“What? That you have kids?”
“Everything,” she said miserably. “It means all of the stuff—my races, the trials, the time I’ve been fixing cars instead of studying or whatever—it’s all been a huge waste. None of what I want happens. I never leave. I’m stuck right here, raising kids, living in a falling-down house, just like my mom, and her mom before her, and—”
“Whoa, Tannis. Hold it,” I said. “How can you know that?”
She stared at me, her face tight for a second, then crumpling. “Because I have three kids. And I’m not old.” She wiped at her eyes, and I felt my head swimming a little. I’d never seen Tannis cry. Or go off like this. “I’m in, like, my twenties. And I’m walking on a trail on that same damn mountain.” She took a short breath. “I’m not racing; I’m not training. It means I never make it on the circuit. So, what do I do? I’m not smart like you or Sarah. It’s too late for me to go to college or figure out something else. This is the only thing I’m good at. The only thing I’ve ever wanted. And it doesn’t happen.”
Tannis wiped at her eyes, sniffling.
“Tannis,” I said softly, “you’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
“Am I?” she demanded, whipping her head up to look at me. “Was yours like mine? So real you could smell and feel stuff in it like it was really happening?”
I thought about Sarah’s weight next to me in that bed. The way my chest flooded with warmth when she smiled. I didn’t answer, and I think that was answer enough. Tannis had been so quiet about the things she’d seen, not bringing it up at all in the week between the cave and the Dash. I’d assumed she’d blown it off as nothing, had forgotten it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was itching at her, just like it had been at me.
“You’re not really going to look, are you?” she finally asked.
“No, I’m not going to look.” It was Trip’s idea to go back, and even though I knew he was right, I wasn’t willing to be the guinea pig. Trip seemed more than happy to do the honors, which could only be attributed to the fact that he’d seen nothing last time and he hated to be left out.
I turned up the volume on the radio then, which was kind of rude, but it kept Tannis from asking me any more questions. Eventually she sang along instead. Loudly, the way Tannis does most everything.
Lights were blazing in the living room when we pulled up to Trip’s house. I saw his dad pass by the oversize window as we went up the walk, and my teeth clenched. The last person I wanted to see. Great.
Tannis rapped on the door three times, then pushed through without waiting for an answer. “Domino’s!” she yelled.
I took a deep breath, assaulted at the threshold by the smell of Pine-Sol and the candles Trip’s mom always lit to cover her cleaning obsession.
“Hey, guys,” Trip’s dad greeted us, giving me a hard clap on the back. I mumbled hi and ducked into the living room, hoping to catch the score before going downstairs. I could hear him chatting up Tannis: “. . . looking lovely as ever. . . . Got a hot date?” “Not tonight, Mr. Jones. . . . Are you free?” Hardy-har-har.
Then his footsteps. “They’re losing again.”
“I see that,” I said without turning around. Trip’s mom passed by on her way to the kitchen, calling a quick hi.
“Terrible about Natalie Cleary’s father,” he said, stepping closer and shaking his head with exaggerated sympathy. It was what people had been saying for days, but like everything else Mr. Jones did, it was too much—too loud, too hearty, and now, too sad. A big, fake, lying façade.
When I was a kid, I’d liked how his big smiles had been different from my dad’s moodiness. I remember roasting marshmallows beside him. He ate his charred, and I’d liked watching them burn.
“Ready, Riles?” he’d ask, puffing on his cigar and holding the stick just outside the campfire’s flames.
I’d nod, barely hearing my dad across the fire. “You’re making my son a pyromaniac, Pete.”
Trip’s dad had grinned. “I’ll drop off some fire extinguishers. Consider it a housewarming gift.”
We’d just moved into our place, and my parents had been scraping wallpaper and painting most weekends, their home improvements nearly steamrolling right over our annual camping trip with the Joneses. That year Trip and I had our own tent, which I’d been psyched about until he’d sprung his plan to set up his SpyToolz Lazer Wire to trap bears. I hoped I wouldn’t have to crawl into my parents’ tent overnight. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Better blow that out, Pete,” my dad warned, nodding toward the marshmallow as he stood. “You’re gonna catch the stick soon.” He tossed the remains of his cigar into the fire, then hooked a thumb toward the woods. “Gotta drain the main vein.”
Trip snorted. His dad didn’t say stuff like that, and Trip thought it was hilarious.
Mr. Jones had me hold his cigar while he steadied the stick and blew hard on the marshmallow until the fire went out, leaving a drippy black glob that he sandwiched between graham crackers and chocolate, then offered to me.
I wrinkled my nose. “No, thanks.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Have you boys been sneaking chocolate?”
I shook my head, but in fact we had.
“Reeeally,” he drawled. “Not sure I remember a time in your ten years when you’ve turned down a s’more, Riley Larkin.”
He winked so I’d know he wasn’t really mad. I liked that Trip’s dad never left you wondering about that.
He offered it to Trip, who also shook his head. “Don’t want it.”
“Hnmmmm.” Mr. Jones rubbed his chin. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Mrs. Jones had ducked into their tent for some drinks, so Mr. Jones turned to my mom.
“Melissa?”
I was surprised when she said, “Sure.”
He smiled, crossing to her side of the fire. Trip scooted next to me, bringing the bag of marshmallows and chattering about whether we should set the wire up by the entrance to the cave or the trail and where a bear’d be more likely to come from, but I was busy watching Mr. Jones feed my mom, both of them laughing as strands of marshmallow dripped down her chin.
I’d felt only surprise then, seeing my mom giggle like that. Maybe a hint of apprehension. Not the hot, seething anger I felt standing beside Mr. Jones now. “Yeah,” I answered shortly as the Sox struck out again. “Terrible about Mr. Cleary. Is Trip in the basement?”