MoonFire

Short Story by Sunny B

I've just sat down on the bus, the school bell still ringing in my ears, when it jerks into motion. As I feel the concrete parking lot turn into a dirt road, I try putting my backpack on my lap, but regret sets in fast as pain jolts up my leg. I squeeze my jaw tight as the events of today's gym class come back to the forefront of my head. 

My eyes dart across the room, unable to focus as the sounds of yelling and sneakers squeaking fill my ears. A baseball whizzes past my head and I've completely lost my balance when I feel something cold and hard hit my thigh. The pain buzzes and I keel over as my leg cramps hard. Suddenly, a group of white kids are standing over me holding their bats and one of them yells, "Charlie's got a Charlie horse!" 

"Pay attention next time, shitface!" Another one chimes in. 

"Yeah, eyes on the ball!" 

"Get up, you wimp."

They walk away cackling. My eyes start to fill with stinging tears, but the teacher's voice booms across the gymnasium and startles them dry. "Charles Cutch! Get off the ground right now and hit the damn ball! You've missed every pitch today!" 

I stumble back to my feet. "Yes, sir." 

For the rest of the class, I don't hit a single ball. I'm not uncoordinated, but the sounds and the smells and the pressure weigh so hard on my mind that the rest of my body feels heavy too, and the whole room looks like a storm cloud. The kind you see when you know not to go outside for fear of getting struck and there's sure to be a twister after.  

*** 

The thunderous rumbling of the bus on the road snaps me back into it, but I still can't get out of my head about what happened. The other boys at school always find something to pick on me about. They sure don't have a shortage of options—I've always got the lowest math scores in all of the seventh grade, and they say the n-word more than my older brother when he's playing video games when we're home alone. Boy, would our parents whoop his butt if he ever got caught using language like that, let alone engaging in something so violent and "un-Christian." 

I'm not so bad at math when given the chance. It's just, I don't know, as soon as the teacher starts prattling on and writing like wildfire on the whiteboard my brain gets so fuzzy. I try to focus, but as soon as I come to again there's suddenly all sorts of letters and symbols involved and I don't know how we even got there. Sometimes I can catch up OK if the class is quiet—it's usually not—and even still I forget it all the minute a test paper hits my desk. It makes me feel stupid, especially when the papers come back all covered in red, and scribbled real big on the top and circled is a number lower than seventy. These days, they're usually much lower than sixty. 

Come to think of it, report cards come out next week. Indiana Public Schools always posts them for all the parents online, so I can't even hide the mail anymore. Remembering this makes me dread going home, 'cause mom and dad have been nonstop on my case about getting those grades up. I look out the window to see that the bus is already getting close to my house and my stomach drops. I've probably got at least five failed worksheets swimming around in the deep of my backpack. My classmates' mocking voices echo once again in my head, and I'm brought back to earlier on the gym floor. 

*** 

By the time I get home, I'm too in my head to even think about homework. I come in the door as quietly as possible, drop my bag, and go back out and around to the garage. It takes some digging, but I find my old baseball gear from when I was little in a crate in the back. The bat is real short for me now, and the glove doesn't even go on my hand, but it'll work. I grab a ball and head out to the yard with my bat.  

I look out at the vast countryside wondering how on earth I'm going to practice hitting pitches without a pitcher. I take a breath and toss the ball up and in front of me. I go to swing, but I miss and the ball falls square on my head. I try a few more times—same thing. Eventually, I resort to throwing the ball at a tree and swinging when it bounces back. I miss a few more times, but then I develop a rhythm of throwing and hitting. I'm still only hitting less than half of them, though. 

A half an hour passes, and I finally hit one real good. It bounces back off the tree and flies full speed over my head, so far back that by the time it lands it's already on its way into the forest behind me. It rolls into the trees, out of sight, and I cautiously jog after it. 

*** 

The shade of the trees cools my skin from my time in the sun. It's refreshing, yet a chill still runs down my spine. I don't like not knowing my surroundings, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the new dark. I feel like there's shadows everywhere—I know it's chicken, but I pick up my pace a little so I can find my ball and get out of here faster. Each rustle and crack makes me want to jump out of my skin, and I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me. After what feels like forever, I finally find my baseball, but when I lean down to pick it up, a voice nearly scares the heck outta me. 

"Hey." 

I jolt upward, hitting my head on an above branch. Colorful dots twinkle in my vision, but I can make out the figure of a boy around my age leaning against a nearby tree. He's got soft cheekbones and white skin that looks like it's seen some sun. His hair is shiny and brown, and it flows all the way down to his shoulders where it rests in waves like a waterfall. His eyes are the same brown but not dull like mine. They're shining at me through the shade of the forest and for a minute I feel like a deer in headlights. There's a long pause until he talks again. 

"You need a pitcher or somethin'? How'd this get over here?" 

Mom always says never to talk to strangers—especially not white ones—but in my mind that only applies to folks over the age of, like, sixteen. Plus, if he lives close enough to be wandering all the way out here, I would consider him a neighbor, not a stranger. So I respond. "Yeah. Been using a tree as my pitcher. I got to practice for school. It bounced off crazy and rolled in here." 

"Tough luck." Another pause. The boy leans down and picks up the baseball, tossing it up in his hand. "You live over there? I can help you if you want." 

I'm not used to anyone my age being this nice to me, and suddenly I feel a little embarrassed. I worry that whatever comes out my mouth next will scare him away—he has such a timid look to him, and I've never been proper with my words—so I hold my breath for a second before half-sighing, "Yeah, sure. Thanks." 

*** 

We walk in silence back to the spot I was practicing, then a few yards further for good measure. Neither of us want to go searching for a baseball in the woods again. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. We stop at a good spot, and my companion breaks the silence. 

"Stand here and get ready. I'll back up some. I'm a lefty, so you've got it easy." He walks backwards about twenty paces, stops, and cradles the ball in his left hand. "Ready?"  

I nod. He winds up and hurls the ball straight to my right. This should be an easy hit, I think to myself. I swing hard and high, but the ball whips straight under my bat. I stand flabbergasted for a moment before squeaking out an apology and turning around to grab the ball. 

"It's alright!" He yells across the field, continuing, "Toss that back and let's try some more." 

"OK," I reply, and underhand the ball back his way.  

*** 

We keep playing for a long time, until the sky is a watercolor orange and we're both tired to the bone from the arms down. We're sitting on the grass as the sun lowers in the sky in what seems to me as comfortable silence. For once, I'm the one to break it. "Thanks for the help," I say, just now realizing that I've started to fidget and pull on the grass beneath me. I don't look up. 

"No problem," my new friend says. At least I hope we're friends. "I had fun." 

Hearing this is what finally makes me raise my head to meet his shiny eyes. I've only known this kid for a few hours, but it's nice to hear that someone had fun hanging out with me. I don't get that a lot. "Yeah, me too," I reply, a smile sneaking up on me as my words slip out. 

He smiles warmly back at me. "I'm glad!" 

"Um, I never got your name." 

"It's Rowan. Rowan Bell. I live just beyond those trees, if you know where to look." He points back in the direction of the forest we met in just this afternoon, though it feels like an eternity ago. "What about you?" 

"My name's Charlie Cutch. And, well, my house is right here." 

As if her ears were ringing, I hear mom ring the supper bell from the front porch. "Charles! Time for supper!" 

Rowan and I both stand. "Well, I gotta go," he says. "Same time tomorrow?" 

I feel my chest warm up. "Yeah, same time tomorrow." 

"Cool. See you 'round, Charlie." 

"See you." 

*** 

At the table, mom and dad talk about a lot of things. Politics, money, the weather, the new piano piece mom's got to learn for church this Sunday, and other things I don't know how to comment on. My brother chimes in some; I suppose he's old enough now to understand small talk. The focus eventually shifts to us kids, and my brother and I are both asked about our day. I say it was fine. I don't like telling my parents about what happens at school. It always turns into a lecture about Baptism or racism or some other ism and it's just not worth it. Plus, I know what the next question will be about: grades. I don't even wanna know what my overall average is right now, and even thinking about it makes me lose my appetite. I'm fiddling with my cornbread when mom brings it up. 

"So, Charles, your grades for the period come out next Monday." She says, placing her fork and knife down carefully. 

I respond automatically with an "I know, mama." 

"You haven't come home with a test paper in a while. I hope that's because they're being shown off on the bulletin board?" 

I'm silent. I feel my face getting hot and I wish I could just run out of the room. 

Mom continues. "That's what I thought. When we're done here, I want you to go straight up to your room and study. Skip clearing the table. This family doesn't bring home Fs." 

There it is—that same humiliated feeling I had today in the gym, as well as pretty much every day at school. My hands tighten around my silverware and I'm sure I look like a barbarian, but I can't loosen my grip. All I can manage is a weak "yes, mama." 

As usual, she then goes on a long rant about how my brother Elias always brings home straight As and never has to study and why can't I be more like him. Elias and I just kinda sit there awkwardly taking the speech and dad doesn't look up from his food. After what feels like forever, mom finally excuses us, and I grab my backpack from the entrance before going up to my room. 

*** 

I settle down at my desk, an entire packet of math staring back at me from the surface. My head is louder than ever, and I'm so overwhelmed by the pressure of doing well that it feels like I can't even start. I flip through the pages and do some easy problems, but the events of today—good and bad—keep replaying in my mind and creating questions I don't know how to answer.  

The noise in my head is further muddied by the sounds of talking and dishes clanking in the sink downstairs. At least I don't have to do the dishes, I think to myself. Then again, I'm not so sure this is much better. I can't think, but that's also all I'm able to do right now. Eventually, the noise dies down—not in my head, but in the house—and I try once again to focus on my work. I hate failing, I really do, but I know that no matter what I do, the knowledge will all go out the window soon as I get the test. 

I bury my face in my hands, palms digging into my eyes, and try to organize my thoughts. Baseball. Getting a Charlie horse. Rowan Bell and his long brown hair. Supper bells. Shiny eyes. Cornbread. Politics. How was your day? Fine. I'm tired. Cutches don't bring home Fs. Elias never has to study. We haven't had rain in a while, have we? The garden must be dry. Grass poking my skin. Orange sunsets. Seventh grade math sucks. Why are there letters? Laughing. At me? I can't tell. Piano. 

Piano? 

I raise my head, blinking away stars, and I hear the distinct sound of gospel music coming from downstairs. Mom is practicing her heart out on the piano for church this Sunday, and sound travels like nobody's business in this old house. You can tell she's only played it a few times, because the rhythm is off and every once in a while there's notes that don't fit followed by either an "oops" or a pause before she keeps going. 

I like music, but this always makes it so hard to focus on homework—or anything at all, really. It reminds me of church. Sitting through a long service on a cold, hard pew all while blinking away sleep and trying my best not to fidget, then getting up to sing in the choir, my voice fighting a yawn the whole way. And then, of course, being the last to leave and having a long drive back home. That's what Sunday mornings have looked like all my life. Mom plays piano for the church choir, and sometimes she sings, too. I don't know anyone who can play the piano like her. It's not perfect to the sheet music, but it invokes the exact feeling I think the music is supposed to give.  

Right now, though, I just feel irritated. Not at mom—mostly, anyway—but at my brain, for not being able to shut up, and at myself, for not being able to ignore it. And at this stupid math packet that I know I can do but I just can't right now for who knows why. I attempt a few more problems before thrusting myself onto my bed and smothering myself with a pillow. I fall asleep within minutes, which never happens, and only wake up once at nine p.m. to put pajamas on and turn off the lights.  

*** 

Sure enough, I have a math test at school. And the packet I tried to do last night is due, but I've only done six questions and there's five pages. As the teacher comes around, I fumble through my bag trying to find the packet in hopes of getting credit for what I've done and coming up with some explanation for the other 80% left blank, but it's nowhere to be found. What a blessing and a curse that I happened to leave it on my desk at home. The others in my cluster of desks are also reaching in their bags, but they all produce papers. Two boys at the table have completely blank packets. 

"Can I copy your answers, Charlie?" One of them teases.  

"That'd make your grade go down more, idiot." The other one whispers as if I'm not right there. 

"That's the joke, you numbskull!" He punches his friend in the shoulder before turning to the girl next to me. "Sarah, I'll give you five bucks to copy that packet right now. I swear I can do it real fast before the teacher comes over here." 

"Not this time, Derek. I can't be bribed. You got to do your own work." She replies nobly, straightening her posture. 

"Then maybe you can come round to my house tonight and help me? And don't change your outfit. Pink helps me focus." Derek half-whines at her, smirking at the last sentence. It makes my stomach turn. 

"Not a chance," she says, "besides, I plan on wearing blue tonight." 

"Ugh, you're no fun." Derek dramatically rests his cheek on his hand. 

"I guess girls can only be a two of three things: pretty, smart, and fun. She's got the first two, so there can't be any fun involved." The other boy, David, chips in. The boys in my class have a habit of forgetting people they're talking about still exist, especially when they're right on front of them. 

"Bummer. I hate when girls are smart." Derek put his head fully down on his desk, resting in the crook of his pale elbow. 

Sarah sighs sharply, seemingly unaffected by this conversation besides a slight annoyance. She's probably so used to it that she just tunes it out, but that makes me kinda sad. She's got such a big personality and she's real smart, but she seems to only be talked to like that. Sometimes I wish I had her confidence and self-security, but then I wonder if she too goes home and tells her parents she's fine while fiddling with her cornbread and runs upstairs and smothers herself in her pillow because her brain just can't be quiet. But maybe that's just me. 

*** 

The rest of the school day is no better, and all I can think about is practicing baseball with Rowan when I get home. It's so exciting to have a friend, but also so nerve-wracking at the same time, because I can't tell how he really feels about me or if he actually wants to hang out or if he's even going to show up at all. My performance in gym, despite yesterday, isn't much better—all the more reason to look forward to practicing this afternoon. 

Despite my worries, as soon as I get off the bus, I see Rowan on the very outside of the woods, leaning against a tree the same way he did when we met. He runs a hand through his hair, only for the wavy strands to tumble gracefully right back to where they were originally. With his other hand, he's fiddling with something. A stick, maybe? I can't see that far. As I get closer, I see that it is, in fact, a stick, and that he's twirling it between his fingers the same way my brother does with his fork sometimes when mom and dad aren't looking.  

Rowan hears me coming and looks up. "Hey," he says, the exact emotion behind it escaping me. 

"Hi. You came." I pause for a minute, reminding myself not to sound too excited, before adding, "Your hair looks nice." 

He smiles softly. "Thanks. Everyone tells me to cut it." 

"Why?" 

"Don't know." He sighs. "My parents say it's 'un-Christian', and everyone else says I look like a girl. But I don't really care." 

"I think it fits you, if that helps." I dig the toe of my shoe into the ground. "Where do you go to church?" 

"First Baptist Colored Church." 

"That's where I go, too." I think for a second. "But you're white." 

"Yeah. It's the closest Baptist church to here and my parents like it better." 

"I figured you looked familiar. I must've seen you before." I look down at the ground. "White folks at church tend to stand out—no offense", I quickly add, wondering to myself how on earth I haven't noticed the Bell family before. I guess I spend more energy keeping myself in check than I realized, because it occurs to me that I can't think of a single person's name who goes to church. Some faces I remember, sure, and I bet that if mentioned, I'd recognize some people's names, but I don't really know anyone there. In the back of my mind, I shamefully think that that's not such a bad thing. 

"It's just a fact," Rowan says, unbothered. My mind returns to the conversation, which seems to have come to an end. Though I'm never too good at telling when that happens. 

There's a long pause while both of us think about what to say next, and for once I think I've come to a decision first. 

"So—" We both start. I'm startled, but Rowan laughs. His laugh is soft and honey-coated like warm cider on a fall day. For someone who can be so hard to read, he sounds truly happy. I feel my face get hot and my chest suddenly starts to feel all fuzzy. A smile creeps onto my face and I let out a small chuckle, too. 

"You go," Rowan says, still smiling warmly. 

I speak quietly, still flustered. "I was just gonna ask if you wanted to play some baseball now." 

"I was thinking the same. Let's go then, we're gonna be pros by the end of the month!" 

*** 

We spend the rest of the afternoon into the evening pitching and hitting as if there wasn't anything more important in the world. This time, I feel relaxed. I was so nervous yesterday that Rowan would judge me and I'd lose the one good chance I had at making a friend that I hit almost no shots. Not to mention I was still down about what happened in gym class. Today, though, I understand that neither of us would judge the other, even for missing the easiest hit on the planet. Part of me tries to convince myself otherwise, but Rowan doesn't let that happen.  

"Nice one, Charlie!" He yells when I hit a good one. I smile back with my teeth, feeling good about myself. 

Even when I miss—which is still a lot—he softens the blow with an 'it's alright' or 'bad throw on my end'. This is so much better than gym class. 

*** 

We play until our small bodies give out and we're laying on the grass breathing heavy, my bat and ball thrown down somewhere behind us. It's a little earlier than the time we finished yesterday, which makes sense because we both were less shy and really gave it a hundred percent. Rowan is the first to say something once we've caught our breath. 

"This is so fun," he chuckles. "I like having someone to play sports with." 

"Me, too," I reply. "I like that we don't judge each other." 

"There's nothing to judge," Rowan says. "We're just having fun." He thinks for a moment, then adds, "You said you were practicing for school. You on the baseball team or somethin'?" 

I swallow. "No." 

"Then what is it?" He tilts his head towards me. "You don't have to answer if you don't wanna. I'm just curious." He looks back up at the sky. 

I think for a minute about how to respond. Knowing what I want to say and having the right words planned out are two very different things to me. Rowan waits quietly beside me until I have it sorted. 

"It's just," I start, biting the inside of my cheek a little. "My gym class is on the baseball unit, and I'm by far the worst out of everyone. It's embarrassing." 

"How do you know you're the worst? Is somebody telling you that?" He asks. 

"It's not exactly hard to tell. The teacher is brutal, but the kids are worse." 

"You don't seem so bad to me. Are all your classmates baseball pros or something?" He half-jokes. 

"I don't play so bad when I'm with you. When I'm in that gym there's so much noise and movement happening all around that I can barely keep my eye on the ball. Sometimes it gets real bad and I feel like mentally I'm somewhere else, in my own little bubble, until some white kid comes up and smacks me out of it." I don't realize how much I've shared until the words have already slipped out of my mouth like water. "Sorry." I say. "That was a lot." 

"Don't be," Rowan turns onto his side to face me. "That's just cruel. I'm sorry you get treated that way." 

No one's ever told me that before, let alone taken it that seriously. How can someone I've only known for a day care more about me than people I've known for years? "It's alright," I sigh, "I'm used to it." 

"You shouldn't have to be. What grade are you in?" 

"Seventh. You?" 

Rowan takes a breath. "I'm homeschooled, and I've just started the eighth grade coursework recently, but I'm only twelve, so I guess I would be in seventh as well." 

"You must be smart." I turn on my side now, mirroring him. "I could tell when I met you that you were." 

"I could say the same about you." The words linger in the air between us for a moment after he says it, bringing heat to my cheeks. 

"Thanks." I roll onto my back again, stretching my arm out on the grass. "But I don't think so. My grades are terrible. My family isn't too pleased that I'm the only one who doesn't bring home As, and report cards come out next week Monday." 

Rowan copies my movements, and once again we're both sprawled out side by side on the grass, looking at the sky rather than each other. I like that he doesn't mind when I don't look at him when we're talking sometimes. He occasionally does the same, and that makes me feel less bad about it. He seems to be thinking about how to respond. Just as I'm starting to anxiously wonder whether I should have just taken the compliment, he pipes up again with a question. 

"What changes when you're at school, then?" He asks. "I've only known you for a day, but when I'm with you, you're not so bad at baseball, and, I don't know, I can just tell you're wicked smart. Maybe it's the way you talk. But you just have an intelligent aura about you, Charlie." 

"Really? I've always been so bad with my words." Rowan's compliment distracts me from his original question, sending a twang through my chest. I can't say I've been called smart very often, and when I have, it hasn't been in such a genuine and graceful way as Rowan put it. 

"Yeah, really. This is terrible of me, but I don't like spending time with... not-smart people," Rowan confesses. "Please don't tell anyone I said that. It makes me sound so self-absorbed," he says, covering his face in embarrassment. 

There's a long pause, because I have no idea what I'm supposed to say, and truly, I'm a little bit shocked at his honesty. I tilt my head slightly to look over at him, and I can see through his fingers that his face has turned bright red. I remember what he had asked me a few minutes ago and give my response as an attempt to ease the tension. 

"Um, to answer your question," I say, "I don't really know what happens. Remember what I said before about the gym being so loud and chaotic that I can't keep my eye on the ball? It's kinda like that in the classroom too, in a way. I can't focus on one thing when there's ten things happening. The teacher is lecturing, yes, but there's also multiple whispered conversations happening all across the room, someone's playing footsies under the table, notes are being passed, the boys across from me are shoving each other, and then the teacher's phone rings and the minute that happens my already weak focus is broken and everything explodes into a world of noise in my mind that I can't escape. By the time I've reorganized my thoughts, the lesson no longer makes any sense to me because so much time was lost and I feel so dumb and childish." I finish, breathing heavy, internally kicking myself for rambling so much. 

"That sounds like a lot," Rowan says. He's cooled off, but as he's looking at me now I can still see a hint of flush in his cheeks. 

"Yeah," I reply. "It is." 

"People our age can be so awful," he comments. 

"You've got that right," I say, and I can already feel my next words bubbling up my throat, because I've started rambling and there's no stopping it now. "The thing about being twelve is that some of us are teenagers and some of us are still kids. But sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who's still a kid and everyone else is all grown already. And grown people just don't get it." 

"Have you ever thought that maybe it's the other way around?" Rowan suggests. His head it fully turned to me now, but he's still lying on his back. I'm too embarrassed to face him, but in the corner of my eye I see his shiny gaze right on me, ready to hear more. He's so curious; so focused. I twirl a blade of grass with my fingers as I continue talking. 

"I guess, but all my classmates talk about grown things. It seems like all any boy in the seventh grade can talk about is girls. Their bodies and faces and how beautiful they are rather than their personalities or smarts. I don't really understand. The only person I ever thought of as beautiful is Percy Sullivan. He sits two tables away, closer to the back because he's awfully tall. Probably the tallest in the whole middle school. He's got these super blond curls that are almost white, and his face is dotted with freckles that look like the stars. His eyes are baby blue with the tickest lashes you've ever seen, and his nose is long and thin just like the rest of him. He sits at his chair with pin-straight posture and quietly gets full marks on every test with what looks like no effort at all. Sometimes I think he's a little bit like the moon." 

I stop there, realizing too late that I've said too much. Everything that I just said has never until this moment come out from the deepest chambers of my mind. A horrible knot of dread forms in my stomach and my face gets hotter than ever. I feel like running away or throwing up, but my body won't budge. 

Rowan doesn't say anything for a minute. One long, agonizing minute that makes my thoughts begin to race again. 

Finally, he speaks. "So what if you're the only one not grown yet?" 

The frankness of his response startles me. "What?" 

"Being a kid is special. Maybe the people at school are too quick to let go of that. They talk about grown things to seem old and cool, but there's a lot that's cool about being young, too. At least I think so. It's how you look at it. What do your parents talk about at the supper table?"

"Politics, money, the weather, work, and mine and my brother's grades," I answer. 

"Mine too," he says. "And they always get so stressed about it. I've never heard someone talk about politics happily." 

I've never thought about it like that. "I guess I haven't either." 

"The point is, being old is stressful. Grown people aren't happy like kids are, because they worry too much about too many things. If you really want to grow up, spend that time seeing the beauty in things. You said the only thing you'd ever thought to be beautiful is your classmate Percy, right?" 

If I had lighter skin, I'd be just as red as Rowan was earlier. "Yeah," I choke. 

"Try to look at everything kinda like how you look at Percy Sullivan," he says. "Look, the moon is coming out." He points up at the sky. "Look real hard. Don't blink. You'll see." 

Beneath the pink-and-blue haze of the evening sky, almost free of the sun, I can see a big round moon staring down at us. The light swirling off of it reminds me of Percy's curls. When I look closer, though, I notice how its face isn't perfectly smooth; the round craters of its surface are visible from all the way down here on earth. I wonder what it must look like up close. 

"Isn't it beautiful?" Rowan says. 

"Yeah," I whisper. "Yeah, it is." 

The sound of mom's supper bell snaps me out of whatever trance Rowan and the moon have put me in and I jolt upwards. "I gotta go," I say. "See you tomorrow?" 

"Of course." 

I wish Rowan a good night as I walk off toward the house. A new kind of sadness fills me from having to part with him; he's changed my life in less than two days and he doesn't even know it. 

*** 

Rowan and I keep up our new routine of meeting in my yard after school to play baseball, then crashing once the sun starts to set and lying on the grass together until suppertime. Having him be a part of my day makes the rest of it so much easier. On Friday, we put everything we've got into our baseball session and drop down onto the grass before the sky has even a hint of orange. 

"I can't move my arm," Rowan pants. 

"Me neither," I say, and we look at each other and laugh. Rowan's long hair tickles my cheek and I scrunch up my face. 

"I'm sad we're both busy on weekends. I would do this all day if I could," he says. 

"Me too. But even if we weren't I know mom and dad are gonna make me do schoolwork all weekend long." 

"Are you nervous about your report card coming out on Monday?" 

"A little," I sigh. "I feel like I should be more than I am." 

"Don't work yourself up about it," Rowan tells me. "Can I tell you something?" 

"Sure, anything." I wonder what he has to say. 

"Charlie, you worry so much about everything." 

I'm taken aback by this blunt comment. Is this meant to be surprising, an insult, or both? "I know. I try not to," I mutter. 

"You're just passionate. It's who you are. Look, what I'm trying to say is, you got to keep that fire in your heart. Unless it starts smokin' up your head. Then you got to open the windows. But don't put the fire out, you hear?" 

"Yeah," I reply. "I think so." I think I know what he means, but I'm not entirely sure. 

"Good," he says, and that's that. We lay facing each other in the field for a long time. Our breath mingles together between our faces, but no words are said. I feel the sharp grass and soft soil beneath me supporting my weight. It shimmers under the sun, swaying against the gentle breeze that kisses my face. I feel and see the day slowly turning into night, and each second of that change is beautiful to me, as well as the grass and the soil and the breeze, and Rowan Bell. 

We don't get up until the sound of the supper bell tells us it's time to go, and until then, my brain is finally quiet and my worries are nowhere to be found.