“I baked some chocolate-chip cookies for your personal day. They always cheer me up. I thought maybe—” I don’t finish. It’s quiet outside except for the low sound of a car going by. The nearly bare trees sway faintly as their finger-like branches reach toward the gray-and-white clouds.

  “Oh, I also got your homework. I hope that’s OK. I mean I know you probably don’t want your homework on a personal day and all, but I just thought it would be helpful . . .” I trail off, thrown by how Even is hidden behind his bike. I clear my throat and say, “Well, I guess that’s all. Have a good evening.” I place the container of cookies on top of a toolbox in the corner and turn to leave.

  Even’s legs scrape against the dirty floor of the shed as he gets to his feet. I continue on my path toward the Honda, feeling downcast until I hear my name.

  “Sugar. Wait.” Even stands partially shielded by a tall but scrawny hedge. Beneath the shadow cast by the brim of a baseball hat that I’ve never seen him wear, a bruise balloons around his eye.

  Not thinking, I hurry toward him. “What happened?”

  Even shakes his head. “Please don’t ask.” He swallows. “Would you mind sitting with me a little while? You’re good company, Shoog.”

  We return to the shed. He takes his place behind the bike. I sit down on the back of the snowmobile in the corner. I try to think of things to say, but the sight of the bruise blew every thought out of my head like wind across desert sand.

  “Nothing big at school today. There were announcements for homecoming this weekend. I’d been wondering when they’d reschedule it since the freak snowstorm we had a few weeks ago halted everything, including that. Oh yeah, Allie and Hillary, in true form, asked me, ‘Where’s the picnic?’ apparently making fun of my choice of shirt for the day,” I say, looking down at the red, brown, white, and orange pattern. “I mean, maybe if it was red-and-white checks, but—” I’d taken to letting Even know just how mean the girl who has a crush on him can be. I’d heard, only because Allie wanted me to and not from Even himself, that she’d texted him a sexy photo of herself in a bikini taken over the summer. I’ve seen Allie in a bikini. Any guy would be crazy not to be turned on, but her personality dampens any chance she’d have with Even, who appears to value attitude over looks. At least I hope so.

  I try to catch sight of more than an elbow or a foot, but Even continues to work, remaining concealed.

  “Any plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask.

  He’s quiet, but a movement between the spokes of the back wheel may have been a shrug. If he enjoys my company, I assume he wants me to talk, but maybe he doesn’t want to respond. “I’m actually not really sure what we’re doing this year. My brother, Fat Henry—or Henry now, I guess, since he lost, like, fifty pounds—is going to spend it with his girlfriend Stacy’s family. Skunk hasn’t been around much, though if there’s an abundance of free food, I’m sure he’ll make an appearance, and, as for Mama, well—” I hesitate. I didn’t plan to tell Even about her now or ever, but it seems the truth wants to slide out of me. I clear my throat. It could be a slippery slope.

  “Usually we go to my aunt and uncle’s house,” I say. “I have loads of cousins, and we all meet there for the meal. Well, before that, it would be at the house where I live now, but that was when my grandparents were still alive. But, this year. I don’t know. You see, Mama, she can’t move around anymore. She was real heavy to begin with, but then it just got out of hand. I think her body, her joints, or whatever holds you together, couldn’t take the weight anymore. One day, she stepped wrong and hurt her knee. After surgery, instead of going to physical therapy, she took to her bed and has been there ever since. She can’t move. She eats, smokes, and drinks soda, sometimes beer, but only Skunk will take it to her. She takes a lot of pills, and I have to clean up after her. It’s—I dunno, it’s like she’s eating herself into an early grave.”

  There’s nothing else to say after that. Even is quiet. I close my eyes. The tears I held back as I confessed it all to him fall, leaving bottle-cap-shaped splatters on the dirty floor. Strong arms wrap around me. As I slow to a sniffle, he loosens his grip before pulling away and looking at me.

  “I guess I’m not the only one with secrets,” he says softly.

  It’s almost dark, and the dim bulb above us in the shed makes his eye look ghastly. As requested, I don’t ask.

  “We could both use a ride,” he says, with a grin this time. “I think I’ve fixed the problem with the running lights. Let’s go.” I grab my jacket out of the Honda and get on the back. I’ve only ridden with him twice since Halloween, but he fits the bike like a glove. I feel safe with him.

  He rides out of town and opens up the throttle on a long stretch of rarely traveled road that leads to a trailhead for hikers. We reach a spot with a view out over the valley. He stops and cuts the engine. We watch as the last sliver of sunlight vanishes in a crush of orange in the distance. We’re both the kind of quiet I feel at church.

  We turn back toward town. The tension that Even carried in his muscles relaxes as I grip him around the shoulders. I tilt my head back. The wind breezes my hair behind me. A star emerges like a light turning on in the sky. I make a wish.

  Even cruises past his house and goes farther on. I’m not sure where he’s going. Maybe dinner at the diner, I think, as my usual mealtime has come and gone. I hope Mama is OK. Sometimes I wonder if we could hire a nurse so I wouldn’t worry about her while I’m out. Then again, I can’t imagine anyone tolerating her.

  Even pulls into the parking lot of Johnson Regional High School and brakes in the far lot, under a bank of bright lights. The beat of the marching band practicing on the football field replaces the rumble of the engine. It’s so bright that if I hadn’t seen the sun set, I’d think it still shone.

  Even gets off the bike, but then sits sidesaddle. Our knees touch and he takes my hands. I try not to think about his eye and the bruises, but don’t know where else to look. I secretly hope whoever did this to him looks worse.

  “Sugar, I’m not usually one to make suggestions about a person’s life or talk ill about their family, but we’ve known each other for a few months now. Sometimes it feels like I’ve known you forever. I hope I do.”

  His comment settles over us like stardust.

  “What I want to say, and I’m afraid this will be difficult to hear, but what I’ve gathered about your situation with your mama is that it isn’t right. You aren’t her mother. She’s yours. Despite the hope that families always help each other when times are tough, what you said about an early grave, well, that tells me she’s given up. And if she doesn’t care about herself, she can’t care too much about you. That’s not to say she doesn’t love you, in her way, but she needs help. Like, professional help. Nurses, doctors, probably a shrink. She’s taking advantage of you and preventing you from living your life. She’s imposing her problems, whatever they are, onto you. I can see, day to day, there are burdens weighing you down. Your mama needs to get healthy and she isn’t going to do it with you helping her do everything.”

  I want to jump off the bike and run away, but the way he’s sitting and the way we’re balancing on over a thousand pounds of metal keep me there. And maybe the weight of the truth of what he’s said has me frozen. But I don’t want to hear it. I can’t look at him.

  “I hope I haven’t offended you. If so, I didn’t mean to do that.”

  I’m quiet, trying to order my thoughts. “It’s just that Mama doesn’t have anyone else. She needs me to look after her and our house. Who’s going to do it if I don’t? I can’t just let her rot there,” I say with exasperation.

  “No, but then what? Are you next? Is she going to eat herself to death, and then, in your grief, you’ll do the same? Is that house just going to fall in on the two of you, swallow you up? Or maybe it will be Skunk, drunk one night, out of his head? What’s it going to be, Sugar?” He’s practically yelling. He’s gone too far.

  Before I can stop them, more tears come. “No. I just don’t know what else to do,” I say, finally finding my voice.

  Even takes a measured breath and softens. “You’ve just got so much potential hidden inside there, Shoog. You’re seriously one of the coolest people I’ve ever known. I’d hate to see this one-star town, your mother and her problems, and the bullies at this shithole rob you of any of that,” he says, pointing at the school.

  There is so much truth in what he says that the river of tears continues and threatens to carry me away, but Even holds me fast and bears with me through the deluge. He doesn’t tell me to stop crying; he lets it flow. When I’m quiet, he speaks again.

  “I don’t know much about your relationship with your mother, but I do know abuse when I see it.”

  I look at his eye, a purple-and-black blemish with his father’s name written all over it.

  He sighs. “As I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten better. He knows I’ll probably hit back now, but last night, he came in drunker than I’ve seen him since we moved here. How he drove home without being arrested again or killing himself or someone else, I have no idea. He caught me by surprise and took a swing, blaming me for taking his wife away from him.” Even doesn’t cry.

  “He used to beat me pretty badly until he’d be reduced to a pathetic, whimpering fuck, begging for Tansy, my mom, to come back. But, Sugar, there is another kind of abuse. The kind we learn about in those dreadful but well-meaning assemblies at school: bullying. It’s still violent, emotional, but I think for you, maybe—” He hesitates and takes another breath. “Well, your mom bullies you, and I don’t know if she ever hit you or anything, but I think—” Again he pauses as if afraid to say the words. “I think the emotional abuse has taken the form of physical abuse with the way you”—I know what he’s going to say before he says it—“eat.”

  My mouth tastes like stale bread. I feel nauseous. My body vibrates with shame and anger. How dare he? Anger takes flight inside me. “I didn’t ask you to deconstruct my life, Even Anderson. I thought whatever we had going on here was a friendship. Friends don’t say things like that to each other.” Our position on the bike traps my legs. “Please help me off. I want to go home.”

  “No, friends are honest with each other. I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll bring you—” He pauses. “I’ll bring you back to your car.”

  “No, I’d rather walk. I want to be alone.”

  Slowly and carefully, he gets off the bike.

  I do the same, stomping off through the empty parking lot. The bike starts. I want to look over my shoulder and glare at him, hoping I get some kind of space-age superpower and shoot laser beams out of my eyes. After I’m a dozen parking spaces away, I feel the bike’s rumble on the pavement below my reluctant footfalls. It gets closer. I want him, but I also want to shout, “Just go away.” I want those cookies I baked earlier and a lot of them. I want to hide under my pillow. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. I want to be held. I want to curse at Mama and I want her to hug me. Or maybe I want Even to.

  Then Even is by my side, astride the Harley.

  “I know you want to be alone, but please just listen to one more thing I have to say.”

  I look right into his eyes, not politely avoiding the evidence of abuse that he, too, wears. My brown eyes hold steady on his blue ones. The depths I see there make me realize he said all of those things because he understands. Still, the darkness inside counters, He shouldn’t have said any of it. It’s not as if I don’t know; I’d just rather not endure the pain of hearing it out loud.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it. I don’t even care if it was an apology.

  I simmer, standing there. Mama’s words, about watching out for the bitches in life, ring in my ears over the echo of the bike and Even’s plea, both now quiet. She said something about if I’m not careful, life will turn me bitter. But, suddenly, I realize she has it wrong, at least about me. If I don’t take the risk to be myself and let someone like Even see that person, no matter how scary it might be, then I will turn mean and angry and stuck in a bed.

  I toss my head toward the sky, quilted with stars. God and everyone else up there listens, I’m sure of that. Now it’s my turn. I wonder what I did to deserve such genuine kindness in the form of Even’s honesty. Worse, what did I do to deserve everything that came before Even? But it doesn’t matter now because the irrepressible smile playing at the corners of my mouth tells me everything I need to know. It’s gratitude. Relief. Joy. There’s comfort in his understanding, even though I don’t necessarily want to acknowledge the ugliness of it. Maybe someone has been conspiring to answer my prayers.

  “I like it when you do that,” he says, returning my growing grin. “I think I know of something that might make your smile even bigger.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Even turns off the bike and nudges the kickstand with the toe of his boot. He gets off the motorcycle and puts his hands on either side of my arms. His eyes rest softly on mine. Time stops. “Shoog, I think it’s time you learned how to ride. Become your own driver in this thing called life.”

  I’m floored. I thought this was my big moment for us to kiss beneath the moonlight. Or parking-lot lights, but, whatever, it’s romantic enough. I so hotly anticipated this moment being my first kiss that I never in a million years thought he’d say that. He mistakes my expression of disappointment for fear but then quickly catches up.

  “Don’t be afraid. You can ride a regular bike, right?” he asks, not knowing that at all, but only knowing that at one point, I had a bike. I rode it, though it was short-lived, since Skunk busted it. I must look stricken.

  “OK, not like riding a bike at all, but it is. I guess I’m not explaining it right. Let’s see, the first thing to do would be just to sit on it and feel comfortable in the saddle. Ah, I know. Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “Even, I cannot ride your motorcycle. Firstly, it’s your baby. If I broke it or something—”

  “I thought we were past that? You can’t break the thing. Trust me.”

  “What if I crash?” I ask. “What if I can’t make it go? What if small animals and children have to flee for their lives because I can’t stop?”

  “What if you’re a biker babe and this is your calling? Opportunity knocks. It’s your turn to answer.” He laughs lightheartedly.

  “Even, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” I want to let him off easy, but I have no plans to ride his Harley.

  “There’s nothing like it. It’s freedom, Shoog. You could use some of that.”

  “I’ve felt it while riding on the back.”

  Even shakes his head.

  “Not the same way you would if you were the one with your hands on the bars, directing where you want to go, choosing where to stop.” His analogy for life flows from his tongue and into my ears easily, almost like a familiar song.

  “Yeah, but, what if—”

  “No more what ifs. Let’s talk about what is.”

  “But don’t I need a license?”

  “Not right here. Not for me to teach you. It’s fine. Say you wanted to get your own bike, come on the road with me this summer, then, yes, you’ll need a license.” His face lights up as if he’s made the big reveal.

  “You want me to come with you this summer?” I ask.

  “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with.”

  Surprise at this statement makes my knees tremble. My neck beads with sweat.

  “I think getting out of this town would be the best thing for you. It eats people alive or from the inside out or fill in the blank with your favorite life-sucking expression.”

  I’d never thought about leaving. What about Mama? The house? Skunk? Every reason not to move a toe overwhelms me.

  “Anyway. It’s something to think about. But you have to start somewhere. Right?” He gestures to the seat and holds the bike steady for me.

  I sit in the seat without thinking about why. I have to shut out the chaos in my head and be solely in my body. All some-odd hundreds of pounds of it. Even before it broke, I’d stopped checking the tormenting scale. But every fat cell, every hunk of cellulite jiggles. My awareness of it reminds me of my guilt as I straddle Even’s bike.

  “Breathe,” Even says. “Don’t worry. I won’t let go until you’re sure of yourself.”

  “I don’t think that will happen.”

  I dare to look at his face; his expression is gentle, so sweetly gentle. “Put your hands here, a firm grip, but easy. No white knuckles,” he says, pointing to the handlebars. “Yup, just like that. Now, one foot stays on the ground, the other right there on the—”

  I instinctively put my foot up in the right place.

  “Yup, that’s the pedal, just like a bike, but it isn’t going to get you moving. Now, deep breath. You’re OK.”

  I am OK. I’m going to do this because maybe, a very quiet voice inside says, my life depends on it. Even continues to instruct me, step by step. Now the bike is running. My flab rumbles. I hate my flab. I hate my body. I hate this. It’s too hard. I can’t do this, says the tickertape in my head. Shut up, I silently shout back.

  “Take a breath. You’re almost there. Ah, hang on.” He reaches into the compartment behind where I usually sit. “Here. Wear this. Just in case.”

  “Not the biggest vote of confidence,” I say, squishing the helmet down over my head. Moments later, he tells me how to accelerate and brake. The helmet makes his voice sound as if I’m on Mars. I may as well be, for how strange this evening has become. Some part of me must have registered his words because I’m moving. A thrill shoots through my stomach. The wind moves briskly across my face. I make my way to the entrance to the parking lot and turn around in a wide arc. All the while, Even jogs along near me.