The Way I Say It by Nancy Tandon

Author:Nancy Tandon [Tandon, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Charlesbridge
Published: 2022-01-18T00:00:00+00:00

Jett, Tyson, and I loop our bikes in lazy circles on my driveway. “Let’s go over to the dirt-bike path,” says Jett, wiping his glasses with the edge of his Red Sox jersey.

“Nah,” I say.

I unzip the fleece jacket Mom bugged me to put on. Today—the Saturday after Thanksgiving—is weirdly warm.

“C’mon, why not? We haven’t been there in forever,” says Tyson.

I don’t feel like riding past where Brent got hit to hang out in the place that reminds me of why we aren’t friends anymore.

“Just don’t feel like it,” I say.

“But there’s nothing else to do!” says Jett. “I’m so bored!”

“Plus it means we ride past Melanie’s house!” says Tyson. “Race ya!”

They take off. After a second I follow. The warm sun bakes into my shoulders and the muscles in my legs burn as I pedal up the huge hill on Maplewood Street. My tires crunch through piles of dried brown leaves bunched around the storm drains. Then I sit back and enjoy the sweet reward of coasting all the way down the other side.

I catch up to the guys at the bottom of the hill, and we turn toward Melanie’s. The way we’re riding takes us right past Brent’s house. I concentrate on the pavement in front of me and pedal faster, but as I pass his mailbox, I hear a small voice call out, “Hi, Rory!”

I tap my brakes. Maggie’s sitting on her front steps holding some chalk.

“You guys go ahead—I’ll catch up,” I call as I make a U-turn.

“Hi,” I say to Maggie, coasting my bike up the driveway.

“Hi,” she says again.

“Whatcha doin’?” I ask.

“Drawing cranberry sauce.” She traces pink swirls on the cement next to her.

“Oh, I see that now.”

“I spilled it during our Turkey Day dinner.”

“Oops!”

“Yeah, and it got on Brent, and he tried to hit me, and my dad had to grab his arms and lay him down on the floor.”

Whoa. “Bwent’s home?” I ask.

“He was, but he’s back at his get-better place now.”

She draws a purple circle around the pink blob.

“You talk like a kindergartner,” she says, looking back up at me.

Coming from anyone else, this would sting. I’d probably get mad and ride away. But I know she’s just being honest, the way little kids are.

“I’m glad Bwent got to visit at Thanksgiving,” I say, and I mean it.

“But hitting’s not nice,” she says.

“No. It’s not. I guess he isn’t all the way fixed yet.”

“I hope he hurries.”

“He will.” I hear the guys calling to me. “Gotta go. See you, Maggie.”

“Bye,” she says.

As I ride away, I look back over my shoulder and see her clutching the chalk, staring at her messy picture.

“There you are!” says Jett as I glide around the corner.

“Melanie’s not home,” says Tyson. “Let’s keep going.”

I follow them on autopilot along the familiar paved bike path. Then we turn and cut through the thick pine trees to a cleared area where kids have built a few dirt hills. I was worried it would be crowded, but no one else is here.

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