Page 127 of One Last Rainy Day
For me, Dom was a mentor, a friend, and the only humanbeing who truly saw the struggle going on inside me. He pinpointed it early, talked it out with me when I wanted to, and sat it out with me when I didn’t.
It was our secret.
Getting lost in that thought, the kid speaks up again, his voice filled with utter devastation. “I-I went to t-the garage last week, and that g-guy Peter told me.” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I’m sorry for your loss. I shouldn’t be here.”
The kid moves toward the gate, and on instinct, I palm his shoulder. He flinches, instantly pulling himself from my grip when it dawns on me. A conversation Dom and I had before he left for France. “You Zach?”
He nods, eyes widening a little. “He told you about me?”
“Yeah, he did.” I nod. “And I can tell you right now, you’reexactlywhere you need to be.” A soul-crushing relief covers his face as I nod toward my car. “Let’s go.”
Sean
“Alfred Sean Roberts, get your ass back in this house right now!” Mom yells at my back as I race out of the driveway, one of my shoes slipping on my pedal as I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, Mama!”
“Now, mister!” Mom hollers after me, and I know she means business.
If I get my Sunday school clothes dirty, I’m going to get an ass-whoopin’. I pedal faster, my shoes slowing me down as my dad hollers my name from the porch when I turn the corner.
I pretend not to hear him. If I go back now, he might not be there.
I saw him when we passed on the way home from church—sitting on the curb. He’s always on the curb and never plays. Turning onto his street, I see he’s still there, sitting next to his mailbox. He sees me just before I ride up and stands up fast, looking both ways.
My shoes slide a little when I put my feet down to stop. “Hi.”
He stares at me as if I didn’t talk to him.
“You want to ride bikes with me?” I ask.
He just blinks at me. He’s got dark hair and skin. My cousin Bradly said his family are fortuners.
“Where’s your bike?” I ask, and he doesn’t say anything.
“If you get your bike, we can ride.” When he doesn’t talk, I try again. “Bradly said you were a fortuner!” I shout. “Are you weird?!” I tilt my head. “You don’t look weird.”
He squints at me.
“Can you hear me?!” I yell.
“I crashed my bike,” he says, squinting harder like I’m stupid.
I step off my bike and start rolling it toward him. He’s got a T-shirt with a car on it. I like Batman better. “You can ride mine, but only for a bit. I have to change out of my Sunday clothes.”
He jerks his chin and looks back at his house. “I can’t leave the yard.”
I tilt my head. “You can’t ride on your street? I can ride on my street, your street, all over.”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Why? Where is your mom? I’ll ask her.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. Can I ask your dad?”
“He’s dead.”
I kick at a rock. “Then who do you live with?”
