“You’re Sugar, right?” he asks, again uncertain if that’s the appropriate name to use.

  “Sure,” I say. Sweating in the afternoon sun, as I hang up the last item, reminds me that I do, in fact, look like a hog. I flip the basket over, but then decide not to sit on it, in case I break through it like Goldilocks and the three bears. No matter what I do, I’m sure to embarrass myself yet again.

  “Nice to officially meet you, Sugar. I’m Even,” he says.

  I’m not sure if he says even or Evan. He must get the question a lot because his cheek quirks into something like an apologetic smile.

  “Even, with an e,” he adds, and his smile disappears. “My mom died when I was born, but said she wanted the baby’s name to be Evan. My dad is nearly illiterate, so I’m Even. Or Evan. Whatever. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.” He speaks dismissively about his preference as if he’s making the choice mine.

  “Even. I like it,” I say. “It kind of dances on my tongue.” I am so appalled that I said that aloud I want to run inside or drown in a river . . . of chocolate, never to be seen again. But I’d have to pass him, and I’m sure my footfalls would remind him of a stampede of elephants. Could I have said anything more awkward?

  He smiles at me again. His bright blue eyes are a delightful distraction. I’m not sure why he’s still hanging around, but he leans on the deck like there’s nothing better to do.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” I say.

  He doesn’t answer, though I know he heard me by the tender expression he wears. His face says many things, including an invitation to speak, to ask questions, but I’m not sure I want to hear the answers yet.

  “Well, I ought to find my wallet.” He hesitates a beat. “Want to take a walk with me on the trail and help me find it?” He presses up to his feet and walks toward the back of the yard. I’m not quick enough to say yes or no. I don’t want to ask why he’d want to take a walk with me or see me huffing and puffing as I try to do the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Come on,” he says, stopping for me to catch up to his long-legged gait beneath a slender yet muscular build.

  My thighs rub together. I’m painfully aware of every plump cell in my body. On flat ground, I realize he must be at least six feet tall.

  “So, do you ride?” he asks, meaning dirt bikes as one whizzes in the distance.

  “Me?” I ask, wondering if he’s joking or making fun of me.

  “Yeah. Your brother does, so I thought maybe you do, too.”

  “Never. I, um, don’t think it would be safe,” I say.

  “Sure it is, just wear a helmet. Don’t be an idiot like those other guys out there. But girls ride. It’s fun,” he says with a grin.

  I don’t say that it wouldn’t be safe because I’d probably break the bike. Skunk is heavier and bigger than I am, but he reinforces his shocks or something to handle the extra weight. I’m surprised I know this, but nevertheless, I wouldn’t dare.

  We reach what was once a wooden split-rail fence on the far edge of the property. The wood is rotten in spots and the thick bramble weaves in and out of the logs, creating a secondary fence warding off anything bigger than a rabbit. I stop in my tracks, wondering how I will get over it or through it. As if realizing my conundrum, Even tests a spot, pushing it back and forth with his hands.

  “It seems sturdy enough,” he says.

  I’m afraid to acknowledge the possibility that he means it’s strong in general and not just to bear my weight, but his eyes are tender and harmless.

  The last thing I want to do is break it. I look for an opening to either side.

  “I’ll help you over,” he says.

  I freeze.

  He extends his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”

  I can’t return my eyes to their normal size—they bulge. He must be joking. “It’s not that . . .” I start to explain, but then catch myself. If ever there were an elephant in the room, I’d be it. No one talks about how huge I am unless they’re teasing me. But it isn’t something easily ignored. My size limits me and that’s obvious, but it’s just the way I am.

  “Don’t worry,” Even says. He extends his hand again.

  I reach mine out. Our fingers touch. Warmth. Electricity. His hand is calloused and solid in my soft and mushy one. I tremble. I lower my head as if studying the obstacle in front of me. It’s now or never. No point in delaying the inevitable. My hair cascades down like a waterfall, hiding my red, and increasingly sweaty, face. I lift one leg up, anticipating the sound of splitting wood above the background music of cicadas. Nothing. I find a foothold, and then like an extremely out of shape Olympic gymnast, I get my other leg over the fence as if it’s a pommel horse. On the other side, I trip over the long grass but manage not to fall. Even glides over the fence like an actual gymnast, light and easy.

  “I was out here yesterday evening. Let’s see; if we go this way, we’ll loop back around to where I started, and then we can backtrack this way,” he says, pointing left on the trail.

  “What does your wallet look like?” I ask.

  “It’s brown,” he says, deadpan.

  I let out a giggle. “Everything here is brown: the dirt, the underbrush, the dead leaves.”

  “I know,” he says. His laughter halts him on the trail. He turns to me, like I’ve materialized out of thin air, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Our eyes meet. Oh dear Lord, this is unexpected. He tucks a loose strand of hair, plastered on my sweaty face, behind my ear, saying, “Brown is beautiful, earthy—”

  A bird whistles. Even finds his stride again.

  Did he mean our surroundings or my hair? It takes me a moment to remember how to walk . . . and breathe.

  “It was my gramps’s wallet,” he explains. “On one side there is an eagle burned into the leather, if that helps.”

  I scan the ground, hoping to find it quickly and get back home, if only to figure out what to do with the way I suddenly feel.

  As we go deeper along the trail, nature works her magic. I relax, as I did down by the river. The sunlight peppers the leaves overhead, filtering down to the ground. The air is fresh, yet woodsy, and cooler, comfortable. Most remarkably, I’m in the company of a very attractive boy. Wow. If Brittany could see me now.

  We continue on, keeping our eyes out for the wallet, but making conversation about anything and nothing at all. Dirt bikes, school, and then he hits on a subject I’d rather have left behind with the laundry.

  “Are you going to Hillary’s party?” he asks.

  I wonder how he knew she invited me. Then I worry she put him up to this; if she’s baiting me with a cute boy and friendly conversation only to later humiliate me.

  “Oh, um. I don’t think so. You?” I say casually, as if my inner monologue isn’t a tangle of fear and doubt.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m cousins with Will; that’s why we moved here and presumably why she invited me. His mom is my aunt, but our dads hate each other. It’s easy to hate my dad. I don’t want to be insulting and not go. But to tell you the truth, I don’t really know many people here. Just my aunt and uncle, Will, my grandfather, but he’s so cranky he won’t talk to us.”

  Someone as good-looking as Even shouldn’t have a problem making friends. “When did you move here?” I ask, not sure what to say about everything he relayed.

  “We left the sea coast at the beginning of the summer. My dad couldn’t make the mortgage anymore, so we’re renting one of the apartments Will’s dad owns over on Birch Road. I got a job at Vin’s Garage on High Street. I’ve been working all summer. Nonstop. To stay out of the house mostly, but also to save money.”

  “I know the feeling,” I blurt.

  He smiles again and I return it but quickly find something to say. “So the New Hampshire sea coast?”

  “Yep. It’s so beautiful. I was sorry to leave.”

  “I bet. I’ve never seen the ocean,” I say mildly, my eyes trained on the ground for the wallet.

  “Seriously?” Even asks, aghast, pausing on the trail.

  I stop, too, and shake my head.

  “Let’s go sometime,” he says. “Before it gets cold. I’ve been looking for an excuse to go back. You’ll love it. There’s this great fish shack—they make the best combo plate. And their lemonade—oh man, and the waves. We can play in the waves.” His eyes glisten with daring and adventure.

  This sticks my attention like Milk Duds in my teeth. His childlike enthusiasm is contagious, but doubt continues to taunt me. Why would he want to go to the ocean with me? “First, I suppose you’ll need your wallet,” I say.

  We continue to look, and just as we loop back, the roar of a dirt bike buzzes in the distance.

  “Uh-oh.” I didn’t mean to say that aloud.

  “Huh?” Even asks.

  “Skunk,” I mutter.

  “Why uh-oh? He’s your brother, right?”

  “Yeah, but he isn’t very nice. We better hurry,” I say, panicking. If he sees me out here, I’ll never hear the end of it; and worse, if I’m out here with a boy who presumably has been using “his” trail, I’ll really get it.

  “I need to find my wallet,” Even says.

  “I know, but I should really get back,” I reply.

  “Well, OK,” he says, still scanning the ground, but we move more quickly. The bike gets closer.

  All I want is to be on the other side of the fence before the rider sees me.

  Moments later, the bike is ear-splittingly loud. I can’t move fast enough. I’m too late. I hope it isn’t Skunk. When the bike comes around the bend, Even and I stumble into the underbrush, tumbling into one another because it doesn’t look like the rider intends to stop. The momentary flicker of excitement at our proximity fades. The neon stickers plastered to the rider’s helmet tell me it’s Skunk. He whizzes past then comes to a halt, putting one foot down and spinning his back tire behind him, sending a rooster tail of dirt flying into the air. His thick fingers wrench the helmet from his head.

  “What the hell are you doing back here?” he asks.

  I’m not sure if he’s talking to me, Even, or both of us. I’m as quiet as stone.

  “Just looking for my wallet. Sugar here is helping me,” Even says.

  Skunk’s lips twitch toward a menacing smile.

  I instantly know he has, or had, the wallet. “Have you seen it?” I ask, feeling emboldened by Even’s confidence or maybe naïveté. Most people back away from Skunk, knowing if they say the wrong thing, he’ll pound them. In this case, with Even being new to town, ignorance is bliss. Even looks like he can handle himself, though I don’t want it to come to that.

  “No, I haven’t seen it. You had better get home, Sugar. Mama needs you.”

  An unfamiliar flash of anger rises inside me, followed by an embarrassed flush. If he knows Mama needs me that means he was just there. Why didn’t he help her? I don’t say any of this; so far, he’s let us off easy.

  Skunk kick-starts the bike. “By the way, what was your wallet doing back here?” he asks.

  “It fell out when I was riding yesterday,” Even says simply.

  “Really? And what may I ask were you doing riding back here?” Skunk says this in a faux-polite voice that I register as animosity, but Even doesn’t back down.

  “Back here? Riding my dirt bike, just the same as you,” he replies.

  “But this is my trail. I made it. I maintain it,” Skunk says, as his face reddens with rage. He gets off his bike and comes closer. “I’ll suggest that you stay clear of it, understand?” He’s nearly in Even’s personal space.

  The only thing more embarrassing than me falling and breaking that fence back there would be if Skunk lost his temper and got in a fight with Even, who is the only boy in my entire life that has been kind to me.

  “Actually, Skunk, this is his grandfather’s land, so really, Even has rights to it,” I say. I wish I could take the words back. That was too bold.

  Skunk’s eyes incinerate me, but then he turns his attention to the tall and handsome boy by my side. “Even, is it? We’ll see about that. And Sugar, I’ll see you later,” he says menacingly and then gets back on his bike, revs it, and speeds off.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Even.

  He shakes his head. “No worries.”

  “I’ll get your wallet back,” I add.

  “Did he have it?” he asks.

  I nod. Juxtaposed against Even’s kindness, Skunk is a brute. I clear my throat so I don’t say anything against my brother. I don’t have a winning track record with anyone at school, so my family, as unpleasant as they may be, are really the only people I have.

  Even helps me back over the fence. When we’re standing in front of the clothesline, the wash is nearly dry.

  “Want a hand?” he asks.

  “Nah, you better go, in case Skunk gets back,” I reply.

  He hesitates, takes a long look at me, then nods. Reluctantly he starts to saunter off, then pauses and turns around. “Hey, if you find my wallet, I, uh, should give you my number,” he says shyly and runs his hand through his tousled hair.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, reaching into my back pocket to retrieve my cell phone.

  He tells me the numbers and I type them in.

  “Can I have yours?” he asks.

  I stutter the first three digits, incredulous that I am actually exchanging phone numbers with a boy.

  Chapter Five

  Once inside, I tend to Mama and then sneak into Skunk’s room. I haven’t stepped foot in here in a year or so. I shuffle through piles and stacks of video games, candy wrappers, comics, magazines, and CDs. It’s a wonder he stays clothed with all the dirty laundry on the floor.

  Tasteless and tattered posters of women cover the walls. I look to the cluttered floor. Using my first two fingers, I pinch up a half dozen towels and toss them in the hallway to wash later. I make my way to his dresser and root through girlie magazines, unfinished homework assignments, and more food debris. I still don’t see a brown leather wallet. I slide open his top drawer. Under some unmatched socks, I find a thick piece of paper. I unfold it. Smiling at me is an old and wrinkled photo of our dad, sitting astride a motorcycle, his cinnamon-colored skin bright in the sunlight. I’ve only seen a few other pictures of him, long ago and nearly forgotten. I study it, trying to find myself in his image.

  Someone clomps up the stairs. I slip the photo in my back pocket and quietly shut the drawer. Skunk looks up from the top step and directly at me. His expression could ignite TNT.

  “Well, well, well,” he says. “What do we have here? Trying to find your boyfriend’s wallet?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend—”

  “Right. Who would want to go out with you, fat slob? But what I want to know is why the hell you’re in my room.” He steps over the towels.

  For once, I think fast.

  “Just rounding up the laundry,” I say, pointing to his feet. “But if you do have the wallet, I’ll take it.”

  His eyes narrow as if he’s debating whether to believe me or hit me.

  I bite my lip. “Listen, if you give Even back his wallet, he’ll probably let you continue to use his grandfather’s land. If you don’t—”

  “And what are you going to do?” he asks. “Petition to have me kicked off it? I’ve been using that trail for years. How do I know it’s really his grandfather’s land? Where did Evvvennnn come from anyway?”

  I don’t like the way he says Even’s name, as if he’s insinuating that someone who would be friends with me is a loser.

  Skunk fools with something in his pocket. I suddenly know beyond a doubt he has the wallet. The question is if he’ll hand it over.

  “If you just give it to me there won’t be a problem. I’m guessing you spent all the money anyway. He just wants the wallet itself back,” I say.

  Skunk does his weird tongue-chewing thing while he’s thinking. I can almost see him turning the options over in his mind, a place that’s musty and dank, like the laundry.

  “So are there any more towels in here?” I ask to hurry up this process.

  “No.”

  “No, what? No towels or no wallet?” I say, surprising myself with my assertiveness. I take a step toward the door, which he still blocks.

  “Neither,” he says.

  He shoulder-checks me into the doorframe and then pushes me out. The flimsy door rattles on its hinges after he slams it. I trip on the towels and dive toward the stairs, head first. My foot catches on the edge of the wall. I’m halfway down the stairs, splayed and instantly feeling bruised. My shoulders shake as I let out a cry.

  “Sugar? Is that you?” Mama calls. “What the heck are you kids doing?”

  I roll to my side and reach for the banister to pull myself up. I slide down a couple more stairs in the process; my fat cushions me, but hardly. “I’m fine, Mama,” I lie and make my way to the kitchen, blinking away tears.

  Shaking, I find a sleeve of crackers and some squirtable cheese in a can. I polish it off, stuffing the crumbly crackers into my mouth. I choke on tears and crumbs. I rip into a package of chocolate-and-vanilla sandwich cookies for dessert. I like to save the best for last. First, I scrape all the cream off the chocolate cookies with my teeth, then, just as I am about to eat the stack of cookies themselves, Even’s smile brushes into my mind. I imagine us, in the woods, surrounded by nothing but trees and hope.

  I wonder if I’m actually hungry now.

  I’m not, not really.

  The little tower of chocolate cookies begs me to eat it, so that I can feel the soft give in my mouth as I bite down. Then there’s the bittersweet flavor of regret that when I eat them, they’ll be gone, and I’ll still be left wanting more.

  I think of my difficulty with the fence, and how if I just had a different body I would be able to move more easily. But that’s impossible. I’m stuck being fat. Always have been. Always will. Maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe I can learn to like myself, however I look. But that thought topples out of my head and lands on the words too difficult. Then I hear Mama’s voice in my head whispering words like “ugly” and “stupid” and “fat.” I let the idea go. I take the top cookie off the tower. Then another and another. Halfway through, the shower glugs on upstairs. Skunk will be busy for a while. With each step up, the bumps and bruises remind me of my fall.