Page 4 of Every Thought Taken

“Want to make a s’more?” she asks, shaking a small container filled with graham crackers and chocolate.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.” I bring the marshmallow close and blow on it. “Maybe tomorrow.”

While she neatly stacks the graham crackers and chocolate, I take my first bite. Sweet and woodsy with a hint of bitter from the char. Perfection.

As I stab another marshmallow with my stick, she takes the first bite of her s’more. Before burning my next marshmallow, I stare at her as she eats hers. Stare at her stuffed cheeks and big eyes. Space out as she laughs because her s’more is falling apart.

Why is that funny?

I like my sister’s best friend—one of my only friends—so I won’t ask. Asking will make me sound like a dummy. Like I am the only person who doesn’t know why it’s funny when your food falls apart.

“Are you excited for third grade?”

Blinking, I look up at her. “Huh?”

“Third grade,” she repeats, licking chocolate off her finger. “Are you excited?”

I hate school. No one is friendly, not with me anyway. My sister, Helena, and Magdalena don’t count. While most kids in my grade are friends and talk with each other, I sit still and keep to myself. It is hard to make friends when people whisper in your direction and point fingers at you.

“No,” I say only loud enough for her to hear. Last thing I need is for Mom to know how I feel.

“Wish we’d still be at the same school.”

I peek at her from the corner of my eye and see a bit of sadness on her face. The downturn of her lips makes me feel weird. Seeing her upset makes my belly cramp. Helena never looks sad. Not that I have noticed.

“Me, too.”

By the time she finishes her next s’more, I have eaten two more marshmallows. On the other side of the fire, her dad and mine talk about the storms last winter and how it made work harder. Mr. Bishop sits with them and listens, nodding every once in a while. Magdalena and Ales lie on their bellies on a blanket, flipping through the pages of some teen girl magazine with pictures of famous boys.

Does Helena look at the boys in those magazines?

I have never seen her look at the same magazines Ales does. Maybe Helena thinks like I do. That geeking out over famous people makes no sense. That fawning over a famous person’s every move is creepy. So what if they sing on stage or act in movies? They are just people. Regular people that are good at what they do.

Nobody gets excited to see me. Ever.

Mom gets up from the picnic table where she and the other moms have been talking. She steps up next to me and pats my shoulder. “We’re headed to bed. You kids should do the same.”

When I tip my head back and look up, she stares at me with a half smile. It’s a smile I know all too well. This is her quiet way of saying she meansIshould go to bed, but the girls can stay up longer. I may be younger, but I am far from stupid. Everyone—well, almost everyone—treats me like I am brainless, but my teacher said I am smarter than other kids in my grade. That I read and write and understand math better than most fourth and fifth graders.

Mom knows this and still treats me like a baby. She doesn’t care this is vacation. She doesn’t care I won’t fall asleep for hours. All she cares about is routine and looking good in front of the other moms.

When she doesn’t look to the girls, signaling they should go too, I stand from my camping chair and shove it back. Without a word, I stomp off for my tent. At least I get my own tent this year. It’d be ten times worse if I had to sleep with my parents.

“Anderson Gregory,” she snaps and I ignore her. If she wants me gone, then here I go.

I unzip my tent, step in, rezip it, and secure the two zippers with a paper clip. Kicking off my shoes, I open my sleeping bag and lie down, not bothering to undress or blanket myself with the top.

Until the fire no longer lights the vents at the top of the tent, I listen to everyone outside. Listen to the girls chat about what they want to do while we are here. Listen to the dads talk about fishing and the great steaks they bought and new trails they want to explore this trip. And listen to the moms—who obviously lied about going to bed—talk about Magdalena’s dance class, Helena dressing less like a tomboy, and Ales’s excitement over the café we stopped at on the way here.

The one thing I notice, the one thing that hurts most… no one mentions me in their conversations. No talk of me in extracurriculars or school. No mention of including me in any activities during our trip. Nothing. As if I don’t exist.

Sometimes, I wish I didn’t.

CHAPTER3

ANDERSON

Winter—Fifteen And A Half Years Ago