A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(3)

"Why are you watching him?" Taryn says, scaring me out of my daydream. I  was watching Christopher care for his shoes and thinking how he  probably doesn't get new things often. I don't like that Taryn caught  me.

"Oh, I wasn't even looking at him. I was daydreaming, about how I'm  going to beat Kyle," I say, turning my body completely away from  Christopher. I want to look over my shoulder, to see if he heard me, to  see if he got the dirt off his shoes, but I don't want Taryn to see, so  instead I walk away with her at my side.

"Yeah, you better beat him tomorrow. I don't want him to win the trophy I made," she huffs.

Taryn climbs to the top of the dirt berm, and the twenty or so kids left  in my yard all peer up at her, squinting at the sun setting behind her.         

     



 

"Okay, be here right after school for the finals tomorrow. I'll have the trophy here for the winner," she says.

"My trophy," Kyle yells, high-fiving his brother.

"Or Joss's," Taryn yells back, lowering her brow and sneering at the cocky twins dressed in their favorite football jerseys.

"Yeah, right," one of them laughs.

"Don't worry," I say quietly as I stand next to her. "I can take him."

I'm faster than Kyle Marley. I have been since kindergarten. But he's not the one I'm afraid of losing to.

Christopher is the last one to leave, and I watch him balance along the  thin brick border that leads to my gate, teetering as he walks with one  foot in front of the other, trying not to step in the loose dirt. Once  his feet hit the gravel of the alleyway, he turns toward me, and our  eyes meet. I don't smile, and I pretend I don't notice, looking off to  the side after a blink. He doesn't smile either, but I know being here,  and winning today, meant a lot to him.

I kind of want him to beat me tomorrow. But I won't make it easy. He'll have to earn it.



I had planned on speeding home again before everyone got there, but that  was before my bike tire was flat this morning, and before I found out  we get out of school at noon today.

My parents must have forgotten too, because my mom sent me off with my  lunch. It hasn't gone to waste entirely-I snuck most of the pretzels as a  snack during reading time, and sold my cookies to Conner during our  end-of-the-year desk clean up.

As busy as we've all been with the last day of school activities, the  race is all everyone is talking about. It's down to four of us-Kyle, me,  a fast kid named Miguel, and Christopher. Even though the race is  small, I have a feeling the crowd coming to watch will be even bigger  than yesterday's. That's why I want to beat everyone to my gate. I want  the track to look nice, and I thought about putting out a few towels and  blankets on the hill, so the other kids have somewhere nice to sit.

My knee has been bouncing at the same pace for the last four minutes.  I've watched the minute hand creep closer to the top of the clock hung  above Mrs. Grandel's head, and at one point, I swear it went backward.  It's teetering now, and I've managed to pull my backpack over my arms  and turn my body to the side without her noticing.

As if I'm backed into starting blocks, I position my feet against the  metal legs of my chair, and the instant the bell sounds, I'm off and out  the door. I'm the first one through the gate, and when I glance back  over my shoulder as I round the block that leads to my street, I slow  down, satisfied that I don't see anyone behind me.

I push through the gate quickly, dropping my backpack, which is stuffed  so full with my graded worksheets and art projects that the zipper may  soon explode where the bag rests on the patio. I jerk on the sliding  door, but it doesn't budge. I pound my hand against the glass and press  my face to the window, but I don't see any lights on or a sign that  anyone is home at all.

Letting out a small growl in frustration, I slap at the window one more  time before running to the front of the house. I slide to a stop quickly  when I notice the garage door is raised, my dad's station wagon parked  inside.

My dad works at the high school. He's a PE teacher, and a baseball  coach. He must be home early too. I'm not sure why he didn't hear me at  the window. I step through the door into the house and call out for my  dad. When he doesn't answer, I yell for my mom.

My heart is pounding, and as much as I want to grab the chalk and run to  my backyard and draw fresh lines before my friends show up, I also  don't want to make a sound.

Something is off.

I peer my head around the corner of the hallway that leads to my  parents' bedroom. Their door is closed, but the light is on. Just  knowing the light is on, that they're probably in there, that I'm not  alone-it all makes me feel safer.

I step closer to my room, and when I reach the frame of my doorway, I  finally hear my dad's voice. What he says feels like a nightmare.

"Is Joss even my daughter, Claire? How do I know you haven't been lying about that too? How do I know she's not his?"

Not … his?

I swallow and hug my doorframe, half of my body in my room, the other  half out here in the hallway waiting for my mom's answer. It doesn't  come. Instead, my doorbell rings, and my dad flings their bedroom door  open. His eyes land right on me, and I grip the wall tightly at the  sight of his face. This isn't the happy man who throws a ball with me in  the driveway. This man looks scary-his eyebrows raised, his face red  and his mouth turned down, denting in the corners as he clenches his  teeth.         

     



 

He looks away from me quickly as he storms down the hallway to the main  door, throwing it open with enough force that it dents the wall on the  other side. I hear him yelling at whoever came to visit, and I run to  the doorway behind him to make sure it isn't one of my friends. When I  get there, I see another man holding his hands up, shaking his head, and  repeating that he's sorry. He's wearing a Cal State sweatshirt and  jeans; the kind of clothes my mom wears.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" My dad smacks his hand hard against the  door when he yells, and I jump, stumbling back a few steps, my heart now  a rapid drum inside my chest.

When I turn around, I see my mom standing in the hallway, her eyes red  and puffy. She's been crying, and when she looks at me, she shakes her  head, her lips mouth, "I'm sorry." Her eyes close slowly as she holds up  a hand and stumbles to the bedroom, closing the door behind her to the  sound of her wailing.

I move into the kitchen, and I notice a few of the kids now lining up  along the wall of my backyard. My dad is still yelling on the other side  of the wall, and my mother is crying and gasping for breath down the  hallway. I am trapped.

When I hear the front door slam, I halt, waiting to hear my father's  steps coming down the hallway. Instead, I hear nothing. They must have  both left, or gone to the front yard. Maybe I can get to Taryn, tell her  we need to move the race. Or maybe no one will notice what's happening  inside.

Forgetting about the chalk in my room, I unlatch the glass door leading  to my backyard and pull the curtain to a close behind me as I shut it,  wanting to hide the things happening inside. I see Taryn at the gate's  entrance, balancing on the small crate and directing kids to the berm so  they can watch. She's brought the trophies for first and second place,  and she's holding one in each hand. Yesterday, winning the tall one was  all I could think about. Today, I just want to erase the look on my  mom's face that's now burnt into my mind-to rid my head of the echoes of  my father yelling at some strange man at our door.

Maybe nobody will notice what's happening here. Maybe this will be fine.  When the race is done, I'll go back inside and everything will  be … normal.

I blink a few times before walking over to my friend. No matter how hard  I try to pretend, though, my ears are constantly listening for clues to  what's happening on the other side of my house.

Kyle shows up next, and his brother is standing behind him, hands on his  shoulders, squeezing them as if he's sending Kyle in for a fight.  Within seconds, Miguel and Christopher step through the gate, and Taryn  is ordering us to the starting line.

I zone out as my friend goes over the rules. I know the rules; I made up  the rules-two complete laps, no running, no cheating, and no touching  another player on the course. That last rule is new; I added it when  Kyle Marley tripped me at the finish line a few months ago.

My legs feel like jelly. I bend down to retie my shoes, thinking that  maybe I've pulled the laces too tight. But that isn't it. I know it  isn't.

The yelling is still there. Nobody else seems to notice, but every now  and then I hear hints of my dad's voice. It's how he sounds when he's  out on the field, when I'm watching his practices and he's upset after a  loss. It's almost like he's barking. I'm focusing on it so much that  when Taryn calls for the race to begin, I don't take off right away. I  cover my misstep with a twist of my ankle, pretending I fell instead of  admitting that I'm not paying attention. My mind, my heart-all of me-is  somewhere else.