Or I put there myself years ago. “I think it’s mine,” Dylan said, his skin going hot. “I think it came from . . .” The words whooshed out before he could stop them: “The Other Place.”
A sound came from Hunter’s brain like whirrrr-crack! He turned away; Dylan couldn’t see his face. “I thought you would give up on that kind of thing after Dad left.” He turned back, smirking. “He used to love that stupid crap.”
Heat spread up into Dylan’s head, settled behind his eyes. “Is that why you took it—you’re still mad about all that? Because he listened to my stories about the Other Place?”
Hunter scowled. “I don’t care about Dad.”
“You won’t even talk to him on the phone.”
“Because I don’t care.”
“He knew the Other Place was real. He knew I could see things.”
“That’s a nice story.” Hunter smirked again. “Just like that story you told me about how Dad asked you to come live with him.”
The heat behind Dylan’s eyes exploded. “He did. It’s not like he’d admit it to you. He didn’t want you to feel bad. He only had room for one of us on the houseboat.”
Hunter glowered at him. “Then why didn’t you go?”
“I . . . I didn’t want Mom to be sad. You know that.”
“Is that also why you got yourself kicked out of Hevlen? You didn’t want Mom to be sad? Yeah, you’re making life real easy for all of us.”
Mom strode into the kitchen, car keys jangling. “What are you two arguing about this time?”
Dylan kept silent. He couldn’t win with Mom against Hunter.
Why can’t she see what a jerk Hunter is? Another Impossible Question.
Mom eyed the rumpled pillows on the couch in the living room. “Dylan, did you fall asleep doing homework last night? How are you going to keep your grades up if you watch TV while you study?”
“Mom—”
“I’m serious about what I told you last week,” she broke in. “If anything goes wrong this semester . . .”
Dylan swallowed. “My homework’s right here.” He nodded at the folder full of drawings on the table and hoped she wouldn’t look too closely.
Hunter snatched it up.
“Hey!” Dylan grabbed for it, but Hunter’s reach was famous.
“This what they teach in public school?” Hunter held up a wobbly drawing of a bird. “They give you the option to write your essays in pictures?”
Dylan stood and tore the paper from Hunter’s hand.
“What is all of that?” Mom asked.
“Should we get a first grader to tutor you?” Hunter asked Dylan, snickering.
“Hunter,” Mom said in a low warning tone.
“What?” Hunter said. “He had his chance at Hevlen. He blew it.”
“Shut up!” Dylan said, hands shaking with anger as he shoved the drawing back into the folder.
“And now you’re screwing up public school too. Just like you screw up everything.”
Dylan’s gut dropped. Nobody thought he’d ever live up to his older brother.
Not even Hunter.
His mom held out her palms. “Stop already. Once upon a time, you two were friends.”
“Until Hunter’s head got too big for his body,” Dylan said. Until he made varsity. Until he started acting like he wouldn’t be caught dead reading any of the books we used to love reading with Dad. Just because he wants to prove that he doesn’t care that Dad left, that he never needed Dad anyway.
Mom put a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “Leave Dylan alone about school.”
“You know he cuts all the time,” Hunter said.
“You would too if you had to spend your lunch hour hiding from punks,” Dylan muttered.
Hunter smirked. “I wouldn’t have to.” He hooked an arm over the top of the fridge. “Neither would you if you didn’t read kids’ books in the cafeteria.”
Dylan pushed away an ancient memory of Hunter reading to him from a book of fairy tales in the car on the way to the lake house: “I cannot return home,” said the girl as she moved in the water. “I belong here now.” And they saw that in place of legs she had a long, glimmering fishtail.
How could Hunter forget how much we both loved those stories?
“Grab your lunch, Hunter,” Mom said, heading for the front door. “And Dylan—no more cutting school.” She gave him a hard look and went out.
Hunter slung his backpack over his shoulder and reached into the fridge. “Mom doesn’t need any more trouble from you.”
Dylan’s throat tightened. The memory came again: the fairy-tale book, trees rushing past the car window. And then another flash: the two of them slipping into the Other Place, where a palace waited.
“You remember, don’t you?” he asked Hunter. “You remember going there?” He felt his vorpal reaching out even as he said it, searching, searching.
Hunter stood staring at a shelf of produce, his faraway gaze lit by the fridge’s glow. “You think that bracelet’s going to help you get back to some magical land?” He slammed the fridge shut. “Trust me, it’s not.” He turned toward the front door. “Just forget about it, Dylan. Life’s better in the real world.”