right off, because he said being able to watch me read it was worth more than a million dollars.”
“That’s awesome.” Kennedy said breathlessly. She couldn’t imagine her mother being content to watch her read anything—not without telling her she was doing it wrong. “So that’s why you read them all the time, because your father bought you your first one?”
Brent shook his head. “That’s why I started, but I keep reading them because . . . because all the heroes had something bad happen. Really bad. And it . . . changed them. But they weren’t just different afterwards, they were better. More than they ever could’ve been if the bad thing hadn’t happened, you know?”
Kennedy nodded.
“That’s how I want to be too.”
Kennedy handed him back his comic book and smiled. “I think you already are.”
After a quiet moment, she asked, “Is that what you want to do, for your career when you’re older? Collect rare comic books? My Uncle Edgar collects Egyptian artifacts for a living. He smells weird.”
“No, I don’t want to do that. Drawing comic books would be an awesome job, but I suck at drawing. What do you want to do when you get older?”
Kennedy thought about it. “Truth?” she asked him.
“Truth.”
r />
She leaned closer. “I want to do . . . whatever my mother doesn’t want me to.”
****
Four Weeks Later
They were working on their ladder. Prosthetic leg or not, Brent couldn’t climb trees like he used to—and there were a lot of good climbing trees on the acres between their houses. So they’d decided to build a ladder. A good one. A tall one. One that would get him to the highest branch.
And if they had time, Kennedy wanted to build a hut, like the Ewoks in Return of the Jedi. They’d watched the movie in her home theater the other day during a thunderstorm.
Thinking of the movie made her think of where she’d had to go after the movie—to her final dress fitting. For the dress her mother commissioned for Claire’s party. The party that was one week away.
“Are you coming to Claire’s graduation party?” she asked.
Brent took the nail out of his mouth, lined it up, and pounded it into the wood in two quick strikes. “I don’t know. My parents are.”
“Of course your parents are coming. That’s not what I asked.”
He stopped and looked at her, his face serious. Kennedy didn’t like it—it made him look not like Brent. Because her Brent was never serious.
“I don’t think so.”
Kennedy put down the saw and moved closer to him. “Why not?”
Now there was sadness in those round blue eyes.
And it was all wrong.
“I think . . . I think they’re embarrassed of me, Kennedy.”
Anger sparked inside her, quick and hot. “Did they say that to you?”
Brent shook his head. “No, just a feeling, you know?”
The anger fizzled, but only a little. “Your parents love you, Brent.”
He nodded. “I know. But you can love something and still be ashamed of it, can’t you?”
And that was true. She couldn’t lie to him, because it was the story of her life. All she could do was let him know he wasn’t alone. “Then you should definitely come to the party. My mother’s ashamed of me all the time.”
The sadness in his eyes lightened, and he gave her a small smile. Then he put his hand over hers and squeezed.
****
The party was perfect—exactly as her mother planned. A full orchestra filled the night air with elegant music, pristine white tents covered tables with overflowing centerpieces, fine china and high backed chairs. White gloved waiters were everywhere, their trays laden with champagne flutes, caviar and oysters. There was a constant hum of conversation among the hundreds of guests—anyone who was anyone was in attendance. The flash of the photographers’ cameras burst like fireflies on a dark night. Recording these moments for posterity, making the guests feel like they were worthy of their very own paparazzi. And in the center of it all was Claire Randolph, her long blond hair shimmering, her pale yellow ball gown not fit for a princess—but for a queen.
Kennedy was bored out of her mind.
She sat at a table, alone, a small smile plastered in place, because, as her mother had warned her—unsmiling young ladies looked sullen. Sullen equaled pouty. And pouting was never allowed.
At eleven, she was the youngest here—the only girl still considered a child—because none of the other guests would entertain bringing children to such an affair. She was too young to drink, too full to eat more, too uninteresting to engage in conversation for long.
But as she gazed through her glasses at the crowd, she saw him—standing beside his parents, looking as handsome as a prince in a sharp tuxedo. Brent had come—he would save her from the boredom monster. Kennedy darted out of her chair and walked straight to him.
“Hello, Kennedy.” His father greeted in his familiar rough, deep voice.
“Hello, Mr. Mason.”
Brent’s mother, always soft and sweet, smiled genuinely and Kennedy smiled back. Then her eyes fixed on her friend. His hands were folded behind his back, his eyes scanned the room—not nervous—but cautious. Careful not to do the wrong thing.
“Hey.”
His blue eyes warmed when they rested on her.
“Hey. You look nice.”
She shrugged. “Thanks.” Then she leaned closer, so only he could hear. “Do you want to dance? There’s nothing else to do.”
Brent knew a few ballroom dances—his mother had taught him, to help him become the refined gentleman they all expected him to be. But he hadn’t even thought to try them in public—not since the accident.
“I might trip.”
Kennedy reached out her hand. “Then I’ll catch you.”
“Yeah, right. I would squash you.” He snorted.
She shook her head. “I’m stronger than I look.”
He held her eyes for a few seconds. Then Brent took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
It was a basic waltz, a simple box step. And Brent didn’t trip.
They talked as they danced, and laughed.
Neither of them saw Brent’s mother’s eyes fill with tears or his father’s fill with pride. Because although a tragedy had befallen their dear son, they knew then that his life would not be tragic.
****
Kennedy and Brent were inseparable for the remainder of that summer. And even after school began again in the fall—with Kennedy back at her all girls day academy and Brent at home with his tutors—they saw each other at least once a week. When the next summer came around, they were inseparable again.
Brent thought of them as a dynamic duo—like Batman and Robin or Green Arrow and Speedy. Kennedy imagined they were more like Winnie Cooper and Kevin Arnold.
She thought they would be best friends forever.
But…she was wrong.
They’d become so much more.
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