We think he'll probably die. That's why he doesn't
come to school. And it makes him act funny. He hits people, says
terrible things." Mixing truth with lies was a *lot* easier. "He shouts
and hurts people and he's the reason I can't ever have friends over. Not
until he dies."
Her eyes narrowed. "If that's a lie," she said, "it's a terrible one. My
Ma died of cancer, and it's not something anyone should make fun of. So,
it better not be a lie."
"It's not a lie," he said, mustering a tear. "My brother David, we don't
know how long he'll live, but it won't be long. He acts like a monster,
so it's hard to love him, but we all try."
She rocked back onto her haunches. "It's true, then?" she asked softly.
He nodded miserably.
"Let's say no more about it, then," she said. She took his hand and
traced hieroglyphs on his palm with the ragged edges of her chewed-up
fingernails.
The recess bell rang and they headed back to school. They were about to
leave the marshland when something hard hit Alan in the back of the
head. He spun around and saw a small, sharp rock skitter into the grass,
saw Davey's face contorted with rage, lips pulled all the way back off
his teeth, half-hidden in the boughs of a tree, winding up to throw
another rock.
He flinched away and the rock hit the paving hard enough to
bounce. Marci whirled around, but David was gone, high up in the leaves,
invisible, malicious, biding.
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