Better Than the Best Plan by Lauren Morrill

Author:Lauren Morrill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

CHAPTER TWELVE

I arrive at Spencer’s house right at seven and am met by Ryan. He flings the door open, his hair stuck up at all angles, a temporary tattoo on his right arm, just above where the rest of his arm should be.

“I can juggle!” Ryan declares, as if I’ve come over just to find out if this is true. He has three small, multicolored balls clutched in his right hand. He immediately starts tossing balls into the air in a carefully paced rhythm. I expect them all to bounce to the floor, not because he only has one hand, but because in my experience most people, especially small children, cannot juggle. Anytime you hear the phrase I can juggle, you’re about to get hit in the face with a ball.

But to my surprise, the balls arc through the air, coming down with just enough time between them for Ryan to pluck them from the air and toss them again. Up and around they go, until finally he gives one a slightly-too-hard toss and it bounces on top of his head before landing on the floor.

“That’s amazing!” I exclaim, and there’s barely any forced enthusiasm there. I really am amazed.

“Percy Andrews can juggle one-handed, which I can obviously already do. I only have one hand.” He shakes his left arm, as if this is new information for me. “I’m gonna have to learn to, like, one-footed juggle or something if I wanna beat him.”

I figure he’s joking, but he furrows his brow like he’s seriously considering the logistics of juggling with one foot. Then he nods like he’s accepted the challenge and is on his way to formulating a plan. He runs off without a word.

I’m only left standing alone in the foyer for a moment before Spencer appears at the top of the stairs. He’s wearing a pair of gray shorts and a loose, long-sleeved rugby stripe shirt, the collar sticking up part of the way in the back. His hair is a puff of cowlicks and curls, with obviously no attention or product paid to it. He takes one look at me in my cutoff shorts and tank top and frowns.

“Did you bring a sweatshirt or anything?”

I shake my head.

“It can get kind of cool down by the water at night,” he says.

It can get kind of cool in here, I want to say, reacting to his chilly delivery.

He reaches into the hall closet and pulls out a navy zip hoodie with a white crest screen-printed on the back. THE HARPER SCHOOL, it says. I wonder if it’s his, but as soon as I gather it in my arms, I know it is. There’s the smell of salt and sand and a hint of pine that I didn’t realize was all Spencer until just now.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking it under my arm.

I hear heavy footsteps falling, and Spencer springs into action, grabbing my elbow and guiding me toward the door. “We should go,” he says, his voice suddenly library quiet.

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