TO MY FAMILY, WITH LOVE

Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One: Evan
Chapter Two: Martha Hoover
Chapter Three: Evan
Chapter Four: Max
Chapter Five: Evan
Chapter Six: Celeste
Chapter Seven: Max
Chapter Eight: Evan
Chapter Nine: Celeste
Chapter Ten: Max
Chapter Eleven: Evan
Chapter Twelve: Celeste
Chapter Thirteen: Max
Chapter Fourteen: Evan
Chapter Fifteen: Julia
Chapter Sixteen: Brady
Chapter Seventeen: Evan
Chapter Eighteen: Brady
Chapter Nineteen: Evan
Chapter Twenty: Max
Chapter Twenty-One: Evan
Chapter Twenty-Two: Brady
Chapter Twenty-Three: Evan
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Wendy Wan-Long Shang
Copyright
When they reached Virginia, their tenth and final state, Evan took out the
three Jolly Ranchers he’d been carefully saving since Indiana and passed
them out. Sour apple for Mom and himself; cherry for Celeste.
“To celebrate making it to Virginia,” he announced. It’d been hard to save
the last bit of candy, but it was worth it. They’d been in the car so long that
any little new thing felt like relief. He popped the candy into his mouth,
letting the sweetness spread over his tongue.
“ ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore,’ ” quipped Celeste as she unwrapped the
candy.
“Technically speaking, we never went through Kansas,” said Evan. “We
did, however, go through Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois,
Indiana …” Evan had designated himself the navigator for the trip. He liked
knowing where they were, what was coming. He traced his fingers along the
route.
“It’s a quote from The Wizard of Oz,” said Celeste. “The moment when
Dorothy goes outside after a tornado and discovers Oz. The point is, she’s
not home. Kansas is beside the point.” She pulled on a strand of hair, already
bored by her own explanation.
Evan tried to switch to sitting cross-legged, which necessitated moving
an old box of french fries and not spilling his water. For a while, it felt like
the car was a spaceship and they were adventurers making their way across
the country, watching the landscape change shape and color. Spring looked
different everywhere, but Evan had to admit that spring in Virginia was the
prettiest, with green grass and trees blooming with pink and white flowers.
When they first started, Mom had all sorts of ambitious plans, like keeping a
cooler filled with healthy snacks and practicing Chinese. But after six days of
nonstop driving, the car felt more like a trash can at a fast-food restaurant and
the only new Chinese phrase Evan was certain he’d learned was zhīshì
hànbǎo, “cheeseburger.”
“Old movies are weird,” said Evan. The candy clacked around his mouth
as he talked. He didn’t really think that. He just wanted Celeste to put her
phone down and talk to him.
“It’s a classic,” said Celeste. “Everyone should see it. There are so many
references to it. The Wicked Witch. The Tin Man without a heart.” Being
three years older, Celeste had a lot of opinions on things everyone should
know, or do, or think.
“It’s not as important as Star Wars, though,” argued Evan. “The Force,
Darth Vader. Jedi.”
During the course of the trip, they had argued over the best Marvel
movie, the tastiest pasta shape, the right way to tie a shoe, and whether cats
were smarter than dogs. Mom sighed. “Almost there, guys.” It was her way
of saying, don’t start fighting. “We’re almost at the end.”
It’s almost the beginning, too, Evan thought. He wasn’t sure if he felt
happy or nervous about that. He pressed his face against the window. Tree.
House. Tree. House. Roadside stand. They passed a house with a girl
throwing a Frisbee to a black-and-white dog. “At least Dorothy had a dog,”
he said.
Mom sighed. “You know that things have just been too unsettled to get a
dog.” Evan disagreed. It was always a good time to get a dog. Maybe you
needed a dog the most when things were down.
“You mean, Dad taking off and us moving all the way across the country
to a town where we know exactly one person? That kind of unsettled?” said
Celeste. “Or did you mean something else?”
 “That would be it,” said Mom quietly. From the back seat, Evan watched
his mom’s shoulders hunch over. He nudged Celeste and tilted his head
toward Mom.
“Sorry,” said Celeste. They had an unspoken agreement not to talk about
Dad, but sometimes it just popped up, like a ball being held underwater.
“We’ll be okay,” said Evan. “We’ll un-unsettle.” He paused. “And then
we’ll get a dog.”
“Hope springs eternal for Evan,” said Mom. She shifted in her seat,
trying to find a way to be comfortable.
“At least when it comes to dogs,” said Evan.
They stopped at a gas station. Mom said it should be the last fill-up they
needed. A man came out of the store and cocked his head sideways at them,
watching them stumble out of the car to stretch and get the feeling of the earth
beneath them again.
“You folks lost?” he asked. There wasn’t any particular concern in his
voice. It was more like amusement, Evan thought.
“We’re fine,” said Mom. “Just need some gas.” She unhooked the nozzle
and stuck it into the car.
The man took a couple steps toward them. “I heard your tires when you
came in,” said the man. “Might be something wrong with your alignment. You
oughta get ’em checked out.” He jerked his head toward the garage. “I gotta
free bay. I could run your car up on the rack for you.”
Mom hesitated. Dad usually took care of car maintenance. Had taken care
of car maintenance. “If your car’s out of alignment and you keep driving,
you’re going to get uneven wear on the tire, maybe damage the CV joints …”
said the man.
Mom threw Evan a look. Evan didn’t know about cars, but Mom’s
question was different. Evan shook his head, barely. No. Don’t trust him.
“We’ll have our mechanic take a look,” said Mom. “But thank you for
pointing that out.” She smiled. It wasn’t Mom’s real smile, but the man didn’t
know that.
 The man sighed, as if they had disappointed him. “Suit yourself. That’s a
nice car.” It was a nice car, a Mercedes-Benz SUV. It was one of the last
vestiges of their old life.
Mom paid for the gas and they got back in the car. “What was that
about?” said Celeste. She kept her voice low, even though the man could not
hear them. “Why was he saying there’s something wrong with the car? You
had it checked out before we left California.”
“He probably saw the out-of-town plates, figured he might make a quick
buck,” said Mom. “Right, Evan?”
“He didn’t feel right,” said Evan. That’s all he knew, usually all he ever
knew. The reasons and the motivations, that was beyond his perception.
“Then why were you so nice to him?” asked Celeste. “If Evan said he
was lying?”
Mom flipped the turn signal, changed lanes. “We’re never going to see
him again. Why anger him? Put your head down and don’t cause trouble.”

* * *

Evan had a sense for lies. When he was younger, he didn’t know what it was.
He had started feeling sick after baseball games. Mom and Dad had thought it
was the stress of pitching but it was more than that.
It was the coach, Mr. Nelson, saying that he didn’t care if they won or
lost, clapping his hands and cheering on the team, but Evan could see that he
really did care. His jaw became tight when the team started to fall behind,
and he stopped talking so much. When they won, Mr. Nelson liked hanging
around, soaking up the win, but when they lost, he jumped in his car and left
as soon as possible. Once, he left an equipment bag behind because he was
in such a hurry.
During the playoffs, right before they ran out of the dugout, Mr. Nelson
gripped Evan by the shoulder and told Evan that he was a good pitcher, and
that he’d be proud of Evan no matter what happened. Just go out there and do
your best.
 The words were like a punch to the head. Evan felt dizzy, as if he were
seeing double. In one frame, the coach was smiling and supportive, You’re a
great pitcher! Just do your best! In the other frame, the coach was tense and
unhappy, whispering, Just strike these guys out, okay? I really want to win.
The coach wasn’t really saying those words, but Evan could hear the words
of what the coach really wanted, slithering underneath the words he was
saying out loud. There were two movies, playing side by side, but he could
not get them to come into one coherent image.
Evan promptly ran out to the mound and threw up.
“You should have told us you weren’t feeling well,” Mom said on the
way home. Evan was in the back seat, holding an empty jumbo soda cup, in
case he felt sick again. Evan ended up not pitching, but he stayed in the
dugout, watching.
“It came on all of the sudden,” said Evan sadly. The coaches put sand
over the throw-up, but the damage was done. Evan’s team lost.
“Don’t worry about it, buddy,” said Dad. “You’ll have plenty of other
games. This is just one.” Dad reached over and handed Evan a mint. Dad
always kept a tin of Altoids in his pocket. “The peppermint will help settle
your stomach.”
After a few more incidents—none with throwing up, at least—Evan
figured out what was happening. He was sensing the disconnect, the
mismatch between what someone was saying and what they were really
feeling. He got better at managing it, so now the sensations became more like
a warning.
What he could never figure out, though, was why he never noticed that his
dad had been lying to them the whole time.
Martha Hoover, the number-one real estate agent of Haddington, Virginia,
wished that the new family would do something, well, interesting. To be
honest, the Pao family, currently ensconced in her car, was going to be the
most exciting addition to Haddington in quite some time.
Their name, Pao, for starters. When Martha first received the text
message from Elaine Pao, the mother, she had tried to figure out how to
pronounce P-A-O and landed unsteadily on pay-oh. That was wrong, and
thank goodness she never said it out loud, in front of the family. She didn’t
want them to think she was some kind of uncultured fool. It was pronounced
pow, like the sound effect in a Batman comic.
Celeste, the older child, was starting high school and, like every other
teenager Martha knew, was firmly attached to her phone. Since she was
dressed completely in black, Celeste seemed to have dissolved into a blob in
the back seat. Martha had heard that Chinese parents were stricter than most,
but Celeste seemed to have free rein to answer in grunts and not make eye
contact from the back seat. That’s a lesson, Martha, she told herself. Don’t
make assumptions about people.
Evan was in sixth grade. Ms. Pao said he was twelve, and Martha judged
that he was just starting a growth spurt, being thin and gangly. What Martha
really liked were his eyes, bright and curious. He seemed like a boy who
paid attention. He had a phone, but did not seem surgically attached to it.
When she offered him a granola bar and a bottle of water, he accepted both
and said thank you. He also took the granola bar his sister had refused and
put it in his pocket for later. She noticed that he did not get crumbs in her
freshly vacuumed back seat, which earned him many points in Martha’s book.
It would be so interesting if one of the Paos would do something
different, like speak to one another in Chinese or take off their shoes when
they got in the car. It’d just be something to bring up at dinner or at church, a
way of casually establishing that she’d met the new Chinese family early on.
Not to make fun of them, Martha admonished the imaginary listeners in her
head. She’d heard plenty of that “Chinese flu” and “kung flu” business, and
while she had not spoken up about it, she silently judged the people who said
it as childish and coarse.
Since the Paos remained so stubbornly normal, Martha focused on
highlighting the best parts of Haddington. This was part of her work—not just
showing houses but showing the town to the rare out-of-town visitor. The
“good” grocery store, the swinging bridge, the bakery that had been featured
on television for their buttermilk pie. She showed them the statue in the town
square, but she did not mention that the figure was supposed to be a
Confederate soldier. They might not like that. She wanted the Paos to like
Haddington, to make it their home for good. Towns thrived with new people.
Celeste cackled at something on her phone, and then showed it to Evan,
who smiled politely.
“What’s so funny?” asked Martha, trying again to engage the teenager.
“Nothing.” As quickly as she had opened up, Celeste closed up into her
black cloud. Ms. Pao shared a look with Martha, half apologizing, half
sympathizing. Martha imagined that many of their conversations at home
were like this.
“Do you like baseball, Evan? My sons played here.” A dusty baseball
field passed by the window, with sponsor signs along the outfield and a
green wooden scoreboard with the words HADDINGTON LITTLE LEAGUE, EST.
1957 written across the top in white paint. Martha hoped they noticed that she
had a sponsor sign in the outfield.
“You didn’t ask me if I played,” said Celeste, emphasizing the I. Martha
knew that the girl was jabbing at her, indirectly implying she was a sexist for
not asking both of them. It wasn’t that, for heaven’s sake. She just didn’t seem
like a team sports kind of person.
“Well, do you?” Martha asked.
“No,” said Celeste.
“Celeste is a musician,” said Ms. Pao. “She plays the cello.”
“Played,” Celeste corrected. She enunciated the d so it became its own
syllable. Play-duh. “Played the cello.”
“I played,” said Evan. “Baseball, that is.”
“He played baseball. He was the pitcher,” said Ms. Pao. Martha could
not quite bring herself to refer to her by her first name, Elaine. It seemed too
personal, too intimate.
“Oh!” Martha grabbed on to this idea like a lifeline. “The teams have
already been picked since it’s so late in the spring, but I’m sure someone
would take you on. A team always needs a good pitcher. I bet we could find
you a spot.”
“He said he played.” There it was again. Play-duh. “He didn’t say he
liked it,” said Celeste. “He threw up.”
“Celeste,” said Ms. Pao, her voice stern.
Martha decided to change the subject, and nodded at a tree covered in
pink flowers. “That’s the dogwood. That’s the official tree and flower of
Virginia.”
“I know what the official motto of Virginia is,” said Celeste. “It’s sic
semper tyrannis. It means, ‘thus always to tyrants.’ ” She held her phone out
to Evan. “It’s on their flag.”
“The flag has a dead person on it?” said Evan.
“Huh,” said Martha. She had never thought of it in those terms, but the
Virginia flag had one person standing with his (or her?) foot on the body of a
dead or at least very ill man. She thought quickly. “Other states have flags
with people who are deceased on them. I believe the Washington state flag
has George Washington on it.”
“Not at the moment of his death,” said Evan, distressed. “Not in the
middle of a murder.”
“It’s symbolic,” said Ms. Pao. “The man represents tyranny or a tyrant.
He’s been defeated.” She cleared her throat. “Do dogs like dogwood? Is that
where its name came from?” Martha silently thanked her for changing the
subject away from the subject of dead people on flags.
“I don’t think dogs like it any more than any other tree. My own dog, a
yorkiepoo, has been trying to climb the beech tree in my backyard to catch
squirrels and birds for ages.”
At the mention of a dog, Evan sat up. “You have a dog? What’s your
dog’s name?”
They were at a stoplight, so Martha brought out her phone and pulled up a
picture of Moxie. “Seven pounds of pure energy,” she said.
“She’s cute,” said Evan. He handed the phone back as the light turned
green. “I wish I had a dog.”
“Under the terms of the lease, you can have …” started Martha. Ms. Pao
caught her eye and shook her head. Martha let her sentence fade away. No
dogs, got it.
“Daggers,” said Celeste suddenly. Martha had to catch herself from
swerving the car at this sudden announcement of a weapon from the frowny
teenager.
“Pardon?”
“Dogwood is hard and good for making daggers. Skewers. Arrows. Dag
eventually became dog.”
“Cel is really good at finding information on the Internet,” said Evan.
Ah, well one had to seize opportunity where one found it. “You’re going
to fit in so well here!” chirped Martha. “Are you interested in other
weapons? We could go take a closer look at the cannons in the town square if
you want.”
 “No!” That was the boy, emitting a yelp. He tried to recover. “I mean, we
should save that trip for later.”
“The house,” said Ms. Pao. “Thank you for showing us around town, but I
think we’re ready to see the house.”
The house. Well, yes. There was that. Martha could tell that the Paos had
money, or had once had money. They had driven a Mercedes-Benz to the
office, for goodness’ sake, and not an old one, either. Evan was wearing
those socks that her son had wanted, but she had said no after seeing how
much they had cost. Twenty dollars—for a single pair of socks!
But when Martha had asked for their budget for renting a home, she had
tried not to look surprised. Even for Haddington, it was a very low amount,
and as of right now, there was only one house that fit the budget and was
convenient to the schools. The Shumley house.
From the outside, it wasn’t so bad. A yellow house perched on a corner
lot, with a slanted roof, a large front window. It was when you looked more
closely that the house started to lose its appeal. The concrete stairs leading
up to the front door, chipped from years of wear and tear, for instance. They
looked like broken teeth. The roof really should be replaced, too.
“Oh!” said Ms. Pao. “It’s, it’s so … cozy!” The Paos had driven
separately, after going back to the office to retrieve their car. They were
approaching the house cautiously.
“That’s the nice word for tiny,” said Celeste. Martha wanted to strangle
her.
“It’s not large,” said Martha. “But that also means small heating and air-
conditioning bills.”
Ms. Pao looked at the house, folded her arms, and sighed. “May I have a
moment with you?” she asked. Martha nodded and the two women moved a
few steps into the yard.
“Are you sure there aren’t any other homes within the budget I gave
you?” asked Ms. Pao.
Martha shook her head. “I’d need a little more flexibility on the rent,” she
said.
 Ms. Pao held up a finger and then walked back to the children and had a
private conversation behind the car. Martha wasn’t sure what they’d be
talking about. Were they going to decide not to move to Haddington after all?
Were the children going to help with rent? After a moment, though, Ms. Pao
poked her head over the roof of the car. “This is the best house,” she said
cheerfully. “Let’s go see the new house, kids!”
Martha opened the front door, hoping that the lemon-scented air
fresheners she had put in the day before had worked. The house now smelled
like someone had been smoking lemon-scented cigarettes. She tried to
discreetly fan the air and focused on the positives.
“Look at that window!” she said, pointing to the large living-room
window. At least she had that to feature. Light flooded into the room, almost
making the floating dust motes look pretty.
It didn’t take long to show the rest of the house. On the opposite side of
the living room from the big window, toward the back of the house, hung a
pair of swinging doors that led to the kitchen. A hallway on the far side of the
living room led to the three bedrooms.
Evan opened the door to the first bedroom on the right. “This room has
two doors.”
“The other one leads to the kitchen. A direct line to a midnight snack,”
said Martha.
Evan nodded. “Sold.”
“It means your room is essentially a hallway,” said Celeste.
“Maybe it will be your room,” said Ms. Pao to Celeste. Martha cheered
on the inside.
“I might like it, anyway,” said Evan. “Beeline to the kitchen and room to
escape.”
They returned to the living room to sign paperwork. Lacking any
furniture, the children spread out on the carpet while they waited as Ms. Pao
signed the lease. Evan pulled out the second granola bar and offered half to
his sister.
 A low, menacing growl filled the air, a vibration like being near a
beehive. Celeste and Evan popped up from the carpet and ran to the window,
just in time to see a low black car with flames painted on the sides roar
down the street and up the hill.
“Who is that?” asked Evan.
Martha closed her eyes. It was Charlie Griggs. She supposed that every
town had a family like the Griggses, a family that had lived in the town as
long as anyone could remember, always brushing right up against the law.
The car, which also had a skull and crossed knives painted on the doors and
the words NO MERCY spelled out underneath, was the latest test of traffic
laws. The town had no law on overly loud cars, but at the last town council
meeting, people had begun to talk of one. No one mentioned the Griggs car,
specifically, but it was the only one Martha could think of.
The car stopped suddenly at a two-story house with blue shutters. Charlie
jumped out of the car, and slammed the door. The sound cracked like a
gunshot.
“Is that our neighbor?” asked Ms. Pao. She had just signed the last paper.
Mrs. Hoover flushed and looked through her purse. “Some people, they
really do up their cars,” she said. “Though honestly, I don’t know how he
affords it. Charlie Griggs has a hard time staying employed.” Perhaps it was
something indiscreet to say, but she wanted to say something, to make it clear
she was on their side. Evan turned and stared at her for a moment. When
Martha looked back at him, he nodded solemnly, as if she had passed a test.
Martha prided herself on being a people person, and looking at their
faces, she could definitely sense that the car had changed the mood in the
room. Were they afraid? The boy, especially, had seemed intimidated by the
car. “He’s harmless, though,” she assured them. “More of an occasional
annoyance.”
After Mrs. Hoover left—and it seemed as though she would never leave—
Celeste pressed her body against the front door and locked it twice, once
with the button in the doorknob and then with the chain. Celeste was thin,
which you could tell even when she wore bulky layers of black clothes, so
she gave the impression of a slender black line pressed against the door.
“What are you doing?” asked Evan. They still had boxes and bags to
bring in from the car.
“She knows, doesn’t she? That comment, ‘I don’t know how he affords
it.’ ” Celeste covered her face. “It’s starting again.”
“She didn’t know how to say our name,” said Mom hesitantly. “If she’d
heard about Michael Pao in the news, she would have known how to say our
name.” Mom began walking in a tight circle. “She doesn’t know, does she,
Evan?”
Mom had promised to only ask Evan about what he was feeling when the
issue was really important. The problem was right now, everything seemed
really important. When the real estate agent had said this house was the only
one within their budget, Mom had asked Evan if this was really the only
house Mrs. Hoover could show them. Maybe she was trying to squeeze more
money out of them. Mrs. Hoover, Evan told his mom by the side of the car,
really was doing her best for them.
 “She doesn’t know,” Evan agreed. He gestured toward the house with the
NO MERCY car. “She was just talking about that guy. NO MERCY—what’s that
about?”
“It’s how the world treats everyone,” Celeste muttered. “That’s why
we’re here.”
“The real estate lady was nice,” said Evan. “She really did want to show
us another house, if we had more money.”
“Which we don’t.”
“It wasn’t about Dad. It was just a thing she said.” His stomach rumbled.
“You don’t suppose any food got left behind, do you?”
“How can you think about food at a time like this?” said Celeste.
“We have to eat,” said Evan. He opened the fridge and some of the
cabinets. He found a can of green beans, two years past its due date. He
wasn’t that hungry.
“I just don’t want to have moved all this way, just to have … issues …
start over again,” said Mom. “This was supposed to be our fresh start.”
A fresh start. Evan liked the sound of that, like a freshly made bed, clean
smelling sheets. No hostility. No sideways looks. He could just be Evan,
again.

* * *

Uncle Joe was the reason they had come to Haddington, Virginia, out of all
the places they could have gone to. He had lived in Haddington for eight
years. He had come through when a hurricane knocked out all the power,
while he was working for the electric company, and then, according to Uncle
Joe, he forgot to leave. Uncle Joe liked to fix things. He had a toolbelt that
jangled with tools, but if you got down to it, he said, he really needed only
three things.
“A screwdriver, duct tape, and pliers will get eighty, ninety percent of
your jobs done,” he said. “Maybe you need a hammer or a drill sometimes.”
Uncle Joe was tall; he didn’t even need a chair to get to the ceiling fixtures.
He wore his hair in a long, graying ponytail. Mom said he was a Chinese
hippie. Evan had never met anyone like him. Uncle Joe went through the
house, calling out solutions to problems. Replace the washer on the leaky
faucet. Throw some baking soda on the carpets to freshen them up. Get some
drywall to fix a hole in the wall. Uncle Joe seemed to be enjoying himself.
Mom asked him to check on the car after what the man at the garage had
said. Uncle Joe took the car out, came back, and shrugged. “Car seems fine,”
he said. “Plenty of tread on Lincoln’s head.” He became mildly horrified that
Evan didn’t know what he was talking about. “You use an upside-down
penny to check on how much the tires are worn down. If you see all of
Lincoln’s head, it’s time to get them changed.”
“I don’t drive,” said Evan. “Even Celeste doesn’t drive yet.”
“No one should drive before they know basic auto maintenance! The boy
needs to learn about home repair, and cars,” he said to Mom. “What have you
all been doing out in California?!”
“Not home repair,” Mom said gently. “He can learn now.” Evan decided
this was not a good time to mention that Mom had only recently started letting
him use a paring knife to cut up apples.
“He needs to know how to do these things,” Uncle Joe said to Mom.
“How to fix things. You can’t keep him a little boy who can’t do things for
himself.” Evan supposed he should feel insulted. Uncle Joe was saying he
was soft. That’s what one of the other parents on the baseball team had said,
after the incident on the mound. Evan needed to toughen up. “The world is a
hard place,” said one of the dads. “Get used to it.”
For Evan, though, someone like Uncle Joe, who said exactly what he
thought, was the easiest kind of person to be around. His insides and outsides
always matched. Evan liked that. Also, he had brought over a barbecue
dinner with a whole set of sides—baked beans, macaroni and cheese,
cornbread. He’d even brought an apple pie. Evan had two slices and then
Mom said he should stop. If he was still hungry, he could have a carrot. Who
could eat a carrot after apple pie?
 Uncle Joe noticed another problem. The door from Evan’s bedroom to
the kitchen kept swinging shut, like a ghost had decided that the door should
stay closed.
“We’ll take out the hinge pin and bang on it,” said Uncle Joe. Evan tried
to pretend that he knew what a hinge pin was, but he didn’t fool Uncle Joe.
Uncle Joe sighed and told Evan to watch. He took out a hammer and small
thin piece of metal, and then tapped on the piece that held the door to the
frame until a pin, which held the hinge together, came up and out.
They took the pin outside, and then Uncle Joe handed Evan the hammer
and told him to put a dent in the pin, about one-third down from the top.
“You want me to put a dent in a perfectly straight pin?” said Evan. He
wanted to show Uncle Joe that he was thinking, not just blindly following
orders, even if he didn’t know what was going on.
Uncle Joe sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I said. Now, do you know which
end of a hammer to use or do I need to show you how to do that, too?” He
didn’t say it in a mean way. Evan laughed and picked up the hammer and hit
the pin. He was about to hit it again when Uncle Joe stopped him. “No need
to go overboard. Now we’re going to put it back in where it came from, but
with the bend in.” They went back inside and Uncle Joe let Evan put the pin
back in the hinge. The door stayed open.
“Ha!” Evan was amazed. Who knew that you needed something to be
crooked to work properly? Uncle Joe explained that the friction from the
bend in the pin kept the door where it was put.
“Stick with me,” said Uncle Joe. “I’ll teach you everything you’ve been
missing. You guys weren’t going to learn anything, living the way you did.”
“We could have learned without … everything else,” said Celeste.
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. This is a nice town,” said
Uncle Joe. “You’ll be okay here.”
“Can you take a look at the back door before you leave tonight?” Mom
asked Uncle Joe. “The lock has a problem.” The back door was old; instead
of a regular window, it had a screen covered by a ladder of glass pieces that
could be cranked open or closed.
 “Does it lock?” asked Uncle Joe.
“The button doesn’t stay in,” said Mom. “So I put a chair under the
knob.” Evan nodded in agreement. He’d nearly tripped over the chair coming
from his room to the kitchen. “I can put the chain on, but a door lock is
better,” said Mom.
“It’s a peaceful neighborhood,” protested Uncle Joe. “I don’t even lock
my door, to be honest. It’s just because you’re new here. Once you settle in,
you won’t lock your door, either. It’s practically an insult in this town.”
“But why take a chance?” asked Mom. “It can be a peaceful town and I
can have a locked door.”
“So peaceful that the school is named Battlefield,” Celeste said. That had
been a surprise. They had gone for a walk after they had unpacked the car
and found the school Evan would attend. Battlefield Elementary was all one
story, made of pale, red brick. The school sign in the front said, LEARNING
WINS AT BATTLEFIELD.
“What’s wrong with calling a school ‘Battlefield’?” asked Uncle Joe.
“It sounds like they’re preparing you for war. You wouldn’t name a
school, I don’t know, Gladiator Stadium,” said Celeste. “Combat Zone
Middle School.”
Uncle Joe threw his head back and laughed. A gold tooth glinted in the
back of his mouth. “You’re something,” he said. “Taking everything so
literally. No one’s sending you guys to war.”
“It’s worse,” Evan said. “In battle, at least there are people on your side.
I’m being sent into school, alone.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mom said quickly. “I’ll go with both of you, meet
your teachers.”
“Don’t you have to go to work, too?” asked Celeste. Evan silently
thanked Celeste for thinking of a reason why Mom could not come to school
for more than a minute. Evan couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than
Mom coming with him to class. Uncle Joe had arranged for Mom to start
working as an office manager in a dentist’s office.
 “True,” said Mom, disappointed. “They do start rather early there.”
“Let ’em be, Elaine,” said Uncle Joe. “They’ll make friends. People here
are nice. Everybody gets along.”
“Ha,” said Celeste. “Ha-ha. Have you been to a high school in the last
twenty years?”
“I’m serious!” said Uncle Joe. “I’ve never had a problem here. Go along
to get along. You’ll be fine.”
“What does that mean, go along to get along?” asked Evan. The guy with
the car, thought Evan. NO MERCY. He didn’t seem like he wanted to get along
with anybody.
Uncle Joe scratched his head. “I guess it means, make a point of being
agreeable. Maybe you don’t always get your way, but it’s important to get
along.”
“Mom says, ‘put your head down and don’t cause trouble,’ ” said Evan.
Uncle Joe nodded. “Same thing. Except mine is better.” Mom laughed and
poked Uncle Joe, like they were still kids, fighting. It was nice to hear Mom
laugh with someone other than Evan and Celeste. They had been their own
little circle for so long now, clinging to each other for safety, for comfort.
Now they were letting Uncle Joe in.
After Uncle Joe had left for the night, Celeste offered her own advice as
they brushed their teeth in their new-to-them bathroom, checkered in mint
green and eraser pink tile.
“You need to go in like a boss,” said Celeste. “Whatever you’re actually
feeling, don’t show it, unless your feelings are, I am a boss.” Celeste spit in
the sink. “Look at Uncle Joe. He thought you should know how to use tools,
which means the boys here probably do. They probably go hunting, too. Back
home, everyone was okay with you being Mr. Sensitive, but it’s probably not
going to fly here.”
“Mom said you shouldn’t call me that,” Evan reminded her. “Mr.
Sensitive.” That was the nickname Celeste had landed on after the cause of
Evan’s headaches and nausea had been discovered.
 Celeste stepped to one side so Evan could get to the sink. “I’m telling you
for your own good. I don’t want you to get pushed around. Again.” She rinsed
out her toothbrush. “Speaking of which, we need a strategy about Dad.”
“What about Dad?”
“What are you going to tell people if they ask you about Dad?”
“Maybe no one will ask.”
“Not right off the bat, but it’s going to come up. And you and I have to say
the same thing.”
“We could say Mom and Dad are divorced. That’s true. Almost.” Mom
had filed the papers.
Celeste narrowed her eyes. “Maybe we should say that Dad is dead.”
“What? No! Why would you say that?” Even more shocking than the idea
was the casual way Celeste said it. She could have been saying anything, like
what flavor of ice cream to choose at the store.
“He’s not coming back, Evan! He left us, he’s a jerk, end of story. What’s
wrong with you?”
Evan dipped his chin down. “Saying that someone is dead when they’re
not is bad luck.” No one had actually ever told him this, but how could it not
be true? It was like wishing someone was actually dead.
“Yeah, well we certainly don’t have any bad luck now,” said Celeste, her
voice laden with sarcasm. “Moving to this nowhere town in this stinky little
house.” She put her hands on her hips. “How come your little ol’ feelings-o-
meter never went off for Dad?”
Evan had wondered the exact same thing, many times. What had he
missed? Why hadn’t he sensed anything about Dad? Maybe if he had, he
could have stopped Dad before things got worse.
“I don’t know,” said Evan. He lowered his voice, murmuring the one idea
he had been nursing. “Maybe it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“Oh right,” said Celeste. “Maybe all of our neighbors just happened to
lose the money they gave to Dad to invest, and then he happened to disappear
around the time the police showed up.”
 Dad had worked for a venture capital firm, helping to identify the next
big idea. It meant long hours and working dinners. Dad said it was like going
on first dates all the time, meeting people and getting to know them quickly,
which he loved to do. One day, Dad came home with an idea that was too
“small potatoes” for the firm, but he was excited about it. “Socks that change
color when you move!” said Dad, laughing. “Another way to encourage
activity in kids! It’s genius. I’m going to make our own little investment
group, with the neighbors.”
Mom frowned. “What if this loses money? That would make things
awkward.”
“It’s not going to lose money! The neighbors are going to be thanking me,
and the ones who don’t go in are going to be furious!” Dad always had that
enthusiasm, that way of talking that made you believe in him, in yourself.
For weeks, maybe months, it was all the neighborhood could talk about.
Michael Pao was so generous, so amazing, to bring this opportunity to them.
When Dad brought home prototypes for Evan and his friends to try, Evan
became the most popular kid at school.
But then one day Dad didn’t come home at all. They checked the
hospitals, called the highway patrols for reports of an accident involving
Dad’s car. Nothing. Evan called Dad’s phone over and over, hoping he
would pick up. Then Mom realized Dad’s passport was missing. When the
FBI showed up, Mom went from worried to angry. Dad had betrayed them
all, Mom told Evan and Celeste. He’d taken the money and left them all high
and dry. Evan hadn’t heard that term before, high and dry, but he quickly
figured it out. It meant broke.
Sometimes Evan replayed the last memory he had of his dad, searching
for clues. Dad had come home from work as Evan was getting ready for bed.
That wasn’t unusual. Dad looked a little tired and rumpled, but that wasn’t
unusual, either.
“How’s it going, Evan? Homework done?”
“On time, on point, and on to the next thing,” said Evan. That was their
routine. They high-fived and then Dad grabbed him and hugged him.
 Sometimes Evan wondered if he was getting too old for hugs, but that
night felt okay. “I love you, you know that, right?” said Dad. Dad said
embarrassing mushy stuff like that; he said his dad never said those things, so
he was making up for it. Evan said he did, and then went to bed. That was the
last time he saw his dad. It was the last time the neighbors saw their money.
What had he missed?
Evan recapped his toothpaste. “Maybe. Maybe Dad …” That was as far
as Celeste would let him go.
“Evan,” said Celeste. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” asked Evan.
“Don’t hope,” said Celeste. “Not when it comes to Dad. He doesn’t
deserve your hope.”
Evan hoped he’d feel a twinge when Celeste said that—something to
show she didn’t mean it. But nothing. Her insides matched her outsides.
Mr. Hawthorn, the principal, brought the new boy in right after Mrs.
Norwood’s lesson on improper fractions. An improper fraction was a
fraction where the number on top was bigger than the number on the bottom.
Max was just amused by the term improper. It seemed like an etiquette word,
not a math word.
When the new boy walked in, though, Max let go of all math-related
thoughts. They did not get new students that often, and as far as Max could
remember, they had never had an Asian student.
Max had never been the new kid. He’d lived in Haddington his whole
life, and so had his dad, and his dad before him, and so on. Everything was
familiar to him—the people, the streets, the buildings. He knew where the
honeysuckle smelled sweetest in the spring, and where the roads flooded
when a hard rain came. He couldn’t decide whether it was comforting or
boring to know a place so well, down to the cracks in the sidewalks.
Max tried to imagine being the boy and seeing what he saw, twenty-two
unfamiliar faces looking back at him. What did he notice about the classroom
first? The board on Thomas Jefferson and James Madison? The light over
Mrs. Norwood’s desk that flickered constantly? The windows that
overlooked the fields behind the school?
“Class,” said Mrs. Norwood. “Please welcome Evan Pao.” Mrs.
Norwood had been a teacher for so long that she had taught Max’s dad back
before she was married, when she was Miss Hayes. Now she was going to
retire after this year. Mom liked to say that Mrs. Norwood was old school,
meaning that she had very specific ideas on the right way to do things. “He is
from California. Welcome to the class, Evan.”
California. Max had been to Disney World, the Outer Banks, and
Washington, DC, but not California. That was a whole other world. He
inched forward, trying to see how California might make Evan different.
“Thank you,” said Evan. He waved shyly to the class. Then he
straightened up and lowered his voice. “I mean, hello.”
“We are reading Rascal,” said Mrs. Norwood. “Do you know it?”
Evan shook his head. “Would anyone like to tell Evan about the book?”
Julia raised her hand. “It’s about a guy who gets a raccoon as a pet.”
Julia was the girl who always raised her hand because she always knew the
answers. She wore her straight brown hair in a braid, and looked at you with
serious gray eyes.
“Sterling North,” Mrs. Norwood corrected. “The author, Sterling North,
is recounting a year from his childhood when he had a pet raccoon.”
“Do you have a pet?” Julia asked Evan.
Evan shook his head. “I wish I did. I want a dog.” Max nodded. He had a
dog, Chessie. His family had always had dogs, but Chessie seemed to belong
to him.
“Do you have the China virus?” Max watched Evan as he took in a breath
and stepped back, away from the class. Max did not have to look to know
who had spoken. Brady Griggs. The class groaned.
“Seriously?” asked Casey.
“Brady,” Mrs. Norwood said. “That’s a terrible question. Of course Evan
doesn’t have it.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t come to school if I had a virus,” said Evan,
reasonably. “Of any kind.”
Max and Brady had once been friends, close friends even. Once, when
Max got to bring one friend up to DC for a Nationals game, he’d chosen
Brady. But they’d been growing apart lately, partly because Brady made
comments like that. Brady had gotten an early growth spurt, and was already
close to the size of Mr. Welsh, the gym teacher. It seemed like the whole thing
had made him angry. Pimples had erupted across his face, and his clothes
constantly strained against him, too small and tight. They weren’t enemies.
Max just kept a careful distance.
“It’s called COVID-19, not China virus, you dummy,” said Taylor. Taylor
and Julia were best friends, an opposites-attract situation. While Julia was
quiet, Taylor was outspoken and opinionated, as wild as her tangly red hair.
“It came from China, didn’t it?” demanded Brady. Max and Brady had
had this same argument about this when the pandemic started. Max hadn’t
known what to say, exactly, except it seemed mean to say China virus. Taylor,
however, did know what to say.
“Diseases come from all over the place,” said Taylor. “And you’re just
using that name to be a jerk. People have died because of comments like
that.” She looked to Mrs. Norwood for confirmation. Mrs. Norwood nodded,
slightly. Max had remembered his dad talking about attacks against Asians in
the news, but it seemed more abstract then. Now Evan was here.
“Class,” said Mrs. Norwood. She clapped her hands in a pattern—1! 2!
1-2-3!—and the class responded in kind, as they had been taught. “Settle
down. Let’s not give Evan such a terrible first impression of the class. We
don’t shout at each other or call each other names.” Max looked at the clock.
They had fifteen minutes until lunch.
“Who would like to be Evan’s partner and show him around?” Mrs.
Norwood asked.
Max raised his hand, along with just about everyone else in the class.
Everyone except Brady. Pick me, Max silently begged. Pick me. What would
it be like, Max wondered, to be a stranger, to have things unknown and to be
unknown? He might never know what that was like, but maybe Evan could
tell him.
Mrs. Norwood scanned the room. Max knew she wouldn’t pick a girl;
Mrs. Norwood would think that was improper. Max wiggled his hand in the
air and smiled, the one that teachers found hard to resist. He knew he was
one of Mrs. Norwood’s favorites. He didn’t try to be, he just was. Part of it
was his family—his dad was the police chief and his brother Clark had been
student body president the year he was in sixth grade. His mom was PTA
president one year. That year, she was at the school as much as the teachers,
it seemed.
Mrs. Norwood caught Max’s eye and he knew a split second before she
said it. “Max Baldwin,” she said. “You’ll do a good job, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Max. He was already scooting his desk over, making
room for Evan. “Absolutely.”
In the course of a twenty-eight-minute lunch, Max took it upon himself to
fill Evan with as much on Mrs. Norwood and Battlefield as he could. Of
course he had a lot of questions for Evan, but it only seemed fair to give him
the lay of the land first. That included the long list of Mrs. Norwood’s likes
and dislikes (“Just tell her you want to go to the University of Virginia—she
loves that place”), what to avoid in the cafeteria (“Do not, under any
circumstances, buy the fish they serve on the third Wednesday of the month”),
and Battlefield Day.
“What,” said Evan, “is Battlefield Day?”
The lunch table was full today. The students had their choice of seating
among three tables, but everyone wanted to sit near Evan. “Nobody give it
away,” Max warned them. “I want to see what he thinks.” He faced Evan and
said, “What do you think we do on Battlefield Day?” Evan turned his face up
toward the ceiling, thinking.
“Is it like an outdoors day, where you go outside and have activities?”
asked Evan. “They called it field day at my old school. We had races and the
school rented a bounce house, stuff like that.”
“That’s a good guess,” said Max. “We do go outside. But it’s not to do
regular stuff.”
“Think about the battle in battlefield,” said Casey, trying to help. Casey
was one of Max’s best friends. Max elbowed him.
“Oh, so you guys do something about wars?” said Evan. “Battles and
wars?”
 “Yeah,” allowed Max. “So which war do you think we study?”
“Um … World War II?” Evan guessed. Max shook his head. “World War
I?”
“Older,” hinted Max. “In the 1800s.”
“The Civil War?” Evan got it. Max nodded approvingly. “That’s the one
when Lincoln was president, right?” asked Evan.
Some of the kids politely stifled giggles. Asking if Lincoln was president
during the Civil War was like asking if kickball was the game that involved
kicking and balls. Didn’t everyone know that? Max tried to help him out.
“Mrs. Norwood is a huge Civil War buff. On Battlefield Day, we all get
to dress up like it’s the Civil War and live like the people did then.” Max
paused and tried to gauge Evan’s reaction.
“Mrs. Norwood has volunteers who set up stations on secret codes and
medicine and all sorts of stuff,” said Taylor. “We get to spend the whole day
outside and see what it was like back then.”
“We eat stuff from the Civil War, too,” said Daniel. Daniel was the kid
who could draw anything. Max wondered if Evan had noticed the dragon
Daniel had drawn on his notebook.
Evan raised his eyebrows. “Food from the Civil War?” he asked.
“I mean, not directly from the Civil War, but food like what they had
during the Civil War,” Daniel clarified.
Max studied Evan’s face as each person contributed a detail. He hoped
that Evan was excited. He tried to imagine what it would be like for someone
who had not grown up in Haddington, or even in Virginia, to learn about
Battlefield Day for the first time. Evan barely knew about the Civil War. Was
it weird? Max had lived here his whole life; he couldn’t tell.
“Ohhhh,” said Evan. “Well, that sounds like fun. I mean, anything that gets
us outside, right?” The people at the table murmured approvingly. Max
relaxed.
“It’s more fun for the boys than the girls,” complained Taylor. “The girls
have to wear these hot dresses that go all the way to the ground.” She and
Julia had parked themselves at the edge of the table.
 “Mrs. Norwood says we can dress like soldiers, but she doesn’t really
like it,” said Julia. “The girls only get to pick from the leftovers when the
boys are done.”
“Mrs. Norwood has a huge trunk of costumes for Battlefield Day,”
explained Max. “You can have anything you want, as long as it’s gray.”
“You can be a Yankee,” said Daniel. “But Mrs. Norwood isn’t going to
help you.”
“So … you don’t actually act out a battle?” asked Evan, taking a bite of
sandwich. “Too bad. That would be cool.”
Here was the thing about being the new person. Max had never
questioned what they did on Battlefield Day. It was just what they did—the
cooking, the costumes. But then here came Evan, and right away, he saw
things differently. Why didn’t they reenact a battle for Battlefield Day?
“Yeah,” Max agreed. “It would be.”
Max saved one surprise for Evan at the end of the day. When they walked
out of school, Mom and Chessie were waiting for him.
“Come here, girl!” called Max. Mom let go of Chessie’s leash, and she
sprinted across the blacktop and leapt into his arms. This was the game they
played every day. She tilted her head up and licked Max’s chin. Max waved
to his mom and kept walking. Mom would walk home with Jacob, his little
brother.
“Your mom just let go of the leash like that?” asked Evan. He seemed
more astonished about this than Battlefield Day. “What about kids with
allergies? Or don’t you worry that she’ll run off?”
“It’s a tradition,” said Max. It had never occurred to him that Chessie
would do something other than what she was supposed to do. “She’s very
well behaved.”
“I can see that,” said Evan. He shook his head. “It’s just one more way
things are different here.” He pulled out a package of Skittles from his pocket
and offered Max some. Max took three.
“Like Battlefield Day?” asked Max.
 “Among other things,” said Evan. He seemed to have something to say,
then stopped. Instead, he picked out two purple Skittles and popped them in
his mouth.
“You can ask me anything,” said Max. “Really.”
“I feel kind of dumb,” said Evan. “Like I was supposed to know this,
right? War. The Civil War.”
“Naw,” said Max. “Go on, shoot.”
“I know that the Civil War was the war between the states, the North
versus the South,” said Evan.
“That’s right,” said Max. “From 1861 to 1865.” He gestured around
them. “Lots of fighting, right around here.”
“They fought over slavery,” said Evan.
“Some people will try to tell you that it wasn’t, but it was,” said Max.
“My daddy showed me the declarations the Southern states made when they
seceded from the United States. They all talked about slavery and the right to
own people as slaves.”
“Secede,” said Evan. “That’s a word you don’t hear every day.”
“It’s like recede, like the tide. So, when the Southern states seceded, they
formed the Confederate States of America. Anything with that word,
confederate, has to do with the South. The boys in gray. The Northern states,
led by Lincoln, were called the Union, and their soldiers were called
Yankees. Their stuff tends to be dark blue.” Max tried to remember how he
came to know this, but he couldn’t. He just did.
“It’s funny that Yankees became a Northern versus Southern thing.
Everyone was a Yankee when we were fighting the British during the
Revolutionary War,” said Evan.
Max stopped walking, which meant Chessie stopped walking. “You
know, I’d never thought of that. We were all Yankees, huh?”
“Don’t think too hard. You might hurt yourself.” Brady ran up and
pretended to karate chop Max. “Hi-yaaaa!”
Max hoped that Evan hadn’t seen the karate chop. “Hiya, Brady,” he said,
trying to pretend that Brady had said hi the same way. He took a deep breath.
“We were just talking about Battlefield Day and all that. That’s a big deal in
your family.” Max wondered what Evan had thought of Brady’s comment
earlier in the day. Maybe just giving Brady a chance to brag would put things
to right.
“’Course it is,” said Brady. “Jubal Griggs was known for being a crack
shot and a soldier’s soldier.” Max noticed that Brady was only looking at
him, as if Evan did not even exist. But Evan did not seem to notice.
“Oh, so what side was he on?” asked Evan. “The Union or the
Confederacy?”
Max cringed. Evan was just trying to show that he was getting the terms
straight, but his comment infuriated Brady.
“What side? What side?” Brady roared. “Do you know where you are,
boy? The Confederacy, of course! The capital of the Confederacy was in
Virginia! Do you even know American history?”
“I’m just, I’m still figuring things out,” said Evan. He stuck his hand out.
“No hard feelings, okay? I just thought that if you were that proud, he might
be on the Union side because they’re the ones who won the war.” He laughed
a little. “I mean, I have a lot to learn, but I know that much.”
Max resisted the urge to cover his face with his hand. This was not going
well.
Brady stared at Evan’s extended hand. “Huh.” He didn’t shake. Max
wanted to shake him, but then Brady started rubbing Chessie behind the ears,
which was her favorite spot. “Who’s a good girl,” crooned Brady.
“Chessie’s a good girl. Chessie probably knows more about the Civil War
than Evan.” Chessie wagged her tail.
“Hey,” said Brady to Max. “Have you decided who you’re going to be
for Battlefield Day?”
“Not yet,” said Max, keeping his words short.
“You have a Confederate general in your family! That’d be an easy
decision for me.” Brady gave Evan a sideways glance. “Not sure who you’re
going to be.” Brady gave Chessie a last scritch behind the ear and walked
away.
 “Sorry,” said Max, after Brady disappeared from view.
“You didn’t do anything,” said Evan.
“Still,” said Max. “I feel kind of responsible for him. He’s being kind of
a jerk.”
“You guys talk about the North and the South, the Confederacy and the
Union, like it was all just a few years ago. It’s not the same for me. I keep
having to check that I’m not mixing things up.” Evan leaned down and
scratched Chessie behind the ears, the way Brady had done it. She leaned up
against his shins. Chessie liked Evan, Max could tell.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it in a bit,” said Max. “He just gets a little hot
sometimes.”
“I’m not trying to make him mad.” Evan seemed slightly exasperated. “I
just got here. I’m trying to get along with everyone.”
“Brady can be nice,” said Max. “When I was seven, I got my tonsils out.
Brady got worried, so after bedtime, he climbed out his bedroom window,
shimmied down a tree, and came to my house to check on me.” Max smiled at
the memory, seven-year-old Brady’s face popping up in his window.
Evan did not laugh. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose
with his fingers.
“Are you okay?” asked Max. Evan looked like he was going to be sick.
Evan spoke while keeping his eyes closed. “I’m okay.”
“Do you need to sit down? Put your head between your knees?” That was
Max’s mom’s solution when someone wasn’t feeling well.
“Just tell me the truth,” said Evan. He opened his eyes. “Why are you
telling me this about Brady? Do you think he’s nice now?”
Max hesitated. “Now? No. Not exactly.”
“Okay then,” said Evan. Suddenly, he was back to normal, walking,
talking, and not acting like he’d just been hit by a baseball bat.
“Brady is not an easy person to get along with,” said Max. “I’m not
saying you have to be best friends, just that it’d be good if you could find a
way to get along. He actually lives pretty close to you. If you’re on the
corner, in the Shumley place, then Brady is just up the hill and across the
street, kind of catty-corner from you.”
Evan opened his eyes. “Catty-corner. You mean diagonal?”
“Sure,” said Max. “Though catty-corner rolls off the tongue a whole lot
easier. Diagonal sounds so, you know, mathematical.”
“Brady’s family, they have a car right? One with a skull painted on it,
really noisy engine?” Max’s heart sank. Charlie’s car was not going to help
Evan think any better of Brady.
“It’s hard to miss, isn’t it?” said Max.
“Yeah, then I know which house,” said Evan in a matter- of-fact tone.
“We saw the car the day we moved in.” Of course the car had not helped
make Brady seem more appealing. How could it? It was not a welcoming
first impression.
Max remembered one time Charlie had played hide-and-seek all
afternoon with Brady and Max when they were little. Charlie had seemed so
fun, so kind that day. But now Max had to wonder, was the day memorable
because it was rare?
“Do you want to come to my house and help me fix a toaster?”
This was how Evan knew that he and Max were becoming friends. It
wasn’t just the invitation, which Evan accepted immediately. It was that
fixing a toaster sounded like a totally excellent, if strange, idea.
Max’s house was closer to the school, an old-fashioned two-story house
with a porch in the front. Max showed Evan around the house. The word that
came to mind for Evan was full. Paintings and photographs covered the
walls. The furniture was dark and heavily carved. Every flat surface seemed
to have a book or a small sculpture or another photograph.
“How long has your family lived here?” asked Evan, thinking that it took
a long time for a house to become so full. His own house had just gotten up to
the bare minimum. Sofa, kitchen table and chairs, beds. One piece of art
hanging on the wall.
“More like, has my family ever not lived here,” said Max. “This house
belonged to my dad’s parents, and his parents before him, and so on.” He
pointed to a gray-and-white photograph, faded with age, of a young man and
woman. “That’s my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents.” He pointed
to another photograph of a man with a beard in a military uniform. “That’s
Davenport Baldwin. He was a general on the Confederate side.”
“A general,” said Evan, impressed.
 “Yeah, yeah,” said Max, waving his hand. “A general that no one has
ever heard of. Let’s get a snack.” Chessie followed them into the kitchen.
Max’s mom was in the kitchen, looking at an iPad. “Hey, boys!” she said
cheerfully. “You must be Evan. You here for a snack?” Max’s mom had blue
eyes and a wide smile, just like Max.
“Do we still have the snickerdoodles?” asked Max.
“With your brothers? No.” She smiled apologetically at Evan. “It’s like
the Hunger Games around here with three boys. How about an apple and
some cheese sticks?”
Max took two apples out of a bowl, and then grabbed some cheese sticks
from the fridge. “Do we get something if we fix the toaster?” he asked.
“You get toast,” said Max’s mom. Evan laughed. He could see where
Max’s good nature came from.
The two boys sat on the floor of the porch and examined the toaster. “The
toaster won’t stay down,” explained Max. “It heats if you hold it in place, but
who wants to do that?” He picked up a screwdriver to open the toaster when
Evan stopped him.
“Have you tried just shaking out the crumbs first?” he asked. “It gets
pretty messy inside.” Evan knew this from firsthand experience. When they
were moving, he’d picked up the toaster and accidentally tipped it over. A
shocking amount of dried crumbs had spilled out.
“Good point,” said Max. He turned the toaster upside down and shook it
gently. Brown crumbs spilled out on the floor. The more Max shook it, the
more crumbs spilled out. Max tested it again. Now the handle stayed down.
“That was easy,” remarked Evan. “A crumb must have gotten in the way
or something.” He felt slightly disappointed that his idea had worked.
Max grinned and waved a screwdriver in the air. “Want to take it apart,
anyway?”
“Will your mom be mad?”
“Nah, not as long as we don’t make a mess,” said Max. He brushed the
crumbs into the cracks between the floorboards. “And my dad will be glad
that we’re not playing video games.”
 When Max said dad, Evan felt a pang. Dad had had similar feelings about
video games. No one’s going to change the world playing games. Evan
pushed the memory down and forced himself to smile.
They took the toaster apart and admired the mechanics inside—the
springs and the baskets that held the bread. Evan pressed the lever down and
they watched it catch. Max got a canister of compressed air and blew out
even more crumbs.
“There’s probably bread crumbs from the last century in there,” said
Evan.
“No doubt,” said Max. “I think this belonged to my grandma.” He jumped
up. “You play ball? I heard you play. Pitcher, right?” Max laughed at Evan’s
look of surprise. “You’re in a small town, now. I know all your secrets. Mrs.
Hoover goes to our church.”
“Oh boy,” said Evan, trying to pass off Max’s comment as a joke. He
tried to think quickly. “So you know that I’m actually an international spy.”
“Yes, Haddington is the perfect place for you to blend in. Not,” said Max.
“I can’t think of a worse place, actually.” He opened a wooden box on the
porch and pulled out two baseball gloves and a ball. Max handed Evan a
glove and threw him the ball.
Evan smiled faintly. The first day he had gone to school, it had taken him
a minute to figure out what seemed different. At his old school, the students
had been a mix of white, Black, Asian, Latino, and Middle Eastern. In this
class, he was the only student who wasn’t white. There were a few Black
students in the school, but none were in his grade, and as far as he could tell,
no other Asian students were in the whole school. When he thought of it, it
made him feel weirdly aware of his skin, as if it were a shell separate from
his own being.
Evan tried to keep the conversation light. “That’s the genius part,”
explained Evan. “No one expects the kid who sticks out.” He tossed the ball
back and shook his arm out, trying to warm it up gently.
“Hiding in plain sight! I love it,” said Max. He aimed the ball high into
the air. A fly ball. Evan started to put his glove up to catch it, the proper
form, and then switched to a basket catch. Smooth.
Max whistled. “You’re good. You fixin’ to play ball? I bet I could get you
on my team.”
Fixin’. They had just fixed the toaster, but that’s not what Max was
talking about. Fixin’ meant planning, Evan decided. Evan shook his head. “I
just play for fun.” He threw the ball back. “Adults kind of ruin things.”
“Well, that’s true, at least sometimes,” said Max. “My dad coached when
I was little, but then he got promoted to chief and now he’s too busy.”
There it was again. Dad. Evan wondered if it was weird that he wasn’t
saying anything about his own father. He didn’t think Max was prying. He
wasn’t saying these things to get Evan to say something. Max was just talking
about his dad.
But secrets. A small town knew all your secrets.
Maybe it was best to try to head things off. “My dad’s not around,” said
Evan. He threw the ball back.
Max nodded sympathetically. “It happens. That’s nothing unusual around
here.”
But does anyone have a parent who disappeared? wondered Evan. Max
threw the ball back, harder this time, and Evan caught it with a satisfying
thwack in the pocket of the glove.
“So, I got to ask, what do you think of this?” Max held out his arms,
gesturing widely.
“Think of … your front yard?” asked Evan.
“No! This town! This place. You ever live somewhere that had a
Battlefield Day?” Max’s eyes were wide, curious. “You didn’t have anything
like this in California, right?”
“Not specifically,” admitted Evan. Whenever they had talked about
American history in school, it had seemed kind of remote because it had
happened across the country. Now it was practically on top of him. “But it’s
interesting. I mean, you said there are costumes and we get to be outside. And
we get to eat.”
 “I wouldn’t get your hopes too high on that point,” said Max. “It’s food
during a war.”
“There’s no situation that can’t be improved with food,” said Evan.
“That’s my experience.”
“We have good food here,” said Max. “If people in the South know how
to do one thing, it’s how to cook and eat.”
“You can’t beat the Chinese,” said Evan. “There are eight major types of
Chinese food. We literally ask have you eaten as a greeting.”
Max laughed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Really? Based on allll the Chinese people who live here, I’m
surprised,” said Evan, joking.
Max tossed himself the ball. “But do you like it here? What do you
think?”
Evan didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to be rude, but he wanted
to be truthful. “I haven’t been here long enough to decide,” said Evan. He
was thinking about Brady. But Brady wasn’t the whole town. There was still
Max and the other kids in school. Being close to Uncle Joe. People here
waved to each other when a car drove by. He liked that. “But I’m fixin’ to
like it,” he said, repeating Max’s word.
“Now you sound like one of us,” said Max.

* * *

Evan may have started to sound like the people in Haddington, but that didn’t
mean he could understand the people in Haddington all the time. Mrs.
Norwood kept talking about something called air looms.
“It’s only for people who have ’em to share. Don’t worry about it. No
one’s expecting you to have one,” said Max.
“An air loom.”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve got one?”
“You’ve seen my house, right?” said Max.
 Evan had searched back through his memory, trying to picture a loom in
Max’s house. He couldn’t remember seeing one, but to be fair, he couldn’t
rule out the possibility, either. Max’s house had a lot of stuff. Maybe Mrs.
Norwood was into really authentic Civil War clothes.
She was also, apparently, into scribes.
“Evan, I’ve been thinking that you should get a special role for
Battlefield Day. What would you think of being a scribe?” she asked Evan
one day when he had gone up to the desk to ask about a writing assignment.
She folded her hands and looked at him intently. She drew out the last word.
Scriiibe.
“A scribe?” Evan could feel a wave coming on, a mismatch. Mrs.
Norwood was acting all enthusiastic, but she seemed to have something
underneath. But maybe he just didn’t understand the word scribe.
Mrs. Norwood turned red. “It’s just that, Battlefield Day has a certain
look, and I thought, um, that it might be more comfortable for you to have a,
um, behind-the-scenes role.” Her voice strained to a whisper, which of
course, made the class look up and stare at them.
Evan felt the room start to turn funny. Mrs. Norwood was telling a lie, but
maybe not a serious one. “What would a scribe do?” asked Evan.
“A scribe would, um, describe what is happening. Like a historian. You
write down what happens that day so we have a record. You can interview
people and write down what you see. And you can make a report to the
class!”
That definitely did not seem as good as being a soldier. “I think I’ll just
stick to being a soldier,” Evan told her politely. “That seems like the best.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. Mrs. Norwood wrote the word SCRIBE on
an index card, folded it in half, and put it inside his hand. “You think about
it,” she said. “Don’t decide right away, but I think you’ll see it makes sense.”
Evan walked back to his desk. Max handed him a bag of cereal. They
were testing for iron in the cereal, using magnets to draw out tiny bits of iron.
“What was that all about,” whispered Max.
 “I’m still not sure,” Evan whispered back. “Mrs. Norwood said I should
think about being a scribe for Battlefield Day.”
“A scribe?” said Max. He wrinkled his nose. “That sounds boring. Why
would you be a scribe when you could be a soldier and do stuff?”
“Beats me,” said Evan. “I’m going to say no, but first I have to pretend to
think about it.”
“Maybe she likes the way you write,” said Max. “Maybe she thinks you’d
make a good report.”
Evan rubbed the bridge of his nose. A scribe was not part of the action. A
scribe described the action. Mrs. Norwood had been acting like she was
doing him a favor, but something did not match up. Did that mean, Evan
wondered, that he was doing her one?
At the end of the day, Mrs. Norwood announced that it was time to share
the air looms.
Max showed him what he brought. He reached into his backpack and
pulled out something wrapped in a T-shirt. He peeled back the layers and
produced a round metal object, about the size of a small dinner plate. “It’s
my great-great-great-great-great …” He stopped and did some mental
counting. He nodded, satisfied he’d gotten it right. “Grandfather’s canteen.”
“That’s a canteen,” said Evan.
“Yes, it is,” said Max. He slowed down his words.
“A canteen is not used to make cloth,” Evan said, making his words as
slow as Max’s. “Not a loom.”
Max looked away and covered his mouth for a moment. When he turned
back to face Evan, his face was perfectly serious. “Evan,” he said. “Are you
under the impression that everyone is bringing in looms to make cloth
today?”
Evan was starting to get the feeling that he should be grateful—very
grateful, in fact—that Max wasn’t outright laughing at him. “Kind of?”
“Oh boy,” said Max. He took a deep breath and looked away. “How do I
explain this?”
 Max managed to explain without making Evan feel too much like a fool.
H-E-I-R-L-O-O-M. Heirloom, not air loom. Mrs. Norwood explained it this
way when she called the class to order. “Today we begin our preparations
for Battlefield Day,” she said. “By bringing in items from home connected to
the Civil War that have been passed down in our families.”
“I won’t go first,” said Brady. He had a larger box, which he picked up
and rattled. “Just because it will make all of your things look so minor in
comparison.”
“That’s very gracious of you, Brady,” said Mrs. Norwood dryly. “You
might have to wait a bit for your turn.” Evan glanced around the classroom
and realized how many classmates had brought in boxes or shopping bags or
thick brown paper envelopes. It felt like every hand around him went up in
the air, begging to be called on.
Evan folded his hands and looked down at his desk. Even if he had
understood the assignment, he would not have had anything to bring in.
Sophia went first. She had a black-and-white picture of a man in uniform,
holding a sword. The picture was on a flat piece of metal. My great-great-
great-great-great something or other, James Woodall,” she said.
“Do you know what battles he was in?” asked Mrs. Norwood.
“Maybe … Gettysburg?” she said.
“Don’t guess. Do you know what side of your family he’s from?” asked
Mrs. Norwood. Sophia shook her head. Mrs. Norwood sighed. “It’s not
enough just to bring in something. You should know the story, your connection
to the object. The Civil War was the first war to be photographed a lot, the
battles and the soldiers. It’s not like today, with digital cameras.
Photographers had to bring all of their equipment, heavy, heavy equipment, in
wagons.” She held up the photo. “This is called a tintype. It’s on metal, see?
And the image is still sharp.”
Max leaned over to Evan and whispered, “I told you she’s really into
this. She knows more about these heirlooms than the people who bring them
in. She can tell you their stories.”
 He was not going to get a story, Evan realized. He felt embarrassed by
his deficiency. Even though Mrs. Norwood and Max had said it was okay not
to have anything, it did not feel good to be the only one without something to
share.
Mrs. Norwood laughed at a letter that Daniel brought in, from his great-
great-great-great-great-grandmother telling her husband that she was “as fat
as a pig,” Mrs. Norwood pointed out that she probably didn’t want her
husband to worry that she was going hungry while he was away since food
supplies sometimes ran low in Virginia. Even Max’s plain old canteen had a
story.
“These bullseye canteens were for the Union soldiers,” she told him.
“Your great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy probably took it off a dead
Union soldier.” Some of the class cheered, as though the war was still
happening. Weren’t they all supposed to be on the same side now, reunited as
one country? Wasn’t this all in the past?
Then Evan got it. This was why Mrs. Norwood had asked him if he
wanted to be the scribe. This was why Max told him not to worry about the
heirloom. This is what Brady meant when he said I don’t know who you’re
going to be. His classmates had real connections to the Civil War. They were
touching the things their ancestors had touched, knowing the stories their
families had known. He was watching the action, but not part of it. It was
Mrs. Norwood’s way of telling Evan, maybe in the kindest way she could,
that he did not belong.
He lifted his head and by sheer accident, caught Brady’s eye. Brady
smiled harshly and then shook his head, slowly and deliberately. He wiggled
his box deliberately. That, more than anything, made Evan feel worse than
anything.
He’d just have to try harder, thought Evan. Try harder to belong.
“You fixin’ to eat that?” Evan asked Celeste. They were both standing in
front of the fridge and he was practically breathing down her neck. Evan was
a maniac around food.
Celeste shook her head and turned to face Evan, still blocking his access
to the fridge. “Evan, why are you talking like that?” Normally, she might have
let the whole thing pass by, but her nerves were already on edge.
“Like what?”
“Like what? Like you’re some deep-fried cornpone dude from around
here. We don’t say fixin’ and if we were to say fix-ing”—Celeste made sure
to go hard on the second syllable—“we would mean that we are in the
middle of repairing something.”
“Geez, who died and appointed you the head of proper pronunciation?
I’ll say what I want,” declared Evan. “Uncle Joe said to go along to get
along. There’s nothing wrong with talking like the other folks.”
“Folks?” Celeste nearly fell over. “The only time you should say folk is
when the word music comes right after, and you’ve got an acoustic guitar in
one hand.” She shook her head. “We’re not from here.”
“I know that,” said Evan. “I just like the way it sounds.”
“You’re not fooling anyone,” said Celeste.
She had not meant for her words to cut so hard, but they did. Evan
seemed to deflate. “Tell me about it,” he said. Celeste felt guilty for a
second, but then again, Evan already had a new best friend. What did he have
to complain about?
“Tell me about it,” said Celeste. “This boy at school? He thinks he likes
me. Ugh. His name is Luke. He follows me around, telling me how pretty I
am and how he likes my long black hair and how I must be so smart and I’m
not like the other girls, blah blah blah.”
“Gee, an admirer. Poor you,” said Evan.
“Except he doesn’t know anything about me! I’m just an idea to him. A
thing. He doesn’t know what I like, or what I believe in. I’m just some weird
idea of being cool and exotic to him. We’ve never even really had a
conversation.”
“At least he’s not asking if you have the China virus,” said Evan sulkily.
Celeste put her hands on her hips. It was one thing for her to give Evan a
hard time, but an entirely different issue if someone else did it. “Someone
actually said that? You should tell the teacher.”
Evan hesitated. “She was right there, and she told him not to say that. But
he still hasn’t actually been going out of his way to be nice. Not like you and
that boy.”
“It’s the same thing, Evan. A person who hates you without knowing you
is the same as a person who likes you without knowing you.”
“One situation seems slightly more pleasant than the other,” Evan pointed
out. “I would accept being superficially liked. Why don’t you make some
real friends if that’s your problem?”
“I’m not getting attached to anyone here. I mean, what’s the point if I’m
just going to leave after graduation?”
“In a couple years,” Evan pointed out. “That’s a long time. You’re going
to be lonely a long time if you don’t try.”
“I’m looking into graduating early,” said Celeste. That was a slight
exaggeration. Her counselor had mentioned that she might be able to get
accepted early to a college if she did well on the SAT.
“If you say you’re fixin’ to graduate early, people will know what you
mean,” said Evan stubbornly. He reached around Celeste, grabbed a bowl of
spaghetti out of the fridge, and took it with him to his bedroom. He didn’t
even stop to heat it up.

* * *

Uncle Joe came over for dinner, but the air between Evan and Celeste was
still tense. Evan sat at the dinner table and scowled at the dishes Mom had
put out. Celeste decided that she would try to put on a good face, just to be
different from Evan.
“I just got my first biology test back,” announced Celeste as she helped
herself to some rice. “Highest grade in the class. My plan for world
domination has begun.”
“Good job,” said Mom. “Evan did well on his test, too. In math.” Evan
looked surprised.
“The test I had this morning?” he said. “I haven’t even gotten the test
back.” Mom put a big scoop of rice in her mouth and then shook her head,
indicating that she couldn’t talk with her mouth full. Celeste smelled a rat.
“Did you talk to Evan’s teacher today?” Celeste asked.
Mom took her time chewing and swallowing. “I’ve been checking in with
her by email.” She didn’t look at either one of them directly. “She says you
are a good student, in case you are wondering,” she said to Evan.
“When’s the last time you talked to her?” Celeste asked. “Or emailed
her?”
“Mmmm … this afternoon?” Mom dabbed her lips with her napkin.
“And the time before that?”
“This morning?” She made it sound like a question, like she wasn’t sure,
but Mom knew, Celeste was certain of that.
“Mom, have you been emailing Evan’s teacher twice a day?” Celeste set
her fork down. A horrible idea occurred to her. “Have you been doing that to
my teachers, too?”
“No!” Mom was indignant. “I’ve only been writing to them once a day.
Not all of them write back, I must say. Very disappointing.”
 Celeste and Evan exchanged looks. “Mom, you shouldn’t be writing to
the teachers without telling us,” said Celeste. “We don’t want to be those
kids. The ones whose parents are a big pain. If we need your help, we’ll
ask.” Uncle Joe grabbed a napkin and covered a smile.
“I just want you guys to get off on the right foot here. There’s been a lot to
get used to.” Mom looked like she might start crying. Celeste felt guilty, but
only guilty enough to stop being mad on the outside. She was still steaming
on the inside.
“They’re going to be okay,” said Uncle Joe. “They’re good kids. Don’t
be one of those drone parents.”
“The term is helicopter parent,” said Celeste. Uncle Joe laughed.
Mom took a deep breath. “I was planning on cutting back, anyway.”
“Well, you need to just stop. No wonder my English teacher keeps asking
me if I’m okay.” Celeste leaned back in her chair and shook her head.
Evan had been quiet this whole time. He was, apparently, getting madder.
“When you were emailing Mrs. Norwood, did she tell you that tomorrow
is the last day to share heirlooms?” asked Evan. “Did she tell you that
everyone had something to bring in about the Civil War except me and that
she wants me to be a scribe?” His voice rose with each word until he was
yelling.
“Jeez, Evan, calm down,” said Celeste. “It’s not a big deal. Mom said
she would stop.”
“Yes, it is!” said Evan. “At least I’m trying!”
“That sounds like an awful assignment,” said Celeste. “What if you had a
classmate who was Black? What would they bring in?”
“I don’t know,” said Evan miserably. What was worse, to have nothing,
or to have the evidence of an awful past? Celeste wondered. Her thoughts
were interrupted by her uncle thumping the table.
“But you had relatives who fought in the civil war!” thundered Uncle Joe.
“Both of my grandfathers, your great-grandfathers, fought for the
Nationalists.” Uncle Joe shook his head in disgust. “No relatives in the civil
war!” he repeated. Evan was too shocked to respond, which Celeste
approved of. At least Uncle Joe had shaken him up a bit, gotten him out of his
pout.
Celeste tried to clarify. “He means the American Civil War, Uncle Joe.
Not the Chinese Civil War.” Uncle Joe did not seem to hear her.
Uncle Joe waved a spoon around for dramatic effect. “A civil war is a
civil war. Neighbor fighting neighbor. Brother against brother. If your teacher
didn’t specify American Civil War, you should talk about the Chinese Civil
War. It will be good for class discussion. Isn’t that what they do these days?
Compare and contrast?” Uncle Joe cricked his neck. “More people should
know about Chinese history, anyway.”
“You don’t know Mrs. Norwood,” said Evan. “This is, like, her life. She
only cares about the American Civil War.”
“I’ll let you bring in one of my grandfather’s grenades,” said Uncle Joe.
“Your great-grandfather. It was called a potato masher grenade. There was
this handle so you could throw it …”
“We cannot, can NOT, bring in weapons,” Celeste interrupted. “You can
get expelled for that.” Did they allow weapons in school when Mom and
Uncle Joe were young? Maybe Battlefield Elementary was more descriptive
than she thought.
“I don’t want to bring in a weapon from the Chinese Civil War,” said
Evan. “I’ll just look stupid.” Uncle Joe looked disappointed. Now it was
Celeste’s turn to feel irritated. Uncle Joe was only trying to help.
Celeste blew her hair out of her face, pushing out her lower lip and
aiming a huge puff of air toward her forehead. “It’s stupid; this whole thing is
stupid. If I were you, I’d strut in there and say, yeah, I don’t have anything
and I don’t care. We have our own history. Thousands of years of history.”
“Stop giving your brother a hard time,” said Mom. Evan had stopped
eating and bowed his head. Ugh, Mr. Sensitive got away with everything.
“You’re so dumb! You know there aren’t Chinese people in the Civil
War! Why do you want something you can’t have?” Now Celeste was
shouting, too. There were so many things they wanted that they couldn’t have.
Their old house, their old friends, their old way of life. Why add one more
thing?
Evan poked his chin up. “You don’t know that! You can’t prove a
negative,” Evan said, his voice matching hers. Uncle Joe slid slightly back
away from the table and mouthed wow. “Boy, this sounds like some of the
fights we used to have,” Uncle Joe said to Mom. “Remember the time you
threw a mántou at me?”
“Celeste, you need to be the better person here. Stop giving your little
brother a hard time,” said Mom in a singsong voice. Even in the moment that
Mom was defending Evan, Celeste had to snicker. The one thing Mom
definitely did not say was that Evan’s wish wasn’t stupid.
“I’m going to google ‘Chinese’ and ‘U.S. Civil War’ and get zero
results,” Celeste said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. They were not
allowed to have phones at the table, but it was time to finish off this pointless
discussion. “Have you ever heard of a googlenope? That’s when a search is
so dumb”— she made sure to pause on this word—“that you get zero
results.”
Celeste was fully confident in her ability to search for any idea, any fact.
She started typing on her phone, windmilling her arm in a totally unnecessary
gesture to press ENTER. She held the phone toward Evan before the search
completed, just to make a point.
Evan did not look defeated, though. He stared at the phone, his eyes
growing wider. Celeste turned the screen back to see what he was looking at.
“Whoa,” said Evan. “Whoaaaaaaa.”
A black-and-white photo. A man in a slouch uniform, decorated with big
buttons and a wide belt. It was like so many pictures Celeste had seen in
history books at school, with one major difference.
“That’s an Asian soldier,” said Evan, taking the phone from Celeste. He
zoomed in on the bottom. “His name was Joseph Pierce. He fought for the
Union. He was in the infantry, whatever that is. He was born in China.”
 Uncle Joe crowded in to take a look. “Infantry means the foot soldiers,”
he said. “The hard-core part of the military.” He took the phone from Evan
and stared at the screen with one eyebrow raised, skeptical. “That’s not a
Chinese name, though.”
Evan took the phone back and scrolled down some more. “He was
brought to the U.S. from China by a Connecticut ship captain. He adopted
him. That’s why his name doesn’t sound Chinese.”
“Can I have my phone back, please?” Celeste enlarged the photo to get a
better look at his face. He had a determined, impatient stare, as if he needed
to be somewhere else. “You guys can look this up on your own phones.” She
looked back at the search results. “There’s more than just Joseph Pierce,” she
announced.
Under normal circumstances, Evan would have been a pain about Celeste
being wrong. It would have been a whole thing. But now he was staring at his
own phone. “I can’t believe it,” said Evan. “We fought in the Civil War.” He
touched the screen.
“I don’t think we’re related to any of these soldiers,” said Mom. “We
would have heard, right? My grandparents came over in the 1960s.” She
didn’t say anything about Dad, but Celeste knew. Her dad had come to the
U.S. as a little boy in the 1980s.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Evan. He was practically giddy. “We were here.
We were here. I get a story.”
Casey Plummer was one of Max’s best friends, mostly because they were the
two most athletic boys in the class and kept up a friendly rivalry between
them. In the past, Max was usually the faster one, while Casey excelled in
events involving grip strength and hand-eye coordination. Casey had recently
undergone a growth spurt, much to Max’s dismay, giving Casey another
advantage in their post-lunch recess games of three-on-three basketball and
flag football. Max made a habit of measuring himself every Sunday morning,
to see if he might have a growth spurt starting, but so far, no luck.
Casey was the best quarterback for flag football, a game they normally
played on Thursdays after lunch. Max suggested that Evan could be the other
quarterback, which everyone agreed to. “We could use another quarterback,”
said Casey. “Makes the teams more even.” Casey’s comment didn’t surprise
Max. Casey liked a good competition. What did surprise him, though, was
that Casey made Brady his first choice. Brady was not a first-round pick for
these games—he was kind of slow and yelled at other people.
“I’ll take care of it for you,” Brady said to Casey after they were done
picking teams. Max’s ears pricked up. What was Brady talking about?
“What’s going on?” Max asked Casey. Casey shrugged. “He really
wanted me to pick him for my team,” said Casey. Max was Evan’s first pick,
along with Taylor, Julia, and Jack.
 Taylor counted off seven seconds for Casey. After an incomplete pass,
Casey managed to move the ball downfield on two short passes connecting to
Daniel, who added some yardage on foot before getting his flags ripped off,
first by Max and then by Julia. On the fourth down, Casey lofted the ball into
the end zone to Brady, but the ball sailed through his hands. Max still
couldn’t tell what Brady’s deal was. Brady didn’t even seem that upset that
he couldn’t catch the ball, which was unlike him.
Now it was Evan’s team’s turn to have the ball. Brady lined up in the
center, across from Max who was hiking the ball to Evan. The plan was for
Max to run a buttonhook pattern for Evan to throw to. If that didn’t work,
Evan’s second option was Jack, but Jack would have to get past Casey,
which was tricky.
“One … twothreefivesixseven,” shouted Brady.
As soon as the second syllable of seven, ven, came out of his mouth, Max
hiked the ball and took off. He thought Brady might make a move for him, but
Brady charged across the line of scrimmage, straight for Evan instead. Max
looked over his shoulder. Evan backed up a few steps, launched the ball
downfield. Brady still came charging at him.
Max stopped running and turned to watch. Brady’s going to tackle Evan,
was Max’s first thought. Brady is going to crush Evan was his second.
Brady was about six inches and twenty to thirty pounds bigger than Evan. The
whole purpose of flag football was to eliminate tackling, and that’s exactly
what Brady was about to do.
“Evan! Look out!” shouted Max.
Evan looked as surprised as Max felt. Brady opened his arms wide,
lowered his body, and lunged straight at Evan’s knees.
Evan seemed to levitate almost straight into the air. Of course, that was
impossible. People can’t levitate. Or can they? Evan jumped, tucking his
knees in, leaving plenty of space underneath him. Brady went crashing face-
first into the dirt while Evan landed to the side unharmed. The ball thudded
in the dirt.
 Almost immediately, a crowd formed. Taylor turned away, said
something to Julia, and they both burst into giggles. Something about Brady,
Max guessed.
Brady rolled over in the dirt. A brown smudge started on his chin, and
then continued down his shirt and pants. Alex offered him a hand up. Brady
batted it away.
“Flag on the play, repeat first down,” announced Max, jogging up with
the ball under his right arm. “You okay, Ev?” Evan nodded.
“What’s the call?” asked Jack.
“Tackling,” said Max. He didn’t name names, but he didn’t need to.
“It wasn’t a successful tackle,” ventured Alex.
“Only because Evan outsmarted Brady,” said Taylor, pretending to jump
in the air. Julia and Taylor started laughing again.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” said Evan. “It just seemed like the best way to get
out of the way.” Evan sounded defensive, as if he was the one who had done
something wrong.
“Attempting to tackle counts,” said Max. “Y’all saw it, right? We have to
call it.” He said the words without looking directly at Brady. A few heads
nodded in agreement. Brady folded his arms.
“He cheated,” Brady declared. “Pretty sure that was an illegal move.”
“You’re the one who made an illegal move,” said Taylor. She said the
exact words Max was going to say. “As in tackling? During flag football?”
“Shut up, Taylor,” said Brady. “You don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
Mrs. Norwood’s whistle interrupted them, signaling the end of recess.
Normally, there were sighs of disappointment when the whistle sounded,
especially on a pretty spring day like this one. This time, though, no one
complained or tried to sneak in one more play. No one wanted to deal with
Brady when he was mad.

* * *
Max thought Evan might have been shaken up after the game, but he seemed
fine. Happy, even. When Mrs. Norwood asked for the last volunteers for
heirlooms, Evan raised his hand.
Evan? Maybe he had been hit. In the head. Mrs. Norwood raised her
eyebrows, and called on him.
“It’s not an heirloom, exactly,” Evan said shyly. “But it’s really cool.” He
pulled out a single sheet of paper and held it up. It was a picture of a soldier
in a Civil War uniform, but the soldier was Asian. “I found out last night
there were Chinese soldiers during the Civil War. The American Civil War.
This soldier’s name was Joseph Pierce.”
Every single person in the class was paying attention. Hands started to go
up in the air. Mrs. Norwood, knower of all things related to the Civil War,
seemed stunned.
“Did he speak English?” asked Sophia.
“That’s not a Chinese name, though, right?” said Jack.
“Is he related to you?” asked Alex.
Evan shook his head. “I wish, but my mom is pretty sure we’re not
related to any Civil War soldiers because of when we came to this country.”
“He looks like you,” said Daniel.
“How did he end up in the United States?” asked Julia.
“He was adopted,” said Evan. “A ship captain brought him to the U.S.
from China when he was little, probably because there was a famine in
China. At least that’s what my uncle thinks.”
“Famine means an extreme shortage of food,” said Mrs. Norwood. “The
Irish potato famine is a famous example. Lots of people from Ireland came to
the U.S. in the years before the Civil War because of the famine.”
“So he probably spoke English,” said Julia. “Did he survive the war?”
“I don’t know,” said Evan.
“You expect us to believe this?” That question was from Brady. “You
gotta be making this up.” It was the same tone Brady had used when he
accused Evan of cheating in flag football.
 “I’m … I’m not,” Evan stammered. But the class quieted down,
contemplating Brady’s point. Anything was possible with some photo editing,
thought Max. And why hadn’t Evan brought this in sooner? Then Max felt
embarrassed by his thoughts. Evan was his friend.
“You’ve never heard of this, right?” Brady pressed Mrs. Norwood.
“You’ve been studying the Civil War for years and years, longer than the war
itself. He’s making this up ’cause he wants something to share.”
“I know a lot,” said Mrs. Norwood. “But I’m not too proud to say that
there are things I don’t know. I know there were Black soldiers in the Civil
War. The United States Colored Troops made up one-tenth of the Union
Army, but I don’t know anything about Chinese soldiers.” When Mrs.
Norwood said “Colored Troops,” Evan felt a start. Would Chinese soldiers
have been in those troops?
“What about the Confederate Army?” asked Casey. “Did the Confederate
Army also have Black soldiers?”
“My understanding is that the Confederacy allowed the enlistment of
Black soldiers in the last month of the war,” said Mrs. Norwood.
Taylor made a noise. “So, when they made Black people soldiers, they
basically admitted that they needed Black people to win the war they were
fighting to keep Black people enslaved. So much irony.”
Mrs. Norwood didn’t respond. She reached for the photo, and then
withdrew her hand. “Evan, maybe you could go to the library and find out
more. Just to be a little more certain.” She cleared her throat. “Any other
questions before we move on? Evan is going to get back to us. Really
extraordinary information,” she said, half to the class, half to herself.
“But that means I don’t have to be a scribe,” said Evan. “I can be a
soldier, right?”
“I never said you had to be the scribe, but yes, I can see why now, the
role of soldier would seem especially appealing.” Mrs. Norwood looked
over at the clock. “Well, that took longer than I had planned, but it’s worth it.
Let’s work on vocabulary before it’s time for …”
 “Wait,” said Brady. He held up his box. “I haven’t gone yet. You can’t
just stop after Evan.”
“Oh yes, right. My apologies. Does anyone else have something to
share?” asked Mrs. Norwood. No one else raised their hand.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Norwood. She leaned against her desk and
rubbed her eye. “You may share, Brady.”
Brady rubbed his hands together. “You guys won’t believe what I have,”
he said, lifting up the flaps of the box. “It was worn by my great-great-great-
great-great-grandfather on my father’s side.” He reached both hands into the
box and pulled out something heavy and wooden. “Jubal Griggs. You can
look him up. It’s the leg they made for him after his leg got blown off at
Chancellorsville. His left leg.” He stood the leg up on the desk, and the class
could see the shape of a foot, calf, and knee, with long flat metal pieces
holding them together. At the top was a cuff with laces to attach the leg to the
person. “My dad said that his grandmother said he could do chores as well
as anybody,” said Brady.
Mrs. Norwood said that an artificial body part was called a prosthetic.
“At a time when men were defined by their ability to do physical labor,
instead of working at a computer,” she said. “Prosthetics were very
important to help soldiers feel whole. And amputations were very common
during the war.”
Daniel raised his hand. “My uncle has prosthetic legs because he lost
them in Afghanistan. Sometimes they give him rashes, but he says they’re
okay. He used to get phantom pain, too.”
“What’s phantom pain?” asked Taylor.
“It’s pain from a body part that isn’t there anymore,” said Daniel. “It’s
like your brain’s wiring gets tricked.”
Mrs. Norwood nodded. “Does anyone else have a question or comment
for Brady?”
Brady made the leg take a few thumping steps across his desk. The class
watched the foot roll along the top, the hinges squeaking slightly. Ka-chunk,
ka-chunk, ka-chunk. But no one had any more questions.
 “I liked Evan’s thing the best,” said Julia quietly, as if trying to explain
their silence. “It’s something different than the same old stories.”
“If it’s true,” said Brady.
“It is true,” said Evan.
“We can have old stories and new,” said Mrs. Norwood. “There’s room
for both.”
But did the old stories stifle the new ones? Max wondered.
Normally, the house was empty when Evan got home from school. Today,
though, Uncle Joe was there, working on the back door. Uncle Joe waved,
holding a screwdriver in his hand.
“Job finished up early for once,” said Uncle Joe. “Thought I’d take care
of this door before your mom worries any more about it. Trying not to have to
rehang it, though. That’d be a pain.”
Doors were hung? This was news to Evan, but he wasn’t going to share
that with Uncle Joe. “I helped my friend Max fix a toaster the other day,”
Evan told him.
“That’s the stuff,” said Uncle Joe. “Right there. That’s how I got my start.
Fixed an oscillating fan when I was about your age. People are too willing to
throw things away these days.”
“When you were my age, like, when you could bring a grenade to
school?” teased Evan. This was the closest he’d ever felt to Uncle Joe,
thinking that Uncle Joe had been his age once.
“How’d that go, anyway? Did the kids like the photo? Pretty great find.”
Uncle Joe kept working as he talked. He pressed the button on the lock, but
the door still opened. “I think I’m going to replace the doorknob and the
keeper.”
“Some of the kids thought the photo was a fake,” said Evan.
“No!” said Uncle Joe stoutly. “It’s not.”
 “How do you know?” asked Evan. Maybe Uncle Joe wanted that piece of
history as much as Evan did. “Why didn’t we know about Joseph Pierce if
he’s real?”
“C’mon,” said Uncle Joe. “There’s lots of things I don’t know. Doesn’t
mean they’re not real.” He began packing up his tools. “But we’re going to
settle this right now.” He stuck the chair back under the door. “You’re in luck.
This is one of the days the library is open and I have a friend who can help
us.”
“The library? You have a friend at the library?” Evan followed Uncle Joe
out to his truck. Libraries, in Evan’s mind, were for adults who wore sweater
vests and flat brown shoes. Uncle Joe, with his long gray hair and deep
pockets of duct tape and screws, didn’t quite fit this idea.
“Of course!” Uncle Joe seemed slightly insulted by the question. “I use
the library and I get to know the people who work there. You think I’m some
sort of ignoramus?”
“No, not at all,” said Evan hastily. “I guess it’s a side of you that I didn’t
know about.”
“ ‘I am large, I contain multitudes,’ ” said Uncle Joe, starting up the truck.
“You know Walt Whitman?”
“Is that your friend’s name?” asked Evan.
Uncle Joe laughed. “Walt Whitman was a famous poet. But since his
words bring me comfort, sure, let’s go with that. He’s a friend, too.”

* * *

Uncle Joe parked the truck on the town square and they walked over to a low
brick building. The library was spare, with a black-and-white linoleum floor
and off-white walls. A few ceiling fans twirled from the ceiling. Uncle Joe
waved to a man sitting behind a tall wooden desk. He had a name tag—G.
Lavers. Mr. Lavers reminded Evan of a sparrow, with bright brown eyes and
quick movements.
 “Those books you wanted are coming back next week,” he told Uncle
Joe. “I’ll call you when they’re ready for you. And did you want to renew
those books you’ve had out? They’re almost due.”
“That’s great,” said Uncle Joe. “But we’re here for something else
today.” He gave Evan a small push forward. “This is my nephew, Evan, and
he’s on a research mission. Evan, this is my friend, George Lavers.”
“Call me George,” said the librarian, shaking Evan’s hand. George’s
mouth fell open as Evan explained what he was looking for.
“That’s amazing!” he said. “I can definitely help you. The Civil War is
always a subject of interest around here.” He pointed out back toward the
square. “You know, we have a public hearing going on in one of the meeting
rooms right now about the statue of the Confederate soldier in the town
square. There’s talk of taking it down.”
“C’mon. It’s history,” said Uncle Joe.
George snorted, nicely. “If only. Except, what do you know, about two
dozen towns in Virginia all got the idea to put up Confederate statues around
the same time, in the early 1900s, including Haddington. All at the
courthouses. Pretty amazing coincidence, huh?”
“I don’t get it,” said Evan. “Isn’t it a coincidence, I mean?” Uncle Joe
looked equally confused.
“Civil rights protests were happening around that time,” said George.
“Protesting things like the segregation of streetcars. The NAACP was
founded. The statues were put up to intimidate. To show what, or who, was
valued, and who was not.”
“Maybe.” Uncle Joe didn’t look convinced. Evan nodded slightly. It
seemed possible. He’d seen clips of what happened during the civil rights
protests of the 1960s—attack dogs and fire hoses used against protestors. A
statue could be another way of saying no, of denying people rights.
George shook his head. “It was no accident, those statues going up when
they did. It takes a lot of effort to pay for and plan a statue, especially on a
courthouse lawn, the place where many people seek justice.” George
emphasized the last word. “But enough of me on my soapbox. Sorry, I get
carried away sometimes when people say that statues are history. It is, just
not the history they’re thinking about.” He turned to his computer and began
tapping. “So, we need to figure out if Joseph Pierce is the real deal?”
Evan nodded, though he was imagining what it would be like to see the
statue and feel unwanted or unable to get a fair shake. What if he came to
school one day, and there was a big statue of Brady Griggs in the front? It
wouldn’t make him feel welcome. Uncle Joe leaned forward on the counter
so he could see the screen as George typed. Evan rose up on his toes to get a
look, too.
“Well!” George said. “A quick Google search shows that he’s mentioned
on multiple websites, including some pretty reputable ones, like this one
from the National Park Service. But, I personally like to see some primary
sources to be one hundred percent sure.” George stopped typing and stared at
the screen.
“Me too,” said Evan, though he was racking his brain to remember what
that meant. Primary sources were things like newspapers and firsthand
accounts. So wasn’t a photo a primary source? His head was spinning.
“Mmmm. I have an idea. The library has a subscription to a genealogy
database.” After a few more moments, he turned the screen and showed Evan
what looked like a really messy chart. He tapped the monitor. “Look here.
This is the census from 1880. It shows that a Joseph Pierce lived in Meriden,
Connecticut, with his wife and daughter, and that he was born in China, and
his parents were born in China.”
Evan ran his finger along the screen, trying to read the cursive writing,
which swerved like a kid learning to ride a bike. Joseph Pierce was an
engraver. His wife’s name was Martha.
“No one can say this was made up?”
“Tampering with the census would be a federal crime,” said George
briskly. “And look, here are more articles about Joseph.” He showed Evan
the list, and clicked on one for Evan to read. The article said Joseph was
described as “pigtail and all, the only Chinese in the Army of the Potomac.”
 “Pigtail!” Uncle Joe snorted at the description. “It was a queue. Anyone
who wanted to return to China had to keep their queue.”
“Anything else?” asked Evan. If one source was good, then two or more
were even better.
“Here’s a book from the National Park Services on Asians in the Civil
War. A dot gov website is always a good bet,” said George.
“Do you have the National Park book here?” asked Evan.
“I doubt it. We’re a pretty small library. But I can do an interlibrary loan
for you,” said George. “That means the library borrows the book from
another library. Might take a while, though.”
“Is there anything I can have now?” asked Evan.
“Mmmm, here’s an article. By Ruthanne Lum McCunn. It’s seventeen
pages long, and there’s a twenty-cent-per-page fee to print.”
“I don’t have …” Evan started.
“Sold!” Uncle Joe interrupted. He reached into his wallet and pulled out
a five-dollar bill.
“I can pay you back,” offered Evan.
Uncle Joe made a face. “You’re my nephew,” he said. As if that
explained everything.
George swiveled around and took the paper off the printer, even stapled
them together. “Here you go,” he said, handing Evan the paper. “And if you
apply for a card, I can start working on that interlibrary loan.”
Evan flipped through the packet. “There are no pictures!” he said,
dismayed. That made George laugh.
“It’s an academic paper,” he explained. “Those tend to be heavy on
words, not so big on pictures.”
“It does talk about Joseph Pierce, though,” said Evan, pleased. “That’s
good. And a bunch more people.”
“You should say thank you, and you can just read a little bit at a time, no
need to rush,” said Uncle Joe to Evan.
Evan said thank you. George smiled at both of them. “You’re a good
uncle,” he said. “You all should go to the meeting. You might have something
to add, and anyway, you’d find it interesting, being history buffs.”
“What do you say?” Uncle Joe asked Evan. “All the time I’ve lived here,
I’ve never been to one of these, whaddyacallit, public meetings.”
Evan didn’t really want to go. The statue discussion did not seem like
one he wanted to be part of. Especially since the discussion sounded
confusing and angry. But Uncle Joe seemed interested, and Evan figured he
owed him one after he paid for printing the article. “I suppose it couldn’t
hurt.”
The meeting room was a large gray rectangle with no windows. At one
end, three men and one woman sat at a long table, and the rest of the room
was filled with people sitting, facing the table. All of the heads in the room
turned and looked when they entered the room. One of the men at the table
lifted his head. “Ah, this is a hearing on the Civil War statue in the town
square,” he said to Evan and Uncle Joe.
“We know,” said Uncle Joe. He picked a seat up front and patted the
chair next to him for Evan.
“Takes all kinds, I guess,” said the man, who, according to the nameplate
in front of him, was Councilman Thomas Byrne. What did that mean? George
had said this was a public meeting, open to everyone.
“Forgive the interruption. Please continue,” said the man sitting next to
Thomas Byrne. His name was Councilman Harry Tate. He was speaking to a
man standing at a podium. “You still have time.” He gave Councilman Byrne
a look. Evan guessed he didn’t like Byrne’s comment, either.
“I was pretty much finished,” said the man. “I can’t believe we’re even
having this discussion. My great-grandfather helped put up that statue, raised
the money for it. The idea of taking it down is disgusting.” Evan tried to get a
better look at who was speaking, but the podium was angled toward the
council members sitting at the table.
Councilman Tate smiled slightly. “If we weren’t allowed to change
anything in this town that was put up by your people, nothing would change
around here. But times do change. And statues have gone down across the
country, including Richmond, just as they once went up.”
 “People will forget their history,” said the man, a young man, really,
ending his statement. About half the room broke into applause as he started
walking back to the seats.
Evan leaned over to Uncle Joe and whispered, “But sometimes we don’t
even know the whole history.” Uncle Joe nodded and folded his arms.
The man from the podium heard Evan’s comment. He turned toward
Evan. “What’d you say?” he said roughly.
Councilman Tate knocked on the table. “All comments must be addressed
to the chair,” he said. “And such comments must be courteous in tone. Though
the chair will recognize the young gentleman if he wishes to speak.”
The young gentleman was Evan. He froze. Maybe if he didn’t move,
they’d forget he was in the room. This was not what he had signed up for
when he said he’d go to the meeting.
Uncle Joe gave him a nudge. “Sure, tell ’em if you’re inclined.”
Evan stayed rooted to his chair. Public speaking was about as appealing
as swimming with sharks. But he had something to say, didn’t he? It’s now or
never, he told himself. Do it. Do it! He launched himself at the podium.
Councilman Tate asked for his name. Evan told him.
“Are you a resident of this town?” asked Councilman Byrne.
“We moved here a few weeks ago,” said Evan. He pointed at Uncle Joe.
“That’s my uncle. He’s lived here a while.” Uncle Joe nodded and sat up
straighter.
Councilman Tate took over. “Now, Evan, did you have a comment for the
council regarding the statue in the town square?” Mr. Tate smiled, as if to
make up for Mr. Byrne’s grumpiness.
Evan laid the article George had given him on the podium. He was
starting to sweat. One of the pages stuck to his hand and he had to flap his
hand to get it off. He pulled the microphone down toward his mouth, and it
let out a high-pitched squeal. Not a good sign. Still, Evan stayed at the
podium, grateful that his shaking knees weren’t showing. He thought about
what George had said about the statues going up around the same time, but
the council members already knew that. It was time for a different argument.
 “I was just saying that instead of worrying about forgetting history, and I
don’t think anyone around here is going to forget about the Civil War anytime
soon, it’s more important to know the whole history.” He wiped his hand
across his forehead. “I found out that there were Chinese soldiers in the Civil
War, and even my teacher, Mrs. Norwood, didn’t know that.”
Councilman Byrne raised one eyebrow. “That’s very interesting, son, but
I don’t know what that has to do with what we’re talking about.”
“Um … Son?” asked Evan.
“That’s just an expression around here, which you’d know if you’d been
living here more than fifteen minutes.” Then he laughed in a not pleasant way.
Councilman Tate knocked on the table. “The council member will refrain
from making comments during testimony.”
“But that’s the point,” Evan blurted out. “Knowing that people looked
like me, during the Civil War, that means something.” He held up the article.
“These are Chinese soldiers who fought in the Civil War. Joseph Pierce for
starters. There are more.” His words were staggering, tumbling out,
threatening to fall at any moment. He took a deep breath. “But when you have
a statue, it’s like one idea about who fought in it is stuck in concrete.”
Someone in the audience started to clap, and others joined him. Some
people booed. Councilman Tate knocked on the table, calling for order. In the
middle of the clapping, there was a loud bang. The man who had spoken
before Evan had walked out, slamming the door behind him. Evan sat back
down.
“Hey,” Uncle Joe whispered. “You did really well. I’m so proud of you!”
Uncle Joe put his arm across the back of Evan’s seat. That almost made
getting up and talking in front of everyone worthwhile.
“I made that guy mad. And that one guy up there doesn’t seem very
friendly,” Evan whispered back.
“You’re never going to make everyone happy,” said Uncle Joe. “It’s more
important to stand up for what you believe in.” He took out his phone and
wrote down something. “And I’m going to pay attention to the next time this
guy runs for office.” He meant Councilman Byrne.
 Even when it was all over, though, Evan could not quell the shaky feeling
inside of him, the sense that someone had struck a note inside him and now it
was vibrating endlessly. It was that man’s anger, the one who had slammed
his way out of the room. This was why he hated his thing, his Mr. Sensitive,
sometimes. In order to feel the lie, he felt other people’s moods, keenly. In
the chest. Why should he care? Why couldn’t he just shake it off?
Going back outside helped. The sun hung low in the sky, keeping the late
afternoon air warm, creating long shadows from the statue they had just been
debating. Evan put his hand up to shield his face, to look at the statue. The
sun was behind the statue, turning it dark and faceless.
“We should go get ice cream,” said Uncle Joe. “To celebrate.”
“Celebrate?”
“Heck yeah! You got up there and spoke up before the council. I couldn’t
do that.” Uncle Joe twitched, like he was shaking off a bug. “Not without
some serious reinforcements.”
“Mom would probably be mad if I had ice cream before dinner,” Evan
pointed out. “The question is, if she’d be madder at you or me.”
“Oh, me of course,” said Uncle Joe. “I’m the adult. Well, maybe we can
pick up some to take home. I think they have ice-cream pints over at
Charlotte’s.” He pointed across the way to a sign with pink swirling script.
BURGERS AND FRIES! MILKSHAKES!
Evan saw something else. Across the square, poking into a garbage can,
was a medium-sized dog with thick, dark brown fur. A girl. She pulled out a
balled-up sandwich wrapper, nosed it open, and ate the bit of sandwich
inside. Then, she rose up on her hind legs again, stuck her head back inside,
and pulled out a plastic cup with ice melting in the bottom, holding the top
edge in her teeth. She set the cup on the sidewalk and took out an ice cube.
“Someone’s having dinner,” said Evan. They walked across the square to
take a closer look.
“Doesn’t have a collar,” said Uncle Joe. “And seems to know her way
around a garbage can.”
 “Maybe she’s a stray,” said Evan. Evan knelt down and called to the dog.
She stared at him for a moment, then came over and smelled his outstretched
hand. “Hey there.” He ran his hand over her head. After a few more strokes,
she moved closer to him. Her fur was soft. “She’s nice.” Now the horrible,
buzzy feeling was going away. The dog calmed him.
“You better run before the dog catcher shows up,” said Uncle Joe,
teasing. He reached over and gave her a scratch behind the ears.
Evan petted the dog for a few more minutes. A plan was forming in his
mind. “You know what’s better than ice cream?” Evan asked his uncle.
“Pie?” asked Uncle Joe.
Evan gestured toward the dog, who was now smiling at him. Open mouth,
sparkly eyes, a long pink tongue lolling out.
“Now wait a minute,” said Uncle Joe. “One minute ago, you were telling
me that I’ll get in trouble with your mom if I give you ice cream, but now
you’re saying it’s okay to bring home a stray dog?”
“Well, I have definitely gotten in trouble for eating before dinner, but
technically, Mom has never said, ‘don’t bring home a stray dog.’ ” As if in
agreement, the dog put her paw on Evan’s foot, which made Evan feel more
determined.
“Your mom will have my hide! Joe, why can’t you be more responsible?
Who’s the adult here, Joe?” Uncle Joe raised his voice, pretending to be
Evan’s mom. “Not that she isn’t a sweet pup.”
Evan sensed an opening. “What if … the dog happened to, um, follow
us?”
“Follow us?”
“As in, you didn’t decide to bring her home, it just happened. She just …
jumped in the truck.”
“Well, that’s another matter entirely,” said Uncle Joe, stroking his beard.
“Then it sounds like fate, and who are we to deny fate?”
“The question is, how do we make fate happen?” said Evan. He looked at
the businesses around the square. “Can I have money for a hamburger?”
“That’s not really fate,” said Uncle Joe, smiling.
“You call it a hamburger,” said Evan. “I call it fate.”
Celeste was outside, sitting on the step when the truck pulled up. She’d been
sitting outside because she felt like it, not because she had been hoping that
someone might walk by and start a conversation. She had noticed that Ella
from her world history class walked her dog around five o’clock. Ella was
one of the more tolerable people at school, someone with something
interesting to say.
Ella had not come by with her dog today, but now Evan was getting out of
the truck with a dog. And a slightly guilty smile. He’d tied a rope around the
dog’s neck and was holding the other end. Evan, what are you up to?
Still, she couldn’t help making a long oooooh sound as she made her way
to the dog. This dog was cute, a word that Celeste tried to avoid, but it
definitely applied here. The dog looked like she was smiling. Celeste held
out her hand, so the dog could smell it, and then began petting her, gently at
first and then working into a full-blown ear and neck rub. “Who’s a good
dog? Who is a very good dog?”
“Why are you talking like that?” asked Evan. “You sound like you’re
talking to a baby.”
“That’s how you’re supposed to talk to dogs,” said Celeste. “I read that
somewhere.” She returned to her higher-pitched voice. “So where’d this
beautiful girl come from?”
 “She, uh, just jumped in the truck,” said Evan. Celeste stifled a laugh. As
good as he was at sussing out other people’s lies, Evan himself was a
terrible liar.
“Uh-huh,” said Celeste. “Just randomly jumped in, huh?”
“Maybe she was hungry,” said Evan. Uncle Joe nudged him and laughed.
“Well, she’s definitely used to people. Are you sure her owner wasn’t
around?” asked Celeste.
“No tags and she was eating out of a garbage can,” said Evan.
“People drop their dogs off in the country when they can’t afford ’em,”
said Uncle Joe. “They don’t want to take ’em to a shelter, so they just ditch
them.”
“That’s terrible,” said Celeste. She imagined how the dog felt after the
car drove off, expecting the family to come back. Maybe even thinking they’d
made a mistake. How long would a dog wait? she wondered.
“What’s going on here?” asked Mom, stepping outside. She put her hands
on her hips and looked at the dog. “A dog?!”
“She, um, followed us home,” said Uncle Joe. “Just jumped in the truck.
What could we do?”
“Uh-huh,” said Mom. She wasn’t falling for it any more than Celeste. But
at the same time, she didn’t say no, either. If anything, she seemed amused.
Celeste continued her all-out petting assault. Mom stroked the dog on the
head, exactly once, and then folded her arms.
“I think Mochi would be a nice name,” said Evan. “Her coloring reminds
me of the chocolate mochis back home.” So typical of Evan, thinking of food,
but it was a good name.
Celeste pulled out her phone. “I can order a nametag for her and put my
phone number on it.”
“It should be my phone number,” argued Evan.
“Whoa, whoa, I don’t know if we should name the dog. We don’t even
know if we’re going to keep her,” said Mom. “A dog is a lot of work.”
Somewhere in the distance, a car honked. Mochi opened her eyes and
turned her head toward the sound, cocking her head.
 “A guard dog!” said Evan. “You’re always complaining about wanting
the doors locked, but burglars avoid houses with dogs.”
“That’s true,” said Mom slowly.
“You’re also worried about us adjusting. Dogs promote mental health,”
said Celeste.
“Did I say that?” said Mom. “I retract that comment. My only concern is
your academic performance.” Mom’s phone rang; she looked at it and then
put the phone in her pocket without answering.
“Based on what I’m seeing, a dog is a lot of love,” said Uncle Joe. Mom
made a face at Uncle Joe. “You’re supposed to be on my side!” she mock-
scolded.
“Maybe I am on your side and you just don’t know it yet,” said Uncle
Joe. “Gǒu lái fú.”
Mom laughed. “I wish.”
“What does that mean?” asked Evan.
Mom scolded him. “If you spoke more Chinese, you’d know!”
“A dog brings luck,” said Uncle Joe. “Or fortune.”
“That’s before vet bills,” said Mom.
“Let me get a picture of you guys,” said Uncle Joe. Celeste and Evan sat
on either side of Mochi, putting their arms around her. “Two kids and a dog.
Can anything be more classic?” He showed Mom the picture.
Mom’s face softened. “You guys are ganging up on me. And I guess it’s
up to me to decide, huh? Just me. The adult.”
She was talking about Dad, Celeste realized. Mom had to make all the
grown-up decisions alone, without Dad. She wondered if Mom missed Dad.
She herself tried not to. He’s a jerk, she reminded herself.
Evan stood up. “I’m going to get her a bowl of water,” he said. Celeste
stayed with Mochi. Mochi rolled over on her back.
“Here’s the thing. Even more than the guard dog, I’m interested in this.”
Mom gestured toward Celeste and Mochi.
Celeste stopped, in the middle of a belly rub. “What.”
 “Well, up until about three seconds ago, you were smiling,” said Mom. “I
miss that smile.”
“I’d feel better, knowing you had a dog,” said Uncle Joe.
“I thought you said this was a safe town!” teased Mom.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Uncle Joe. “You need something besides
just safety, and I think this dog might be it. Something just feels right now.”
Mochi sat up and wagged her tail. Ella was walking down the street with
her dog, a tiny black thing with a tuft of hair on its head. “Is that a new dog?”
asked Ella, her voice rising with excitement.
“You want to meet her?” asked Celeste. She picked up the rope and met
Ella halfway across the lawn.

* * *

Mochi clearly had once belonged to someone, though no one responded to the
lost dog notices they put up around town. She brought her leash to them when
she wanted to go for walks and banged on the water dish when it was empty.
She knew how to play fetch. But mostly, she seemed so happy to be with
them. She loved leaning against Evan while he played video games, or
hanging out with Celeste while she did homework. After a few days, Celeste
could not imagine coming home from school and not having Mochi there.
“You need to close the freezer door,” Celeste told Evan after school one
day. Evan got home before Celeste did and usually made a mess, making his
snacks. It was a hot day, so he’d probably gone digging for a Popsicle.
“I didn’t go into the freezer,” said Evan.
“Sure you did! It’s open, isn’t it?” Celeste reached over and pushed the
freezer drawer closed with her foot. It was one of the refrigerators with a
freezer drawer on the bottom. The house was warm, but Mom didn’t want to
put the air-conditioning on yet.
“It might have been open, but I didn’t do it,” said Evan stubbornly. Evan
was hot, too. His face was red and Celeste could see a bead of sweat roll
down his temple.
 Celeste rolled her eyes. Why argue about the obvious? “Whatever,” she
said. She and Ella were going to go for a walk with the dogs. It was a thing
they’d started doing after school. Ella said it was one of her chores, so
Celeste made walking Mochi one of her jobs, too.
Mochi pranced in and looked at them, tongue hanging out. “It’s hot,” said
Evan. “Let me throw a few ice cubes in Mochi’s water bowl.”
Before Evan could move, though, Mochi grabbed the handle of the
freezer and slid it open. Then she jumped into the freezer, nestling herself
among the bags of frozen vegetables. She let out a long sigh of contentment.
Celeste and Evan looked at each other, open-mouthed, for a moment, then
burst out laughing.
“Mochi, no,” said Celeste, trying to sound serious. “That’s not what the
freezer is for.”
“She knows you don’t mean it,” said Evan. “Look at her. She’s so proud
of herself for finding a cool spot.”
Mochi nosed around the freezer and helped herself to an ice cube,
crunching noisily.
“That is one smart dog,” said Ella later, on their walk, when Celeste told
her about the freezer. Ella tugged on her dog’s leash. “Kiki is still trying to
figure out stairs, much less how to open doors.”
“Now we have to figure out how to keep her from opening the freezer,”
said Celeste. She tried to sound like she was complaining, but the truth was,
she was proud.
“You can put a lock on it,” said Ella. “My aunt got a fridge lock when my
cousin was little to keep her from opening the door.”
“We should get one for Evan,” said Celeste. “He’s eating, constantly.”
“He’s probably going through a growth spurt,” said Ella.
“Then he’ll be taller than I am,” said Celeste. She and Evan were nearly
the same height, even though Celeste was older.
“A colossus,” said Ella. She liked using unusual words. That was
something Celeste appreciated about her.
 “Brobdingnagian,” said Celeste, matching Ella. “Picked that one up in
English.” They had been reading Gulliver’s Travels.
“Isn’t Luke Ellis in English with you? He’s, like, obsessed with you,”
said Ella. “The other day he found this news article about some guy named
Michael Pao from Schuyler who got arrested. He was wondering if he was
your dad.”
“Ugh, Luke,” said Celeste lightly. Keep everything the same, she told
herself. Don’t change your voice, your step, your expression. “That’s gross.
Is googling me one of his hobbies? And just to be clear, unlike Haddington,
there are tons of Asians in Schuyler and we’re not all related just because we
have the same name. Luke needs to catapult himself into the sun.”
“He can go join the shoe guy,” said Ella.
“The shoe guy?” asked Celeste.
“That guy, Michael Pao. He was in the news because he had swindled his
friends in some kind of shoe scam, and they caught him,” said Ella.
It was socks, not shoes, thought Celeste. Then she blinked back the tears
that had sprung unexpectedly into her eyes. Then she realized the other part of
what Ella had said. They had caught him.

* * *

Celeste waited until Mom had gone out grocery shopping to tell Evan about
Dad. She showed him an article she had found online. It wasn’t a big
headline article. She had to look for it.
Evan stared at the screen numbly for a moment. “They arrested him,” he
said quietly.
“Yeah, of course they arrested him,” said Celeste brusquely. She waited
for Evan to agree but instead he lowered his head and began taking in big
gulpy breaths. Slowly, Celeste realized what was happening. Evan had been
holding out for another explanation.
“You were still hoping,” said Celeste. She put her around him. “Hoping
that there would be a different story about Dad.”
 “I’m so stupid,” said Evan, burying his face into her shoulder. Celeste
felt her sleeve become wet.
“You weren’t stupid,” said Celeste. Not that stupid, anyway, she thought.
“You were hopeful.”
“Feels like the same thing,” said Evan. “Hoping was stupid. I just never, I
never sensed that Dad was lying to us.”
“To be fair, Dad never came to us outright and said, I am not going to
cheat the neighbors, take everyone’s money, and flee,” said Celeste. “So
there wasn’t a lie to detect.”
Mochi wedged herself between the two of them, and then leaned over and
licked Evan’s face worriedly. Evan smiled slightly. “It’s okay, Mochi,” he
said.
“She’s worried about you,” said Celeste. “She’s wondering what’s
happening.”
“Don’t you miss Dad sometimes?” asked Evan.
“I miss our old house, our old school. My friends, before they got mad at
me,” said Celeste. “Dad took that away from us when he left.”
“Dad is the reason why we know about the Chinese soldiers,” said Evan.
“In a weird way.”
“Under that theory, Dad is the reason why this boy at school thinks he is
in love with me,” said Celeste.
“Can’t you be mad at someone and miss them?” asked Evan.
“It’s easier just to be mad,” said Celeste. But as soon as Evan named the
feeling, she felt the same thing. She was mad at Dad, and wanted nothing
more than for him to be around so she could tell him how mad she was.
When Evan had come back from the library with an article on Chinese
soldiers in the Civil War, he became an instant celebrity. Even the principal
stopped by to congratulate Evan. “This puts a new face on Battlefield Day,”
said Mr. Hawthorn, shaking Evan’s hand. “Just goes to show there’s always
something new to learn.”
“Yes, sir,” said Evan. Max had taught him that. Saying ma’am and sir in
Haddington got you a lot of good will.
“Maybe you’ll go to the University of Virginia and study history,” added
Mrs. Norwood. That was her highest praise, to tell someone they might go to
UVA. “In the meantime, I believe I’ll call the Haddington Clarion to see if
they might be interested in this story. Get some press for Battlefield Day.”
“I guarantee they’ve never had a story like this,” said Mr. Hawthorn on
the way out of the room.
Max was happy for Evan. He was glad that Evan’s story was true, and
that Evan could be a soldier on Battlefield Day without anyone giving him a
hard time. But then he’d remember his own silence when Brady had asked
whether Evan’s picture was real, and he felt guilty. Why hadn’t he spoken
up? Was it because he thought Brady might be right? It didn’t matter, Max
tried to tell himself, now that Evan had come back with proof.
It didn’t take long for Brady to come up with a new reason to pick on
Evan. Brady grudgingly accepted that the Chinese soldiers were real, but
now they weren’t good enough.
“They’re Union soldiers,” said Brady at recess. “Yankees.”
“Some of them fought for the South,” said Evan, which briefly stumped
Brady.
“None of them are famous. Not like a general, or even a leader during an
important battle,” said Brady.
Max didn’t wait to jump in this time. “Most people aren’t famous. That’s
not what’s important,” said Max. “Brady, your family didn’t have any famous
people in the war.”
“Famous for anything good, anyway,” someone, maybe Taylor, murmured.
The kids around them let out a long oooooo. Brady’s eyebrows went into
a deep, angry V. “Jubal Griggs was renowned for his crack marksmanship,”
he said. “For being a soldier’s soldier.”
The group sighed, bored with Brady’s comment. How many times had
they heard that description?
“You think you’re so great because you found a couple of Chinese
soldiers,” said Brady to Evan. “They’re not even family.”
“I know that,” said Evan. “I’m just happy that there’s someone who looks
like me, that’s all.” Brady could not pierce Evan’s happiness.
“They’re famous to me,” Evan told Max later. “All these men. Joseph
Pierce and Thomas Sylvanus. Hong Neok Woo.” They were spending
Saturday afternoon wandering around town with Chessie and Mochi. Max
had held the dogs while Evan went into Charlotte’s and got milkshakes. They
pressed their faces into the glass at Unik Geek, trying to look at the comic
books.
“Which one was Thomas Sylvanus?” asked Max. Evan talked about the
men he had read about the same way Max’s mom talked about relatives in the
past—in snippets and stories. The stories were easy to remember, but it was
harder to attach names to them.
“He was the one that had gotten captured by the Confederates, and a
general asked him what it would take for him to switch sides. He said they’d
have to make him a brigadier general,” said Evan. “He made everyone
laugh.”
“And that other guy? Hong … ?” Max couldn’t quite remember the exact
sounds.
“Hong Neok Woo,” said Evan. “He signed up to fight, even though people
told him not to. They told him it wasn’t his fight and he signed up anyway
because he wanted to end slavery.”
“And then there were those guys who were the sons of the Siamese twins
in the Guinness World Records,” said Max. He had remembered the
photograph, two Asian men in full suits, joined somewhere along the
midsection.
“Yeah! They were on the Confederate side. Their dads owned slaves,”
said Evan. “North Carolina, I think.”
“Never would have guessed it,” said Max. He took a long pull on his
straw, finishing the last of his strawberry milkshake. The cup made a hollow,
rattling sound.
“Who is that guy, anyway?” asked Evan. He pointed to the statue in the
middle of the square.
“I think he’s just supposed to be a regular soldier,” said Max. The two
boys walked over for a closer look. The statue was a man with a thick
mustache and wide-set eyes.
“You know, I’ve probably walked by this statue hundreds of times, and
this is the first time I’ve really stopped to look at it,” said Max. “He looks a
little like my mom’s brother. Especially during the quarantine, with the
mustache and the longish hair.”
“They’re talking about taking it down,” said Evan. “I went to a meeting
about it with my uncle.”
Max pretended to stagger back. “Seriously? You went to a council
meeting? My dad has to go to those and says they’re deadly boring.” He
threw his cup into a trash can. “Well, okay, now that you’ve been to the most
boring thing in Haddington, I feel like you need to go somewhere fun,” said
Max. He clucked to Chessie. “Let’s go.”
 They walked across town to the First Methodist Church of Haddington.
Max jerked his thumb toward the cemetery. “My family’s buried there, you
know.”
“This is the fun place you’re taking me?” said Evan.
“No, it’s on the far side. But, I mean, cemeteries are interesting, even if
they’re not fun. Looking at dates and stuff. Seeing what people wrote on their
tombstones. There’s one with a recipe for biscuits,” said Max.
“Have you tried it?” asked Evan.
“Tried what?”
“The recipe. It was probably some really good, secret recipe that the
person didn’t want to give up until they were dead,” explained Evan.
“Maybe we can go by on the way home and get it,” said Max. “But for
now, ta-da!” They were standing next to a huge oak tree by the edge of a
ravine. The Dalloway ravine.
Evan looked down into the ravine. “This is your idea of fun?” Mochi
whined and pulled back on her lead, nudging Evan away from the edge.
“Not this. This.” Max reached up into the tree, and pulled out a thick,
sawed-off branch tied to a rope. The other end of the rope went high up in the
tree, tied to a branch that hung out over the ravine. “It’s a swing. Watch.”
Max made sure the rope wasn’t caught on any branches, then went back
as far as he could from the edge of the ravine before running back toward it
at full speed. At the last second, he jumped, gripping the stick, smoothed by
so many other hands, and swung out over the ravine. Chessie started barking.
This was the moment Max loved best, the moment of weightlessness, as
close to flying like a bird that he’d ever come to. He liked feeling the wind
against his skin, the feeling of being unattached. There was always part of
him that wanted to let go of the rope, to see how far he would fly, but he
never did. The swing went out into a wide horseshoe, and then returned him
back to earth.
“That was amazing!” said Evan. His eyes lit up.
“Best ride on earth. As good as any ride at an amusement park, and no
waiting in lines,” said Max proudly. He held out the stick. “Now you try it.”
 “He’s not allowed on the Dalloway swing,” said a voice above them.
Max looked up, shading his eyes. It was Brady and Alex.
“Of course he is,” said Max.
Brady came huffing down the hill. “The Dalloway swing is only for
people who belong to the church, or at least have kin there,” he said. “You
don’t have kin in the church, unless you have some other surprise you found
on the Internet. Maybe a surprise result on a DNA test.”
“It’s not a rule,” Max tried to assure Evan, who took two steps backward,
away from Brady, away from Max and Alex.
“Sure it is,” said Brady. “Do you know anyone who went on the swing
who wasn’t with the church?” He turned to Alex. “Do you?” Alex shrugged.
“It’s not like you go to church,” said Max.
“I went when I was little,” said Brady. “I’ve got kin here.” He rocked
back and forth on his feet, grinning. He was standing firmly in the take-off
spot for the swing, feet planted wide, arms crossed. “Grandparents, great-
grandparents, great-great-grandparents …”
“Move,” said Evan, interrupting him.
“No,” said Brady. “Now where was I? Great-great-great-grandparents.
Not to mention aunts, uncles …”
Suddenly, Evan tossed the stick around Brady, leaped out, cat-like, and
neatly grasped the stick on the other side mid-air. “Wahoo!” he shouted as he
sailed into the air. The wind fanned his hair out. Evan grinned widely,
waving as he flew over the ravine. He landed on the other side of the tree,
dragging his feet in the dirt to come to a stop.
It was an impressive feat, but there would be a price to pay. Brady was
on top of him as soon as Evan glided back to earth. “I told you that you
weren’t allowed to go,” he said.
“You said it was some rule that sounded kind of fishy, if you want to
know the truth,” said Evan. He pretended to look around. “Are the swing
police coming?” Alex laughed, almost involuntarily.
Evan was standing dangerously close to the edge of the ravine. Brady
would just need to bump him once, and Evan would go over. Max was about
to call Evan over to him, to get him away from the edge, when Mochi
inserted herself between Evan and Brady. Max held his breath. Brady took a
step backward, and then leaned down and stroked Mochi once, on the head.
Brady gazed down at Evan. “You should be more careful. You don’t seem
to have a good idea of what the rules are around here.”
“Oh, come on, Brady, you know that rule about the swing doesn’t exist,”
said Max.
“Let’s go,” said Evan. “I got stuff to do.” He turned away from Brady and
began walking toward Max.
“We’ll come back another day,” said Max. That comment was as much
for Brady as it was for Evan. He wanted Brady to know that he could not
stop Evan.
“See you guys at school,” said Alex, as if nothing had happened. Max
shook his head and rolled his eyes.
Max and Evan walked a bit, until they were standing among the
tombstones. They looked back toward the ravine. Alex was on the swing,
alternating between screaming and laughing.
“Another turn would have been nice,” said Evan.
“Do you want to go back?” asked Max.
“Now?” asked Evan. Max nodded. “What for? We can’t swing.”
“To fight them,” said Max. They were both smaller than Brady and Alex,
and he only scrapped with his brothers, but Max felt he had to make the offer.
“Since I like my face in its current arrangement, that will be a hard pass
from me,” said Evan dryly.
“You might have to, at some point,” said Max. “Maybe you can train, get
ready. We have a punching bag at my house.”
“That’s not a thing where I come from,” said Evan.
Max didn’t say anything, but spread out his hands to indicate the land, the
grass, the hills. “But you’re here now.”
Brady usually came to class about one minute before the bell rang. Evan
knew this because that was the moment his stomach tightened up, when he
began to wonder if he was going to have a good day or not. When Mrs.
Norwood called roll, it seemed official. Brady was not in school.
“Maybe he’s sick,” murmured Max.
“Maybe he fell into the ravine,” said Evan. He regretted his mean
thought, and then he didn’t. It was Brady.
Evan wasn’t the only one who seemed to notice Brady’s absence. The
whole mood seemed to lighten. When Mrs. Norwood wrote the daily math
problem, she wrote a brainteaser instead of the usual problems.
Mr. Smith went outside during a rainstorm. There were no buildings
nearby.
He did not have an umbrella and he wasn’t wearing a hat.
His clothes were soaked, yet not a single hair on his head got wet.
How could this be?
“That’s not a math problem!” complained Daniel.
“It’s a thinking problem, nonetheless,” said Mrs. Norwood. She allowed
them to guess out loud. He was not in a simulator, nor was he inside a plastic
cube. No one got it before it was time to go to music. Mrs. Norwood had
arranged for the music teacher, Mr. Atkins, to teach a song from the Civil War
called “Goober Peas.”
 “Does anyone know the name of the person who wrote this song?” asked
Mr. Atkins cheerfully. Mr. Atkins could only come to the school twice a
month to teach, but he always seemed to be in a good mood. Or maybe that’s
why he was in a good mood. When no one answered, Mr. Atkins told them.
“The credited author is P. Nutt. That’s what a goober pea is! A peanut!”
Mr. Atkins played the banjo, tinnily plucking along to the music while the
class sang.

Sittin’ by the roadside on a summer’s day

Talkin’ with my comrades to pass the time away
Lying in the shade underneath the trees
Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas

Think my song has lasted almost long enough

The subject is most interesting but rhymes are mighty rough
I wish this war was over, when free from rags and fleas
We’d kiss our wives and sweethearts and then we’d gobble goober
peas

Normally Evan felt self-conscious about singing, but today he was free.
Free to do as he liked. When it came to the last chorus, Evan tilted his head
back and sang full-throated.

Peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas

Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas
Peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas
Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas!

Evan held the note for the last word and Mr. Atkins strummed a few extra
notes. The class clapped and Evan took a deep bow.
“Wonderful enthusiasm,” said Mr. Atkins, nodding his head. “Very good.”
Even though he was relatively young, Mr. Atkins was completely bald with a
pink, shiny head.
“Wait,” said Evan. “That’s it! The man in the puzzle was bald. That’s
why his hair didn’t get wet.”
“You got it!” said Max, punching him on the shoulder. A few more kids
reached over to high-five him.
Today, thought Evan, he was unstoppable.
On the way home from school, Evan and Max made up their own
versions of the song. Evan couldn’t remember the last time he had sung, just
for the sake of singing.
“Fleas, fleas, fleas, fleas, oh my dog has fleas,” sang Max.
“Poor Chessie,” said Evan. “Get some flea medicine. And in the
meantime, I’ll make some cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, macaroni cheese
…”
“Tweeze, tweeze, tweeze, tweeze, my nose hair needs a tweeze!” Max
pretended to yank a particularly stubborn nose hair. “My grandpa has pretty
long nose hairs. And ear hairs. This song can be for him.”
“Ds, Ds, Ds, Ds, earning grades of D,” said Evan, serenading Max as he
turned onto his street. “My mom will be vicious, if I bring home Ds!” Max
turned and waved.
Evan hummed the rest of the way home. Maybe he’d call Uncle Joe and
sing the song to him. Uncle Joe was on the road, heading down to South
Carolina for work.
When he opened the door, the first thing he saw was glass, glittering in
the sun.
Mochi’s cries echoed off the walls, sharp with pain. She was limp-
running around the house, favoring her front right paw. Evan dropped his
backpack and softly caught her by the bathroom. “It’s okay, Mochi. It’s okay,”
he crooned. He examined her paw. A piece of glass glinted from the pad on
her foot. Evan plucked it out with the tips of his fingers. Blood oozed out.
Evan grabbed a towel to press down on the cut. Mochi yelped and tried to
nip him. Evan released the pressure slightly. Mochi bent down and began to
lick her paw.
 “What happened, Mochi?” Where had the glass come from? Evan tried to
imagine what she could have broken, what could have led to the glass on the
ground. Mochi stopped crying, but she was still panting, distressed. He
checked her over, trying to see if she was hurt anywhere else, but she seemed
okay. Evan lay down next to her awkwardly, halfway between the bathroom
and the hallway, feeling her chest rise and fall under his hand. What just
happened? What just happened to this very good day?

* * *

“What’s that picture say?” asked the tall officer, Officer McEnearney. He
was looking at the big piece of artwork in the living room, eight horses
painted in a flurry of brushstrokes. The two policemen seemed more
interested in the house than the hole in the window, surrounded by spidery
cracks.
“Eight galloping horses,” said Mom.
Mom had rushed home when Evan called her, arriving just a few minutes
after Celeste did. Celeste was the one who said that they should call the
police. Mom had not wanted to call the police because no one was hurt. It
wouldn’t matter. Evan was confused at first—the police did not do medical
emergencies for pets, did they? “No, dummy,” said Celeste. “We should
report this. Make a record.” A record of what?
Celeste insisted. Now they had two officers in their living room, looking
at their lives, and them, like curious visitors to a museum exhibit.
Officer Nelson was shorter and stouter than his partner. He sniffed the
air. “Smells like a Chinese restaurant in here. You cook? Can you make lo
mein?”
“I cook a lot of things,” said Mom. Maybe to someone who did not know
her, Mom sounded matter-of-fact, but Evan knew enough to recognize she did
not like his question.
“Maybe you can cook dinner for us,” said Officer Nelson. Maybe he was
trying to be friendly. But the officers were supposed to be helping them, not
asking for dinner.
Officer Nelson stood up and peeked over the swinging doors into the
kitchen. “Hey, John,” he said. “They’ve got a rice cooker just like the one at
Jade Palace in Belledale.”
“What do you think happened here,” said Celeste, drawing the officers’
attention back to the window.
“Maybe a car came by and sent a rock through the window.” Officer
McEnearney scratched his head. “It’d have to be at just the right angle, but
heck, I broke my storm door once while I was weed-whacking. Shattered it
but the glass stayed in place.”
“Safety glass,” said Officer Nelson, nodding solemnly. “Good
invention.”
The glass in the living-room window had not stayed in place. Bits of
glass had fallen on the carpet, from a hole that was chest-high on Evan. Mom
had wanted to clean it up, but Celeste told her to wait. The police needed to
see everything.
“We should be able to find a rock then,” said Evan. As annoyed as he
felt, he wanted to agree with them, find a reasonable explanation. They all
hunted around on the floor for a rock, a small stone. Nothing.
“Maybe it was a bird,” said Officer McEnearney.
“That’s a bird with a mighty strong beak,” said Celeste. She sounded
doubtful.
“It happens,” said Officer Nelson mildly. He tapped the glass. “This is
older glass; it’s thinner.”
Officer Nelson stretched his back. “Is someone upset with you?” asked
Officer Nelson.
Evan felt his stomach turn into a stone. “You mean, you think someone did
this on purpose?” said Evan.
Officer Nelson put his hands out. “It’s a possibility, but let’s not get
ahead of ourselves.”
“We barely know any people to offend,” said Mom. “We’re new here.”
 “Ah,” said the police officer. He wrote something in his long, thin
notebook. “Doesn’t know the neighbors.” He tapped his pen on the pad. “You
should try to be more friendly. Take the dog for walks.”
“We do take her for walks,” said Celeste. “With the neighbors. We just
don’t know everyone.”
The officers put on gloves and took out their flashlights, running the light
over the walls, looking for clues.
“Got something,” announced Officer Nelson. There in the doorway that
led from Evan’s room to the kitchen, almost at the floor, was a small black
dot that had not been there before. The officer took a photograph of it. The
mood changed now. It wasn’t a rock or a bird or a car. Those were innocent
explanations.
It was a bullet.
A bullet that had burst through the glass, flown across the kitchen, and
pushed itself into the wood, flattening into a circle. A bullet fired from a gun.
Someone had picked up a gun and decided to fire it at their house.
“Let’s get a trajectory.” Officer McEnearney took out a piece of string
and held one end against the bullet. Officer Nelson then took the string and
walked it through the kitchen to the living-room window. From the angle of
the string, it was clear the bullet had come in from high. Officer McEnearney
lowered his head and squinted along the string. The two officers traded
looks. They said they were going to walk around the neighborhood and talk
to some of the neighbors.
“What do you see? What’s happening?” asked Evan.
“We’ll let you know once we find out more information. Let’s not get
ahead of ourselves,” said Officer Nelson. That seemed to be a favorite
phrase of his.

* * *

The officers returned with Brady and a man holding Brady by the back of the
neck, who Evan guessed was Brady’s dad. They had the same nose, the same
twist of the lips. Brady was wriggling around like a fish on a hook.
Brady. Brady had done this. It wasn’t an accident or some weird
misunderstanding. This was on purpose. This was how much Brady hated
him.
Evan looked at Brady and felt overcome by fury, at Brady. He wanted to
punch Brady in the face, watch him react with shock and pain, see blood
stream down his face. He wanted to feel the snap of flesh and bone under his
knuckles. He wanted to make Brady sorry, force him to feel regret and agony.
Evan had never wanted to hurt anyone, and now his own hands curled into
fists.
“This is Randall Griggs,” said Officer Nelson, introducing Brady’s dad
to Mom. The man nodded curtly. “He’s one of your neighbors up the hill.
This is his son, Brady.”
Mr. Griggs was large, impatient. He was nearly lifting Brady off the
ground. He gave Brady a shove forward. “Say it,” he commanded.
Brady staggered forward. His face looked like it had been sunburned,
and he kept his shoulders bunched up like his dad was still holding him by
the neck. He was silent for a moment, then he turned and said, “I’m only
saying it to her, not to him.”
“You say it to whoever I tell you to,” said his dad. He raised his hand
like a club. Officer Nelson said Randall, like the way a parent would, and
Brady’s dad lowered his fist. Too bad.
“You know each other?” said Mom, looking from Evan to Brady. Her
phone buzzed, but she ignored it.
“We’re in the same class,” Evan said. He tilted his head toward Brady.
“He was out sick today.”
“Say it,” said Randall. “I’ll not ask a third time.”
Brady stared at the ground. “I’m the one who shot your house,” he said.
He kicked the ground. Evan felt another jolt run through him, though this one
came with another, more familiar feeling. The double image, the edges not
quite lining up.
Brady was lying.
 He’s probably wishing we’d been home, thought Evan.
“You have a gun?” asked Mom. “At your age?” She turned to the police
officers, wide-eyed.
“It was a rifle,” Brady clarified.
“It’s not unheard of, ma’am,” said Officer Nelson. “I had one at his age.
Lots of people do around here. Legally, the parents own it, but everyone
knows who it really belongs to. It’s like the dog.” He smiled tightly and
nodded toward Mochi.
“You could have hit someone,” said Evan. He couldn’t even bring
himself to say the word, the worst scenario. Killed. He waited to see Brady’s
reaction.
“No one was home,” said Brady. He barely moved his mouth to say the
words. He didn’t care.
“My dog was home,” said Evan. “She stepped in the glass and cut her
paw.” For the briefest second, Evan thought he saw Brady’s hard mask drop.
A moment of surprise.
“Why?” Mom asked. “Why did you do it?”
“It’s a hate crime,” said Celeste.
“Whoa, whoa,” said Officer Nelson. “Let’s not start throwing around
terms like that. Everyone, calm down.”
“Look, Randall,” said Officer McEnearney. “Why don’t you tell the folks
what you’re thinking.”
“Well, first there’s going to be a trip to the woodshed,” said Mr. Griggs.
“For one. No video games, which I hate, anyway. Grounded for the
foreseeable future. Double chores. And a few more things I can think of.”
Evan’s skull began to pound, more warning that words were not matching up.
Maybe it was the trip to the woodshed. He didn’t know what it meant, but it
sounded scary.
“Yes, sir.” Brady seemed to shrink under his father’s words.
Evan realized that the police were wrapping up. They considered the
issue managed. “Wait,” said Evan. “That’s it?” His voice rose up on the last
word and cracked.
 Officer McEnearney looked from Evan to Mom. “Who is in charge here?
You or the kid?” he asked Mom.
“I am,” said Mom, though she seemed to be trying to make herself
smaller, pulling her arms toward herself, hunching her shoulders.
“But, there will be charges,” said Mom uncertainly. “A situation like this
needs something else.”
Officer Nelson put his hands on his hips. “Well, I tell you what, Randall’s
punishment is way worse than what the courts would do.”
Officer McEnearney nodded. “Especially because he’s a first-time
offender.”
“For now,” said Celeste under her breath.
Officer Nelson was writing out a report on top of a metal box. The pen
made a hollow scratching noise. “Obviously, ma’am, we’re very glad that no
one was hurt. There would be a different set of charges to consider,” said
Officer McEnearney. He pointed at Evan. “Look, Brady and your son go to
school together. The damages have been minimal, and we are talking about a
minor here in any case. He’s accepted responsibility. You can press charges
if you want … but that’s what you’ll be known for. Do you really want that?
You’re new here. Maybe just let this take care of itself.”
His meaning was clear; if Mom pressed charges, she would be the bad
guy, not Brady. They’d be the family that came to town and caused trouble.
Evan stared at Brady, trying to will something to happen, anything. Brady
remained unmoved.
“I will note that Brady has been given a formal warning,” said Officer
Nelson.
“And, uh …” Officer McEnearney looked over at Mr. Griggs. He rolled
his eyes and nodded. “Mr. Griggs can contribute toward the cost of
replacement.”
“Contribute?” said Evan. “Why not the whole repair? It’s not like they
can put a patch on the window.”
“Dìdi,” said Mom shortly. “Bié shuō huà.” The comment was intended
as a low-key way of telling Evan to be quiet but it seemed to infuriate Officer
Nelson.
“You will keep this conversation in English!” he barked at her. Mom
shrank down. Blood thundered in Evan’s ears.
“We’re not the ones in trouble here,” said Celeste indignantly.
“You will be if you don’t listen,” said Officer Nelson. “I don’t need you
all speaking some secret language.”
“Let’s all calm down,” said Officer McEnearney. “She was probably just
saying mom stuff. But just the same, let’s all speak the same language.” He
grasped Brady by the shoulder. “You just remember that if something like this
happens again, we’re coming straight to you.” Brady nodded.
Who would have to get hurt next time? Evan wanted to ask.
Officer Nelson tore off the top sheet of the paper and handed it to Evan’s
mom. “Here’s your report, ma’am. You talk to your landlord about getting
that glass repaired. Everything just works a whole lot better around here if
you try to get along, okay?” He turned to Evan and Brady. “If you two boys
are in the same class, you should try to get along, too.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Evan. He said it so blandly that
Officer Nelson just looked at him and smiled, thinking that Evan was
agreeing with him.
“He didn’t even say he was sorry,” said Celeste, later that night. The
policemen, the Griggses, were probably at home, watching television, getting
ready for bed. They were done. But Mom, Evan, and Celeste, they were left
with the mess, a mess that made the very air itself seem rearranged. They had
cleaned, but kept finding bits and pieces left behind. A fleck of glass in the
carpet. A black scuff mark from a policeman’s shoe on the kitchen floor.
“Why should he? He’s not,” said Mom.
Celeste looked out the living window at the Griggses’ house up the hill.
Bright rectangles of light outlined the windows of the house, one large
window on the first floor glowed with the bluish light of a television, and
two smaller windows upstairs occasionally showed a person in a room. She
wondered which one was Brady’s room, where he was when he had pointed
the gun at their house.
“I wish Uncle Joe were here,” she said.
“I called Uncle Joe and let him know what had happened,” said Mom.
“But I told him not to leave the job.” She snapped a food container closed,
putting away the dinner they had left mostly uneaten. “He’s trying to finish up
soon, though.”
Evan changed into the shorts and T-shirt that he used as pajamas, and then
went into the bathroom. After a few minutes, he came out, crossed the
hallway, and stood in the doorway to his room.
 “Going to bed?” asked Celeste.
“Yeah,” said Evan heavily. “In a minute.” He wasn’t going in. Why
would he want to? The bullet had landed right there, in the other door jamb.
A slight change in time, angle, inches, height—who knows what could have
happened?
Celeste went into her room and got her blanket, pillow, and a cat-shaped
stuffie. “I don’t want to sleep in my room,” she announced. “Not tonight.”
She started making a bed on the floor of Mom’s bedroom. When Mom didn’t
say anything, Evan got his pillow and bedspread, and also made a bed on the
floor next to Celeste.
“It’s like we’re camping,” Mom said, trying to lighten the mood. No one
said why they were here, acting like little kids, sleeping in one parental nest.
It felt safer this way. Mochi came in and looked at them, whined and pawed
at the blanket, and then settled in the hallway.
Mom got ready for bed, stepping over them to get to her pajamas, using
the bathroom one last time, and then stepping back over them to get to bed.
Outside the wind blew, clattering a tree branch against a window. Mochi
jumped up and barked.
“It’s okay, Mochi,” said Evan. He patted the space next to him. “Come
here.” Mochi sat uncertainly near Evan’s feet, then lay down with a sigh.
Celeste let her shoulders sink into the floor. “I wish we were home,” she
said. Mom switched off the light. Now they were just voices in the dark.
“We are home,” said Evan.
“I meant Schuyler,” she said.
“Where people hate us for an entirely different reason,” said Evan.
Mochi lifted her head and whined, probably at something she heard outside,
but it seemed like she was whining at Evan’s comment.
“At least it’s a reason,” said Celeste, emphasizing the last word.
“He’s never liked me. He doesn’t know me and he never liked me,” said
Evan. He moved his pillow and then punched it down, trying to get it in the
right shape.
Max overheard Dad telling Mom about a call. He said it was Evan’s family.
“What’s going on? A call from Evan’s house? Is everyone okay?”
Dad shook his head slightly. “It’s not great, but it could be worse. It
appears that Brady fired a gun at your friend Evan’s house. No one was
home, and I think that was intentional on Brady’s part. Broke a window. No
other damage. He received a warning.” Half the time, Dad talked as though
he were filling out a report, checking boxes, making notations.
“Just a warning? He’s not going to court or anything?”
Dad shook his head. “Judge Thompson doesn’t really want to deal with
anyone under thirteen. He says they just learn bad habits from the older kids
when they come to court, go to juvenile detention. Says it’s up to us to do the
tough talk until then.”
“But shooting at Evan’s house is serious,” said Max.
“It is serious,” said Dad. “But if you had your choice between the court
and Randall Griggs, who would you choose?” Max didn’t answer. Mr.
Griggs was the kind of dad you kept your distance from. “This seems to be
the age where the Griggses go off track a bit. But usually they come back and
straighten up.”
“We’re still waiting on Charlie,” said Mama.
“I said usually,” Dad said mildly. “I might call on Randall, see how
things are going.” Dad and Brady’s dad were friends from a long time ago.
They had gone to high school together. Now Dad was the police chief, and
Brady’s dad trained dogs. Sometimes, Brady’s dad helped out on searches
with one of his dogs, when someone had gone missing. “The officers made it
pretty clear to Brady that he should keep his nose clean.”
Dad picked up his phone and went into his office. Max studied him while
he talked, making notes on a pad that he carried around with him. Why wasn’t
Dad taking this more seriously? He didn’t even seem mad. He seemed
madder when Max had left the garden hose running last summer and flooded
the front yard. From his office, Dad let out a chuckle, laughing at whatever
the person on the other end said. It wasn’t even bothering him now.
But Max worried about it. He felt responsible. Maybe they should have
fought Brady and Alex. Maybe that would have stopped Brady from taking
the next step.
The next day at school, Max pulled Evan to one side before class started.
“I heard what happened at your house,” whispered Max. When Evan looked
surprised, Max added, “My dad’s the police chief, remember?”
“I came home to Mochi crying and bleeding from stepping in the glass,”
said Evan. “But then that wasn’t even the worst thing. The worst thing is that
the police just let Brady off. Said his dad would punish him worse than they
could.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max. He struggled to find the right words. “This sucks.”
“You apologized before Brady did,” said Evan. “Ha.”
“I would never have guessed,” said Max. “Not about the apologizing, I
mean. The other thing.” He didn’t want to say shooting again, not in front of
Evan.
“Brady just hates me.” Evan looked away.
“There’s hate and then there’s hate,” said Max. “I just can’t believe …”
His voice trailed off.
“Celeste wants to move back to Schuyler.”
“But,” Max tried to think. “Your uncle is here.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I don’t want to move.”
 “It doesn’t feel right,” said Max. “It feels like Brady is getting away with
something.”
Evan chewed on the metal part of the pencil, leaving tiny dents. “We
were told, basically, that if we made a fuss, pressed charges, that’s what
we’d be known for, and not in a good way.” Suddenly, Evan’s face changed
from its usual gentle expression into something hard. Eyes narrowed, mouth
becoming a straight line. Max followed his gaze.
Brady.

* * *

Max watched Brady all morning, looking at the way he acted as though
nothing had happened. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Max waited until Brady
showed up to play flag football and they had chosen teams. Then he said,
“Hey, Brady.” He spoke with an edge in his voice, cutting through the din of
the other voices.
Brady looked at Max. “What.”
The other kids fell silent, sensing something was about to happen. “So
what happened yesterday, with Evan’s house?”
Brady turned his head away, not looking at Max while he spoke. “Evan
told you, huh?”
“No,” said Max. “I heard my dad talking about it. I don’t even think Evan
would have mentioned it if I hadn’t asked him.”
The other students were gathering now to see what was happening. They
created a circle around Max and Brady.
“I can’t believe you did that, Brady,” said Max.
“No one was home,” said Brady. “No one was home.” He crossed his
arms.
“You shot at Evan’s house,” said Max.
“A gun,” said Sophia. “You fired a gun?”
“A rifle,” said Alex. “Must have been.”
 “There’s no reason to do that. It doesn’t matter that no one was home,”
said Casey.
“My dog was home,” Evan pointed out. “She stepped on a piece of
glass.” This piece of information, more than anything, changed the mood of
the group. They went from confused to angry.
“You haven’t exactly been nice to Evan,” said Taylor. “But I never
thought you’d do this.”
“Is Brady going to court?” Julia covered her mouth. “Is he going to jail?
What’s he doing here?”
“No charges have been filed,” said Max. He felt grown-up when he said
that. “Brady got a warning. Since he didn’t get in trouble there, he’s not in
trouble with the school.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” said Taylor. All the heads swiveled and
looked at Brady. “There should be a consequence.”
“Like what?” asked Casey. This is the question that had stumped Max.
“What can we do?”
“We could all tackle him during the game,” said Jack. “That’s what he
was going to do to Evan.”
“Since you said that out loud,” said Casey, “that’s not going to work.”
“And it doesn’t seem, I don’t know, like the same thing,” said Julia. “I
feel like it can’t just be some random thing.”
“Maybe,” said Max. “It’s not about what we do to Brady.” He spoke the
words slowly, letting the idea take shape. “It’s about what we don’t do.”

* * *

Looking back, Max realized that he should have discussed this idea with
Evan first. It was his house, after all. His dog. His life. But the silent
treatment was such a perfect idea. He’d suddenly remembered reading about
a boy growing up in Utah in the 1800s with three brothers, including a really
smart one, nicknamed the Great Brain. Whenever the boys were bad, the
parents would not spank them. Instead the parents would give them the silent
treatment for days or even a week or two. The parents would not speak
directly to the kid, and if the kid spoke to the parents, the parents would not
respond. According to the book, it was sheer torture. The kids would beg for
a spanking instead.
The silent treatment was perfect because it solved all their problems.
They couldn’t physically harm Brady without getting into trouble, and they
didn’t have to get their parents or Mrs. Norwood involved. It was the only
punishment they were uniquely capable of carrying out.
But when he said the words out loud, silent treatment, it seemed even
more terrible.
“For how long?” Sophia asked. “A day? A week? A month?” She found
the answer. “Two weeks.”
“That sounds about right,” said Max. A day seemed too short, but a month
too long. Two weeks for the hate it took to shoot at someone’s window. Two
weeks to say enough is enough. He saw a round of nods.
Brady looked up at him and mouthed a word. Don’t? Max wasn’t sure but
it didn’t matter. He looked away.
“We all have to agree,” said Max, gesturing to the group. “That this is the
right thing to do in order for it to be effective. Is there anyone not here?”
Sophia said she’d go get Amanda and Emma, who liked to read during
recess, leaning up against the wall near the teachers.
“And … no talking at all?” asked Daniel.
“What do we do if we have to talk to him, like if we’re assigned in
pairs?” asked Julia. They were already talking about Brady as if he wasn’t
among them, but he was still there, listening.
“Just say the words out loud, without saying them to him,” said Max.
“Like, for the science project, say, ‘Use magnets to draw iron out of the
cereal,’ and don’t look at him.”
“What if it’s an emergency?” asked Julia.
“Well, of course, if someone’s going to get hurt, really hurt, then say
something,” said Max.
 “You gonna let them do this to me?” Brady said to Alex. Alex looked at
some spot in the air and mumbled, “It’s only two weeks.” If Alex was in, then
everyone was in, Max figured.
“That includes Battlefield Day,” said Evan. From the way he said it, it
wasn’t clear if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“So it does,” said Max. Maybe more than anyone else, Max knew that
Brady had been looking forward to Battlefield Day since he was little. Max
tamped down the tiny bit of sadness he felt for Brady. Brady deserved it.
Maybe it was not on purpose, but now the group was retreating from
Brady. He was like the magnet from the science experiment they had on
polarity, repelling all the metal filings.
“Is there anyone opposed?” asked Max. “Is anyone opposed to the silent
treatment for Brady.” The group stayed quiet. It was like they were doing it
already.
“Raise your hand if you agree not to speak to Brady for two weeks,” said
Max.
Everyone raised their hand.
“I don’t care,” Brady said. “I don’t care about your stupid silent
treatment.” He started to walk away and then stopped. Walking away was the
point.
“Two weeks,” said Max, making sure his voice was a calm counterpoint
to Brady’s rage. “The silent treatment starts now.”
Brady turned and faced the crowd. “Hey! If you’re a moron, don’t say
anything!” He flipped his hands in the air and laughed awkwardly. The kids
looked at him silently. “I guess you’re all morons! This is great!” He tried
again. “Hey, who here is a quiet sheep?” He paused. “You’re all quiet sheep,
whaddya know!”
“He’s going to say something to Mrs. Norwood,” said Julia.
“No, he’s not,” said Max. “He won’t want to seem like a whiner.”
Mrs. Norwood whistled, signaling the end of recess. The group broke up
and with that, people began talking again, in little dribs and drabs, as though
a spell had been broken. Evan and Max made their way back up the hill
toward the school.
Max watched Brady run from one group of kids to another, trying to get a
reaction out of any of them, sticking his tongue out, jumping up and down
wildly, shouting nonsense words. It was almost embarrassing.
“I probably should have cleared this with you first,” Max said to Evan.
“Honestly, I didn’t know what I was going to say until I said it.”
“I mean, it’s fine,” said Evan. He stopped and looked up at the sky.
“What if …” He stopped speaking because Brady had loomed up behind him,
breathing so heavily that Max could see the hair on Evan’s head moving. He
was daring them to say something. Max resisted the urge to shove Brady
back. Evan moved ahead without saying anything more. He was already
ignoring Brady.
Brady tried a few more times to get people to talk to him. Well, not talk to
him, just acknowledge him, really. But even that didn’t work. During lunch
one day, he tried draping a slice of ham across his face, but that just got him
in trouble with the lunch room monitor. When he tried to interfere with a
game of Horse at recess, the other kids just set the basketball on the blacktop
and walked away.
Brady settled into his new role. He was like a statue, silent but present.
Expressionless. Just like the statue in town, sometimes the conversation was
about him, even if it didn’t include him. Yesterday, Mrs. Norwood had
passed out copies of the weekly newspaper to use as a model for a
Battlefield Day paper they were working on. “Look!” Evan pointed at the
police report section of the Haddington Clarion. “Three reports of
‘excessive engine noise,’ all in one day. We know who that is.” He glanced
over at Brady. Runs in the family, he thought. Brady didn’t respond, of
course, but his ears began to glow red.
“Yeah, Charlie was driving all over town last Saturday night,” said Max.
“My dad was pretty annoyed.”
Were all the Griggses like this, Evan wondered. Like, the Griggses
throughout history. When he got home, he looked it up on the old laptop that
Mom had set up for homework. It wasn’t hard to find him; Jubal Griggs was
a very unique name. Evan clicked on a link for a Civil War website. A page
full of handwritten names and information popped up.
Jubal Griggs was halfway down the page, in spidery old cursive, though
Evan found that if he hovered the cursor over a name, regular text would pop
up, translating the handwriting. Evan scrolled across the page, looking at the
information. Dates. Haddington, Virginia. Then, a few columns over from
Jubal’s name, very clearly, was the word desertion.
The great Jubal Griggs had abandoned his position, left his comrades
behind. Some “soldier’s soldier.” This was the person that Brady
worshipped, made such a big deal of. Evan laughed to himself as he printed
out the page and highlighted the word desertion in bright yellow. It was time
to turn the tables on Brady. The next day at school, he folded up the paper
and slipped it into Brady’s lunch bag.
Evan watched Brady out of the corner of his eye as Brady ate alone at
lunch. Technically, he was not alone because there were not enough tables to
make that happen. But he was alone, in the most absolute sense of the world.
As the rest of the table chatted around him, Brady sat silent and hunched
over, eating slowly. He was tearing off bits of his sandwich and chewing
each bite carefully.
Evan felt a pang of recognition. He knew about making your lunch last.
After the news got out that his dad had left town with the money of his friends
and neighbors, he’d gotten his own kind of silent treatment at school. The
other kids didn’t shun him, exactly, so much as not include him in any
conversation worth having. He stopped being included in birthday parties or
afterschool playdates, and pretty soon it just got easier to stop talking. Taking
a long time to eat your lunch gave you something to do, so you weren’t just
sitting there.
Brady reached into his lunch bag, and found the folded-up piece of paper.
For a second, Brady’s face lit up. He was so excited that for a second, Evan
wondered if someone else had left a piece of paper in Brady’s lunch bag. As
Brady looked at the paper more intently, though, his face dimmed.
 I know you, thought Evan grimly. I know who you come from. You come
from bad people.
Brady looked frightened. He hurriedly refolded the paper and stuck it
back in the bag. A wave of guilt washed over Evan. Maybe he’d gone too far.
No, he told himself. This was nothing compared to what Brady did. This was
no time to be Mr. Sensitive. What did Brady’s brother’s car say? NO MERCY.
Evan twisted his feelings shut, turning them off like a leaky faucet.

* * *

When Uncle Joe got back into town, his first question was, “Have you taken
care of that kid?” For a second, Evan thought that Uncle Joe meant the caring
kind of “take care of.” Of course, he meant the other, tougher kind.
“We’ve given him the silent treatment at school,” Evan explained.
Uncle Joe considered Evan’s statement. “I have friends whose spouses
sometimes do that. But for kids, I say, have it out. Fight. Blow off some
steam.”
“That’s barbaric,” said Celeste.
“It’s the truth! It’s just the nature of man,” said Uncle Joe. When Celeste
scowled at him, he amended his statement. “Human man.” Evan wondered if
Uncle Joe was disappointed in him, if he had fallen in Uncle Joe’s eyes
because he wouldn’t fight.
Mom and Celeste had had their own, different reactions to the silent
treatment. Mom had nodded and said, “Good,” and went back trying to keep
everything completely clean and neat, putting her energy into folding every
towel into sharp-edged rectangles or scrubbing the sink until it gleamed.
Celeste said she liked the silent treatment, and then added her own spin.
Every morning she stood in the middle of the living room, looked toward the
Griggses’ house, and gave them the middle finger with each hand before
going to school.
Now Uncle Joe was less than satisfied with Evan’s answer. “Maybe I
should go over there,” he said, nodding toward Brady’s house.
 “They have guns, Joe,” said Mom.
Uncle Joe tensed. “So do I.”
“No, you don’t,” said Evan. He had not meant to speak. The words had
just popped out, but the truth was obvious.
Uncle crossed his arms. “Fine. I could get a gun if I wanted one,” said
Uncle Joe. “I have friends.”
“And then what,” exclaimed Celeste. “Would you use it?”
“Let’s not escalate,” said Mom. “The window has been fixed. The boy is
facing consequences. There’s no need.” Evan felt a twinge. Mom didn’t mean
what she was saying. He could hear it in her tone. Maybe she wanted Uncle
Joe to escalate, but she was afraid.
“I just don’t want them to think they have something over us,” said Uncle
Joe. He didn’t talk any more about going over to the Griggses’ house, but the
go-along-to-get-along version of Uncle Joe seemed to be gone. Uncle Joe had
changed.
Mochi had not been the same since that day, either. She was whinier,
more high strung. Loud noises, like the clatter of a dish or even the slam of
the microwave door, made her jump. Yesterday, Evan had accidentally
dropped the toilet lid instead of setting it down gently and Mochi bolted
across the house, hiding under the kitchen table. Evan had to crawl under the
table and calm her down, whispering it’s okay, it’s okay, feeling her tremble
under his hand. What did Mochi think had happened? Would she ever be
okay?

* * *

Mrs. Norwood’s students all received a worksheet to fill out with

information they would use to make their character for Battlefield Day.
Name, occupation, age, family, where they lived. It could be based on a real
person or one you made up. There was even a place to draw a picture. The
key, according to Max, was to have lots of details. The more elaborate you
made it, the better Mrs. Norwood liked it. Don’t say Confederate or Union
for a soldier if you could say Army of Northern Virginia or Army of the
Potomac instead. When they had started on the profiles, Julia raised her hand
and asked, Had anyone ever put slaveowner on their profile?
Mrs. Norwood turned two deeper shades of red. “I mean, I suppose, they
didn’t say it outright, but based on the profile, you would think so,” she
stammered.
“We’re pretending to be people from the Civil War,” said Julia. “And
people fought for the right to own other people, to enslave them.”
“They did,” admitted Mrs. Norwood. “But let’s not get into that. I don’t
want anyone to feel bad if their family actually owned slaves.”
“Imagine how the people whose families were actually enslaved felt,”
muttered Taylor.
Julia was not the type of person to argue with a teacher, but this time she
crossed her arms. “A person can’t help their past,” she said softly. “That’s
what my mom says. Our job is to learn from it.” She didn’t look directly at
Mrs. Norwood when she spoke.
Mrs. Norwood put her hands up, in surrender. “I’m retiring, boys and
girls. This is my last year running Battlefield Day. You can do with it what
you like. Maybe it needs a new direction.”
Evan thought about this conversation as he pulled his profile out of his
desk, which unlike many of his other papers, he kept clean and unfolded
inside a notebook. There was the way Julia talked about slavery that made it
more personal, more human. You might be able to gloss over the word
slavery, but to say a person wanted to own other people, to dominate
everything about them and their lives and think of them as less than
completely human, that reminded you that real people were involved. People
who were moms and dads and kids, and who had birthdays and got mad over
stupid stuff and had favorite foods.
Evan wanted to do the same thing with his words, but with a Chinese
soldier, bring him to life. He had picked a soldier named Edward Day
Cohota as the subject of his profile. A real Chinese person, who fought for
the United States. Before the silent treatment, Evan wondered if he should
pick a Union soldier, whether Brady would give him a hard time. Now he did
not have to worry.
When Mrs. Norwood asked for volunteers to share a profile, Evan shot
his hand in the air. He held up a photograph he had found.
“Edward Day Cohota had been brought to the United States from China
by a ship captain and raised by the captain’s family. He was part of the
Massachusetts infantry. Some say he volunteered when he was eighteen;
others said he was only fifteen,” said Evan. He liked that Edward might have
been so young; that he was only three years older than he was.
Alex raised his hand. “Isn’t that the same story you told us about Joseph
Pierce?”
“It happened more than once,” said Evan. “The United States traded with
China so there were American ship captains there.” When Alex looked
skeptical, Evan showed Alex the picture of Edward Day Cohota that he’d
found. A trim man in a suit, with a mustache. “This is from a government
website. This isn’t made up.” Alex nodded, satisfied.
Evan described some of the battles Edward had been in. “Edward had
fought in the Battle of Drewry’s Bluff in Richmond and came out with seven
bullet holes in his clothes, but he wasn’t hurt. At another battle, a bullet came
so close to his head that it parted his hair. Permanently.” Evan took his index
finger and ran it through his own hair, demonstrating. “At the Battle of Cold
Harbor, he saved the life of a friend by hiding him under a rock during battle
until he could take him to the ambulance station.”
“See, class? These are good details,” remarked Mrs. Norwood.
Evan finished his profile. “Edward reenlisted after the war and served in
the army for thirty years. But because of another law that passed later, the
Chinese Exclusion Act, Chinese were not allowed to become citizens, not
even someone who had fought in the war. But when he was old and in a home
for veterans, Edward still went out and saluted the flag every evening.” Evan
still did not say the other part he had thought about; how much Edward must
have loved the United States when it did not seem to love him back, would
not call him a citizen.
 Jack raised his hand. “If he was allowed to live here, why does it matter
if he wasn’t a citizen?”
Evan thought about it. “Would you like it if you were allowed to live here
but not be a citizen?” he asked. “You can’t vote, and maybe you don’t know
when someone is going to say you have to leave.”
“No,” said Jack quickly. He squeezed his arms against his body, as if
trying to erase the fact that he had raised his hand.
“It’s a really good story about his life,” said Taylor. “I mean, it’s sad, but
it’s good. I wish I had a story like that.”
“A month ago, I didn’t think I had a story at all,” said Evan. He stopped.
“It’s your story, too, though. Edward’s story belongs to you, not just me.”
Some stories made you change your mind about yourself and other stories
made you think differently about others, but what was important was that it
changed something about you.
Mrs. Norwood pulled him aside before lunch and said she knew someone
who had studied the Battle of Cold Harbor, and maybe they would have more
information for Evan. She also told him that she’d been to Cold Harbor. “It’s
not cold there, and it’s not a harbor!” she said, laughing. Evan guessed it was
the kind of joke that people who liked the Civil War told one another. It was
better than being asked to be a scribe, that was for sure. He got an A on his
spelling test. The cafeteria had chocolate milk for sale.

* * *

When Evan got home from school, Mochi was waiting for him, tail wagging.
Maybe she was starting to feel better. Mom had left a blue cloth coat for
Battlefield Day draped over the couch, with a note saying she was going to
get some gold buttons for it. Evan tried it on—it was a little large, but it
would work. Too big was better than too small.
“What do you think, Moch?” he asked. Mochi looked up at him and
smiled just before Celeste flew in the door. “He sent a letter,” said Celeste.
She didn’t sound like her usual confident self. Her voice was shaking, angry.
 For a moment, Evan thought she was talking about the boy from school.
But then he saw the name in the upper left-hand corner. Michael Pao.
“Dad wrote to us?” His heart leapt. Both of their names were on the
envelope, but the letter had gone to their old house in Schuyler first, and was
then forwarded to Haddington. “He doesn’t know that we moved.”
“There’s a lot he doesn’t know,” said Celeste.
“What does it say?” asked Evan. The letter could say anything. I love
you. I miss you. This has all been a mistake.
“You have to open it,” said Celeste. She walked over to the kitchen
drawer and took out a butter knife. “Open it.”

Dear Celeste and Evan,

How are you doing? I miss you and think of you all the time.
How is school going? Celeste, I wonder how your cello playing is
coming along. Evan, are you still on time, on point, and on to the
next thing?
Please take note of my new address. I hope you will write back
soon, or even better, visit. It is not too long of a drive, though your
mother has not been answering my calls. Is her phone number still
working? Please ask her to get in touch with me.
I am spending my days trying to exercise and keep my mind at
peace. I would like to tell you more, but my attorney has instructed
me not to say more until my case is resolved. Let me say that I
never intended for things to go this far.
Love,
Dad

Evan read the letter several times, trying to memorize everything in it.
Then Celeste snatched the letter out of his hand.
“This letter … is … psychotic!” shrieked Celeste. She held the paper in
front of her, screaming her reply. “How’s my cello playing? Dear Dad, I gave
up my cello because no one wanted to play with me. Dear Dad, We sold my
cello when we moved across the country because there wasn’t room for it in
the car.” She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room.
“Don’t do that! It’s my letter, too!” said Evan. He picked up the paper and
smoothed it out. “He misses us,” he said.
“He’s using us to get in touch with Mom,” said Celeste. “That’s what’s
happening. He probably wants something, like money.”
“We’re his family,” said Evan. “That’s why he wrote.”
“We’re the people he left behind,” said Celeste icily. “Read the letter,
Evan. Think of all the things he could have written, but didn’t. He makes it
sound like he’s writing to us from a business trip.” She took a deep breath
and let out a noise, a cross between a groan and a roar. “It’s all about him.
Count all the times he said me. Me me me.” Celeste looked disgusted.
Evan had not read the letter the same way as Celeste. In the letter, he
heard his father’s voice. On time, on point, and on to the next thing! He had
not forgotten. He ran his fingers over the letter. Dad had touched the same
paper. I never intended for things to go this far. What did that mean?
“Don’t go soft,” Celeste warned. “I can tell from your face that your
feelings-o-meter is going through the roof.”
“He’s our dad,” said Evan.
“Dads aren’t supposed to do what he did,” said Celeste.
“Everyone makes mistakes.” As soon as he said the words, a thought
popped into his head. Did that include Brady? He squashed that thought.
“What am I supposed to do with that? Have a big ol’ hugfest?” said
Celeste. She shook her head. “No way, uh-uh.” She ran her fingers over her
head. “It’s easier to be mad.”
It was easier. Safer. But it didn’t feel, what was the word? Complete?
“Maybe,” said Evan. He tried to get his heart to slow down, his feelings to
stop tangling and fighting with each other. Calm down. Instinctively, he
reached his hand out. “Celeste, where’s Mochi?”

* * *
As best as they could figure, when Celeste had come home screaming, Mochi
had run for the back door and scrabbled it open. Uncle Joe had fixed the door
with a lever-style doorknob. It wouldn’t be hard for Mochi to pull down on it
and swing it open. A dog who could open the freezer door could do that.
Evan and Celeste walked around the neighborhood, calling for her, and
then when Mom came home, they drove around in the car, widening their
search. Celeste made posters of Mochi and stuck them to lampposts. Every
time they turned a corner, Evan’s heart leapt, thinking he would spot Mochi at
any moment. But she did not appear.
“Do you think she knows the way back home?” asked Evan. “How far
could she have gone?”
“It says on this website that most dogs are found within two miles of
home,” said Celeste.
“I’ve heard amazing stories of dogs finding their way home,” said Mom.
She reached back to Evan and patted him on the knee while keeping the other
hand on the steering wheel.
“But those dogs know that home is home,” said Evan. How long did it
take for a dog to know their home? “And she’s been so jittery lately.”
“I’ve called the vet, and joined some neighborhood groups online to
leave pictures of Mochi,” announced Celeste. “And I’ll hand out some more
flyers at school. Someone must have seen her. You can do the same thing,
Evan.”
“Yeah.” Evan leaned his face against the car window. “I will.” He
paused. “Sometimes it’s hard to find the way home.”
Mom caught his meaning. They had told her about the letter. “Some
people don’t deserve to call a place home.”
“I wish he hadn’t written,” said Celeste. “And I won’t write back. It’s too
hard.” She leaned her head on Mom’s shoulder. They were united.
Evan felt weary. Not in the physical way, even though they had walked
around the neighborhood for an hour, looking for Mochi. His heart felt tired
and worn out from worrying and wondering. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe
Celeste was right. It was too complicated to hold all of these feelings inside.
And who else did he have in the world?
“I don’t care,” said Evan. Now he was part of a united front. Safety in
numbers. Almost immediately, though, he felt like he’d been punched in the
head. He was lying, he knew that. He just hoped that particular lie, that he
did not care, might become true.
When Evan handed her the flyer, Julia had been thinking of her Battlefield
Day profile, not dogs, and she half expected the piece of paper to have an
old-timey photo on it, like hers. But instead, a bright-eyed, brown dog looked
back at her with the word LOST over her head. Julia blinked hard and looked
again.
She had seen that dog, or a dog that looked quite a bit like it, running
down the street yesterday. She had been sitting at her desk, where she could
see out into the front yard and the street, wishing she had more interesting
homework to do. This was not a wish she could share with her friends, not
even Taylor, because it would be too weird, too nerdy, too teacher’s pet-ish.
“I saw a dog like this, running down my street, running at a pretty good
clip.” The picture was of the dog, from the front. Mochi. Julia had seen the
dog in profile. But still. The color was right. “Does she have kind of a curly
tail?”
Evan nodded. “Yup, it makes almost a complete circle. I bet that was
Mochi. Where was she headed?”
“You know Miller’s field?” Evan shook his head, so Julia pointed. “I
live on the other side of the school, on Water Street, over the bridge. If you
walk down Water Street away from town, and turn left when you get to the
old fire station. Go up the hill and you’ll get to Miller’s field.”
 Evan let out a huge sigh of relief. “This is really good. I’d been hoping
someone would have seen her. Thanks a lot.” Evan sounded very matter-of-
fact, but Julia could have sworn she saw his eyes watering. She wasn’t sure
if she was supposed to say anything or not, but before she could decide, Evan
went on to the next cluster of desks. Julia showed Taylor the flyer when she
came in.
“My mom says that can happen with new dogs,” said Taylor. “You have
to be extra careful with them until they get used to the new house. Did Evan
say what happened?”
“Just that she got out,” said Julia. “But here’s the thing I just
remembered.” She lowered her voice. “I also saw Brady out walking later
that day, same direction.”
Taylor made a noise. “Brady’s always out walking. I would, too, if my
big brother was Charlie Griggs.”
“Yeah, but he also lives close to Evan, remember? It wouldn’t be hard to
go over and open the door.” She pantomimed opening a door.
“Why would he do that?” asked Taylor.
“Why would he shoot at Evan’s house?” responded Julia. “And he knows
about dogs. His dad trains them.” It was an exciting, if unproven, theory.
“We could ask Brady,” said Taylor. “Except for the silent treatment.
Darn.” She giggled. Taylor didn’t normally go out of her way to talk to
Brady, anyway.
Julia had mixed feelings about Brady. Once he had shared a sandwich
with her on a field trip when she had forgotten her lunch. But then a few days
later he teased her for crying over a bad grade in math, which made her feel
worse—both for the grade and the crying. She did think the silent treatment
was fair, though she would have made it shorter, personally.
“Would he even tell the truth?” she asked. “If we asked him?”
“Good question,” said Taylor.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Sophia. Sophia was not Julia’s
best-best friend; that honor belonged to Taylor. But she was certainly a close
friend. Julia told her, and then focused on her presentation.
 * * *

“My name is Sarah Rosetta Wakeman,” Julia said. “I served as a Union

soldier under the name of Lyons Wakeman.”
The class collectively sat up, which was the reaction that Julia had hoped
for. Not even Taylor knew she was doing this. After Evan’s discovery of the
Chinese soldiers, Julia had begun to wonder if there were other stories she
didn’t know about. Her aunt was in the navy. Were there any women who
fought in the Civil War? After some digging around and a phone call to the
library, she had her answer: Hundreds of women had fought in the Civil War.
Lots of them didn’t have to wear hot stuffy dresses.
“Sarah was from a really poor family, and the best way she could make
money was disguised as a man. At first, she was working on a boat, but then
she enlisted because she got a chunk of money for joining the army. She went
down with her regiment to Louisiana, where she got sick and died, and was
buried as Lyons Wakeman.” The picture that Julia found showed a serious,
smooth-faced soldier.
She had chosen Sarah’s story because there was a photo, and because her
grandmother’s name was Sarah and her own middle name was Rose. It
seemed like a sign.
Brady put his hand up for a moment, then sighed loudly and put it back
down. He probably wants to say that women weren’t good soldiers, she
thought. But Sarah had survived marching hundreds of miles with bad food
and water. She was tough; she lived when other soldiers had died.
“How did she pass herself off as a man?” Taylor wanted to know.
“They didn’t check,” said Julia, making air quotes in the air and drawing
giggles from the class. She had wondered the same thing. “She wore bulky
clothes, and pretended she couldn’t grow a beard because she, or he, wasn’t
old enough yet.”
“What would have happened if someone had found out she was a
woman?” Sophia wanted to know.
“They would have sent her home,” said Julia.
 “Even if she was doing a good job?”
“I think so?” She looked to Mrs. Norwood for help.
“That’s the way it was in those days. Women were not supposed to fight,”
said Mrs. Norwood. “Though there were women who acted as spies, which
is another way of fighting, if you think about it.”
“If she was buried as a man, how did people find out she was a woman?”
asked Taylor.
“A family member found the letters she wrote home in the attic. Her
family knew she was fighting as a man and they were okay with it,” said
Julia. “If it weren’t for the letters, maybe no one would have ever found out.”
Julia’s head was so full of thoughts after her presentation, that she’d
forgotten about her conversation with Taylor until lunch. “Did you hear?”
asked Gabby. “Evan’s dog is missing, and everyone thinks Brady took her.”
“Everyone?” Julia felt excited. “Did someone see Mochi and Brady
together?”
“I don’t know who saw what,” said Gabby. “I just know that everyone is
saying Brady did it.”
“I saw Mochi, and then I saw Brady a bit later,” Julia explained.
“Makes sense,” said Gabby, as if that confirmed the story. Julia wasn’t
sure. Did that mean Brady took Mochi?
“I was just wondering if there was someone else who saw that. Over by
Miller’s field.”
“He was probably sneaking around,” said Gabby. “So no one would see
him. You know he knows how to train dogs, like his dad. Some of the kids
are saying we should just give Brady a longer silent treatment. Like
permanent silent treatment.”
Permanent silent treatment? What did that even mean? Until the end of the
year? Until they graduated from high school? For the rest of their lives? Julia
wasn’t sure. Then she thought about Evan, and how excited he was when
Julia said she had seen Mochi. If Brady knew where Mochi was, then he
should bring her back. That was more important than silent treatment, Julia
decided.
 Julia raised her hand and asked if she could get a piece of paper and a
pen from the classroom. Usually the lunchroom monitor would refuse such
requests, but Julia had a reputation. A good one. Mrs. Lentz gave her a quick
nod and told her she could go.
During recess, Julia sat by herself, up on the hill overlooking where they
usually played baseball or flag football. Carefully, thoughtfully, she wrote a
note to Brady, and when they returned to class, she slid it into his desk when
no one was looking.
Brady found the note, folded twice, as he was looking for his worksheet on
prepositions. A preposition, Mrs. Norwood had explained, expressed a
relationship between a noun and another word or element. The car on the
road. She arrived after the bell rang. For the last several days, Brady had
been feeling as though there was no anything between himself and anyone
else. The class had cut him off, left him alone.
It’s fine, he had told himself. I don’t need them. But in truth, when he
spotted the note with his name on it, he wanted to cry with relief. The last
few days had been miserable. Even when someone had left that note about
Jubal Griggs, it was terrible, but at least it was something. This note was a
tiny lifeline of communication. Someone was saying, I see you.
He waited until he got home—he wanted to run home but he wasn’t going
to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him do anything different—past
Charlie’s closed bedroom door, up to his room, and on the bed. Nero, his
dog, followed him.
“Wait a minute, boy,” Brady told him, stroking his black, silky ears.
Brady normally gave him a snack after school. It was their routine. His dad
worked with dogs all the time, but Nero was one who had stayed, had
become a pet. His dad said Nero had a keen nose but no stamina. He
wouldn’t stay motivated, wasn’t pulling at the leash to get to the next task.
“He’s a Griggs for sure,” his dad had said. “Too lazy for his own good.”
 Brady hated it when his dad said things like that, brushing them all in the
same paint with his words. Like his name decided everything—who he was
going to be, what he was capable of becoming. The only part he liked was
that he was good at working with dogs, like his dad. He’d already helped his
dad train a few dogs when they were pups—early skills, like housebreaking
and basic commands.
He read the note.

Brady,
Evan’s dog is missing. Many people in the class believe you did
it. You have the means and the motive, and you were seen walking
down the same street as her.
If you are responsible, you should bring her back. If you are
responsible and do not bring the dog back, the class is considering
permanent silent treatment. If you are not responsible, please
provide proof.

Brady read the note a few times and set it down. He didn’t know what he
had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Whoever sent the note didn’t sign it,
but Brady guessed it was a girl. The handwriting was neat and clear, written
with a light blue pen. Brady tried to remember who he had seen with a light
blue pen, and then shook his head. It didn’t matter. They all thought it.
He sat up and closed his eyes, pushing his fingertips into the bridge of his
nose. When did everything get so darn difficult? One minute he was rolling
along and then bam! Evan showed up with his weird ideas and his Chinese
soldiers. There weren’t supposed to be Chinese soldiers in the Civil War.
It felt like somebody had to be lying. First, he thought Evan was lying, but
then Evan had shown that he wasn’t, so now Brady had to consider the other
possibility, which was that what he’d believed was a lie.
Well, Brady knew something about lying, didn’t he? He laughed bitterly
as he refolded the note.
 “What’s so funny?” Charlie was in the doorway, wiping the sleep out of
his eyes. Charlie had been sleeping all day since he’d lost yet another job.
This time he’d been employed all of three days before getting fired for
talking back to a customer.
“Nothing,” said Brady. It was better to respond quickly to Charlie, before
his temper got up. That’s what had gotten him fired. When Charlie had come
home early from his shift, his dad shook his head and swore. “You’re going
to run out of places to work,” Dad said.
“I’ll open my own business,” Charlie answered.
“You’ve got to have something to offer,” said his dad. “You’ve got
nothing. Actually worse than nothing. You’ve got a reputation.”
“It’s better than picking up dog crap all day,” sneered Charlie.
That had sparked a whole round of screaming and threats, door-slamming
and fingers jabbed in faces. Even though he had nothing to do with it, his
father dragged Brady into it. “Don’t turn out like this guy,” he warned,
pointing at Charlie. “He’s a nothing. He’s an embarrassment.”
Brady screamed back, telling them both to shut up, but the real fight was
between Dad and Charlie. He tried to fall asleep with Nero next to him, but
every thump, every scream added to the pit in his stomach until he felt like he
was carrying a pile of rocks in his gut. That’s why he had stayed home from
school the next day. Usually nothing kept Brady from school; it felt safer than
home.
Nero whined and pushed against Brady’s hands. Charlie took a step into
the bedroom. “You ignoring me, boy?” he asked. Brady had not spoken
loudly enough.
Brady slid the note into the tangle of sheets on his bed. “No, nothing’s
funny,” he mumbled. Nero got to his feet and stood between Brady and
Charlie. He thought quickly. “Unless prepositions are funny.”
“Norwood still teaching that old stuff?” said Charlie. “About, above,
across, after, against, ahead of, along …”
“You still remember?”
“Ingrained in my brain,” said Charlie, tapping his temple.
 “What else do you remember?” If Brady could get Charlie talking, maybe
he’d work himself out of his bad mood.
“Oh, let’s see. Some movie on foot hygiene. Reading some book about a
raccoon. And Battlefield Day, of course.”
“Who were you for Battlefield Day?”
“Jubal Griggs, of course. Are we ever anything else? Just like Dad and
Uncle Peter. Good ol’ Jubal Griggs, the one-legged legend.” Charlie thumped
his hands against the doorway, beating out a rhythm, and then disappeared.
It was a good question—are we ever anything else? And even their hero
was kind of a bum. Brady leaned back on the bed and called Nero, letting the
dog rest against his chest, letting Nero’s weight settle him. He dug into the
covers until he found the note again.

* * *

He took Nero for a walk first, to build up his courage. Brady liked walking,
liked the way it made him feel. He often took Nero with him, but sometimes
he just walked alone. Once he’d walked around the entire border of the town,
from Martin’s car dealership to the old Haddington house, once grand and
now falling down, to Miller’s field to Dalloway’s ravine. This was a way of
knowing a town, step by step.
Brady let his thoughts churn. He didn’t owe anybody anything. He hadn’t
taken Evan’s dog. But at the same time, he couldn’t bear the thought of a lost
dog, either. What would life be like without dogs? They didn’t yell at you or
get mad at you when you made mistakes. They just wanted some food,
affection, and a walk now and then. Nero was the only one in the house who
listened without criticizing him, who seemed excited when he came home.
If he could, if he thought anyone would understand, Brady would let
everyone know why he was doing it, and it wasn’t for their approval or their
acceptance. But people saw what they wanted to see, that much had been
made clear to him. No matter what he did, he was, and would be, the bad
guy.
 Don’t turn out like this guy. His father’s words came back to him, his
dad stabbing his finger toward Charlie. Everyone thought he was turning out
like Charlie, anyway. Maybe it wasn’t worth trying not to.
Nero stopped, staring at his reflection in a puddle. Then he reared back
on his hind legs and plunged his two front paws into the water, breaking the
surface. Brady laughed. Nero was almost five, but still acted like a puppy
sometimes. Nero jumped out of the puddle, dripping water everywhere.
“You’re a mess,” said Brady. “And that was your own reflection, not
another dog.”
He started to run with Nero, not for any particular reason, just to run and
feel the wind against his face. To feel something else. The stretch of muscle,
lungs burning. He turned back and watched the trail of paw prints turn from
sloppy blotches to defined four-toed prints to only a faint outline. He’d
walked around the edge of town, but could he ever run out?
Just do it, he told himself. Get it over with. It can’t get any worse, right?
Evan didn’t expect a knock at the back door, and he definitely didn’t expect
to find Brady Griggs there, doubled over, panting. A large black dog was
with him.
Brady held a hand up. “I … didn’t … take … your … dog …” he said
between breaths.
Evan wasn’t sure what to say. Under the rules of the silent treatment, he
wasn’t supposed to say anything. He held his hands up, palms facing the sky.
Why was Brady telling him this?
Brady understood the gesture. He took one long breath and stood up.
“Other people have been saying it. It’s not true.”
Evan nodded, not because he had some great belief in Brady, but because
he knew what had actually happened: Mochi had opened the door in a panic.
Also, he did not get the sense that Brady was lying. “I know.” It was a break
in the silent treatment, but maybe just two words would not count.
What Brady said next, though, surprised him. “I can help you find her,”
Brady said.
He said it so confidently, the possibility of finding Mochi almost knocked
the wind out of Evan. With every hour she was gone, the more it seemed like
it would stay that way. He had gone to Miller’s field after school, based on
Julia’s suggestion, and struck out. All he had gotten was the sense that Mochi
could be anywhere.
 But he didn’t want Brady’s help. It was too high a price to pay. He started
to close the door. It was probably a trick, anyway.
“Wait,” said Brady. “Are you just going to let your dog go then? You’d
rather do that than get help from me?”
There was no gesture, no expression that Evan could conjure now. Fine.
This was an emergency. Brady Griggs on his backdoor step was an
emergency. “Why now? After everything you’ve done, why would you help
now?” he asked.
Brady looked down at his dog. “I like dogs. And working with dogs is
something I’m good at. I know how they think.”
“You like dogs better than you like people,” said Evan curtly.
“Dogs are less terrible than people,” said Brady. The black dog sniffed at
Evan. Evan’s first instinct was to pull his hand away, but then he stopped. He
wasn’t angry with the dog. He held out his hand, letting the dog smell.
“Funny you should say that,” said Evan. “A dog never shot at my house.”
“The kids at school are saying I took your dog, and if it doesn’t come
back, they’ll make the silent treatment permanent.”
Evan snorted. “The truth comes out. You’re offering to help because of
the silent treatment.”
“You just said you know I didn’t take your dog,” said Brady. “So you
should know that’s not why I’m doing this.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Look, do you want me to help? My dad says when a dog goes missing, you
can’t waste time. The longer you wait …”
Brady didn’t finish the sentence but he didn’t have to. Evan had already
imagined all the terrible things that could have happened, things that kept
Mochi from coming home. Still, he tried to keep his face neutral, his voice
hard. “This better not be a trick.” He didn’t sense anything, no treachery. But
Evan wondered if he could trust himself. He could already feel a tiny wisp of
hope rise in his chest. Maybe they would find Mochi. But he squashed it back
down. Hope had fooled him before.
“I’m not going to mess with you. Not when it comes to dogs.” Brady
stroked his dog’s head. “That wouldn’t be fair to Nero, either. What’s your
dog’s name?”
Evan hesitated. “Mochi.” Just saying her name made his heart ache a
little.
“Mochi?”
“It’s a dessert,” Evan said defensively. Not exactly a tough-guy name,
compared to Nero.
“Mochi,” repeated Brady, smiling slightly.
“We’re only talking so I can get my dog back,” said Evan.
Brady said they needed something with Mochi’s scent. Evan grabbed the
towel they used to dry off Mochi when it rained. He told Celeste he was
going for a walk. He didn’t mention Brady. Celeste wouldn’t have let him go.
Brady let Nero take a good sniff of the towel, turning it over and over and
saying, “You want to go tracking, boy? Do you?” He spoke in a voice he
never used at school, one that was warm and encouraging. When Nero had
gotten excited, Brady told him to track, and Nero started walking slowly up
Carnegie, toward the school. To anybody watching, they might have looked
like two friends taking a dog for a walk, thought Evan. Ha.
“That’s it, good boy, Nero. Track!” Brady encouraged him.
Evan had decided not to tell Brady about Miller’s field. He wanted to
see where Nero would go, what the dog would do without being influenced.
But they were headed in that direction, past the main entrance to the school to
the other side of the school, over a small footbridge. Nero kept sniffing,
sniffing, moving at a steady pace, occasionally stopping to smell a patch of
grass or a telephone pole. Evan had never watched a dog follow a scent, the
way they followed a path that was completely invisible to him, but clearly
detecting something. What did they smell? Did they smell sneakers, too, and
bicycle tires? How did Nero pick out one smell out of all the smells that
landed on the ground?
Just as Evan was thinking that maybe Nero was on to something, though,
he stopped at the old fire station. He lifted his head and inhaled, one, two,
three times, walked around in a few circles, and looked at Brady.
“Why’d he stop?” Evan asked.
 “Let’s try the towel again,” said Brady. He held out the towel again,
trying to get Nero excited. Nero looked at the towel as if he’d never seen it.
“He lost the scent, I guess.”
Figures, thought Evan.
“Wait. There’s a lot of concrete here. There’s less for the scent to hold on
to. Maybe she ran back across the water. Let’s walk in a bigger circle.”
They walked in larger and larger circles, letting Nero sniff. A man with a
pink face, holding a can of soda, came out of his house and watched them.
“You boys lose something?”
“Hi, Mr. Catten,” said Brady. “Evan here lost his dog.”
“You boys check Miller’s field? Dogs seem to like it there; though you
know the last time …”
“I think we’re going there next,” said Brady, cutting off the man suddenly.
“That was my next idea.” Mr. Catten did not seem to notice he had been
interrupted. “Well, good luck to you,” he said, heading back into the house.
Brady thanked him, and the two boys turned to walk to the field.
“What was he going to say?” asked Evan. Brady had obviously not
wanted Mr. Catten to say more.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Brady in a tone Evan was more accustomed
to. Bossy, rough.
“I’ve been to Miller’s field, and I didn’t see anything,” Evan warned him.
“What’d you do? Walk around, yelling for your dog?” asked Brady.
“I don’t know what else you’re supposed to do,” said Evan. “So yeah.”
Brady shook his head. “It’s not enough to know where to look. You gotta
know how to look. I just hope you didn’t make too much of a mess.”
Back where Evan lived in Schuyler, there were no spaces that were just
fields. Every piece of land belonged to someone; every lot was supposed to
be doing something. A dog park, a golf course, a baseball field. You had to
have permission to use a space, and every field looked like it was managed
because it was clean, no litter, recently mowed. But this field, this expanse of
land, did not have that feeling. It was a wide field, filled with waist-high
grass.
 “How tall is Mochi?” asked Brady.
“This high?” Evan pointed to a spot halfway between his hip and his
knee.
“So she could walk around in the grass and you wouldn’t even see her,”
said Brady.
“But she’d come to me,” said Evan. “She knows how to come.”
“She knows to come to you if she’s in her right mind. But sometimes dogs
get nervous when they’re out; they’re not the same. Or maybe they ran
because something scared them. And if she’s like that, and you’re stomping
around, yelling her name, she’s not going to come. She might run.”
Evan started to point out that Mochi had not been the same since the
shooting, and then stopped. Maybe that was the point of Brady’s comment.
Brady pulled the towel out again and put it to Nero to smell. “C’mon,
boy, let’s have a sniff. Is Mochi here? Can you find Mochi?” This time Nero
became more alert. He began to tug on the leash toward grass. Brady
unclipped the leash and let Nero go ahead. All Evan could see was Nero’s
tail.
“Just be sure to check yourself for ticks when we leave here,” said
Brady. “They love it here.” The boys walked slowly behind Nero, letting the
dog take his time. The sky was darkening, threatening rain. What would
Mochi do in the rain?
Nero stopped. Next to a large rock, the grass had been pushed down into
a circle. “Something was taking a nap here,” noted Brady. Nero sniffed the
circle of grass intently.
“Keep going, boy,” said Brady. “What else can we find?”
Nero pushed on, moving steadily toward the woods. The woods stretched
out as far as Evan could see. Please don’t be in the woods, he thought.
They came to a small clearing, an area where the grass did not grow.
Brady pointed to a spot in a muddy patch. “I think there’s a paw print,” he
said. “That looks like a dog’s paw print, right?”
“I don’t know what Mochi’s paw print looks like,” said Evan. To him,
the ground just looked like peaks and valleys of mud, but if he looked hard
enough, he could see something like a paw print. “I think it’s about the right
size, more or less.”
“I think it’s definitely a dog print,” said Brady. “I like that.” He squatted
down and looked around. “Look, over there. See the way the grass bends like
that? Looks like something’s been making a tunnel, going back and forth.
Maybe that’s what Mochi’s been doing.”
“Or another dog,” said Evan. “That man, Mr. Catten? He said dogs like
coming here.”
Brady nodded. “He did.”
“Then he started to say something else.”
“You don’t want to know,” said Brady.
Evan wasn’t going to let Brady think he was the kind of person who was
afraid to know things. “Yes, I do,” he insisted.
Brady stood up, brushing off his hands. “You want to know? Fine. A little
beagle got out here a few months ago and was killed by a coyote.” Now
Brady was mad. “They found the body over there, by the tree line. Just
enough left to recognize him.”
“Oh. That’s awful.”
“I know,” said Brady. “Didn’t have a chance.”
Now Evan understood. Brady didn’t want to think about Mochi in the
same way. What would be worse—never knowing what happened to Mochi,
or finding out something terrible had happened?
Brady put a hand up. “Don’t move.”
They were being watched.
Nero had stopped and lifted his front paw in the air, pointing toward the
western end of the field. Brady scanned the grass, looking for the shape, the
color that was out of place. Nothing on the first scan. He lowered his line of
sight.
A dark eye, deep in the grass, stared back at him.
Brady told Evan about the eye. “Look for it, but don’t stare. Staring is
dominant behavior.”
Evan glanced in the direction Brady told him to look. “I don’t see
anything.”
“To be honest,” said Brady. “I’m not one hundred percent sure it is
Mochi, but it is something.”
“So it could be anything,” said Evan. “Like the coyote.”
“Coyotes are usually light-eyed. I saw a dark eye. But either way, you’ve
got to find out.”
It started to rain. A light spring rain, patting down their hair, dampening
their clothes. “If it isn’t Mochi, we can keep tracking. Rain is good for that,”
he told Evan. “I wish we had some food.”
“I have food,” said Evan.
“You do?”
 Evan reached into his pockets and pulled out a jerky stick and a granola
bar. Brady smiled, almost involuntarily.
“What?” asked Evan.
“You always have food in your pockets?”
Evan shrugged, embarrassed. “I get hungry. Anyway, it’s a good thing I
brought some food, right?”
“I suppose. You’re going to put on a big act on eating them, but at the
same time, act like you don’t care about whoever is there. Don’t even look in
that direction. I’d go with the granola bar first. Be sure to wrinkle the
wrapper a lot. You’re trying to get whatever it is to come closer.”
“Unless I decide that it’s something that I don’t want to get closer,” said
Evan.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to take Nero and sit behind that tree over there,
and I’ll tell you what to do. Set your phone on selfie mode, so you can
pretend not to look at it, while still keeping an eye on it.”
Brady told Evan to break open the granola bar and make lots of noise.
“Make sure to drop some pieces on the ground,” said Brady. “Be a messy
eater. Make lots of noise so it knows that you’re not trying to sneak up on it.”
Evan sat down on the ground and tore open the granola bar. “Yummy
granola,” said Evan. “Yum yum yummy.” He took a bite and then let bits of
granola spill out of his mouth. Brady tried not to laugh.
“You said to be messy,” said Evan.
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” said Brady, watching from behind the
tree. “Slow down,” said Brady. “You’re going to get through that whole thing
in a minute. You don’t actually have to eat it, just pretend.”
Evan began to exaggerate the eating motion. He dangled a chunk of
granola over his mouth and then made loud chewing noises. “Good granola.
Nom nom nom,” he said. He peeked at his phone. “I still don’t see anything.”
“You have to wait,” said Brady.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes,” said Brady.
 The rain picked up. Brady was protected by the tree, but Evan was
getting completely soaked. He didn’t complain, though. Brady thought of
something.
“Could be a wolf. I think they can have darker eyes.”
“I thought wolves were diurnal,” said Evan.
Evan probably thought Brady didn’t know what diurnal meant. Well,
Brady could do him one better. “They’re crepuscular,” said Brady. When
Evan looked confused, Brady added, “They’re active at dusk and dawn.” It
was actually one of his favorite words, sounding weird and beautiful all at
the same time.
“That’s not exactly comforting, then,” said Evan, dangling another chunk
of granola near his mouth.
Nero whined. He wanted some food, too.
“Sorry, boy. I should have brought you something,” said Brady.
“Here,” said Evan. He tried to throw a piece of granola to Nero but fell
short. At that moment, Brady spotted a movement in the grass.
“That might have gotten it moving,” said Brady. “Lie down.”
“What? Why?” said Evan.
“You have to be as unthreatening as possible,” said Brady. “What’s less
threatening than a body on the ground?”
“I can think of things that are a lot more pleasant than being a body on the
ground,” said Evan. “In the rain.” Evan lay partway down and continued to
pantomime eating food. For a few minutes, neither one of them said anything.
The wind picked up, sending waves across the grass. “This is taking a long
time,” said Evan.
“This isn’t some store where you walk in and get what you want right
away,” said Brady. “You have to be patient.”
“I thought I was being patient,” said Evan. “But I’ll stay here all day if I
have to.” He held up his phone to check, shielding it with one hand against
the rain. “Wait—I think I see something.”
Brady looked. A dark nose poked out of the grass, lifting and lowering,
lifting and lowering. Brady moved back behind the tree.
 “Calm voice,” cautioned Brady. “Keep up the noisy eating.”
“Here I am, lying in the grass, probably getting covered in ticks,” said
Evan. “I hope that’s you, Mochi. Mmmm, should I move on to the jerky?” He
took the meat out of the plastic casing. “Yummy yummy jerky.”
“That wrapper doesn’t make any noise, so you have to keep talking.”
“This is turkey jerky. It is teriyaki-flavored. What else can I say? Was the
person who invented jerky a jerk? Is that where it comes from? What if that
person had been a nice person? Would we call it something else?” Evan
babbled on.
The nose was moving. A dog emerged from the grass, about ten feet away
from Evan. Plenty of room to jump away and run.
Evan drew a sharp breath. “It’s her. It’s Mochi,” said Evan.
“Don’t look,” said Brady. He himself was so excited he wanted to shout.
“You have to just let her be around you. Keep dropping food.”
“Why can’t I just grab her?”
“Cause she’s way faster than you are,” said Brady. “And then she won’t
trust you.”
Evan put one hand over his eyes. “I’m not going to look,” Evan
announced. “If I look, I’ll get too excited,” he said.
Brady stayed in view by the side of the tree, keeping watch, occasionally
offering reports. “She’s almost at your feet.” “Hey! She ate a piece of the
jerky.” Poor Nero, he had to watch all of this without getting any food. “I’m
going to give you the best dinner when we get home,” Brady told him.
For ten long minutes, Mochi inched closer, vacuuming up bits of food
around Evan. Then Brady saw the sign he’d been hoping for. Her mouth
opened slightly, like a smile.
“You can look,” said Brady. “But not stare.” Evan opened one eye,
slightly and smiled. “Hey, girl.” He looked away, to Brady, and nodded.
“See if she’ll come touch you,” said Brady. “Put a piece of jerky really
close to you.”
Evan put a piece of jerky in the palm of his hand, and let it open loosely
on the ground. Mochi sniffed and then jumped away slightly. When Evan
didn’t move, she came back and took the jerky with the tips of her front teeth.
After she ate it, she came back and nudged Evan’s hand as if asking for more.
Evan lifted his hand and let it drop slowly against Mochi, as if petting her
by accident. He did it again. And again.
“It’s me, Mochi,” he murmured. “Do you remember me now?”
Now he was petting her with more deliberate strokes, parceling out tiny
bits of jerky. “Don’t rush now,” said Brady. If she ran off, they’d have to start
over again.
“I’m not,” said Evan. Brady could hear him talking low under his breath.
Mochi seemed to lean in, as if listening, and then licked his hand. She
seemed to recognize him now. Her tail wagged slightly. Evan reached out,
and lightly grasped Mochi’s collar.
“Got her,” he said, his voice quietly triumphant. He slowly got to his feet
and looked at his phone. “That took over an hour.” He leaned over and talked
to Mochi. “It took an hour but felt like a million years.”
“Oh come on,” said Brady. “Only a thousand.” Brady looked down and
realized his hand was shaking.
“Let’s go home,” Evan said to Mochi. “Let’s go home.”
The emergency is over, Evan reminded himself.
It was hard to remember in a moment of so much happiness that he should
not talk to Brady. He wanted to carry Mochi all the way home. He wanted to
smell her wet, stinky fur and feel the reassuring heft of her weight in his
arms. He wanted to walk in the front door, triumphantly, with Mochi. At
least, he did want these things until he realized how heavy and wiggly she
was.
He wanted to share the moment. Rehash what happened. Revel in the
highlights.
Brady grunted his approval when Evan put her down on the ground and
attached the leash that Brady had loaned him. He probably thought that
carrying Mochi was stupid, like carrying a stuffed animal. Evan tried to turn
that into a reason to hate Brady, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t mad at Brady
anymore. He felt defective. What was wrong with him? People fought whole
wars. Couldn’t he at least do a silent treatment?
Brady shot a gun at the house, he reminded himself. He hurt Mochi. He
hurt all of them, just not all in a physical way.
Brady interrupted his thoughts. “Listen, don’t tell anyone about this,
okay?”
“By ‘this,’ you mean … ?”
 “Finding the dog, of course,” said Brady. “This is between you and me.
And the dogs.”
So Brady seemed ready to go back to not talking. Maybe he didn’t feel
the same way, though he had seemed plenty excited a few minutes ago. Still,
it was probably for the best. How could he even explain this to Max? At
least, maybe Brady would leave him alone, once the silent treatment was
over. They could go to neutral.
Then again, if Brady had left him alone a few hours ago, he wouldn’t
have Mochi now.
“I think if people knew you helped me, that would be … fair,” said Evan.
He didn’t say all the other pieces, about ending the silent treatment, ending
the threat of permanent silent treatment, but Brady understood.
He stopped walking. “No, that’s not why I did it. I told you that. Your dog
is home. Just tell people she came home and leave me out of it.” He made a
motion with his hands, a flat line. Evan was confused.
“You’re doing this to make up for the window,” said Evan. And there it
was, a little residual flare of anger. It felt safe, like a shield.
“Sure,” said Brady. “If that’s what you want to believe.”
They had this moment between them. This moment where Evan had felt as
alive as he ever had, lying in the grass, in the rain, trying to convince his dog
to come back to him, and they were never going to talk again. If they were
really going to stop, act as if this never happened, Evan wanted to ask one
more question. The question that never got answered.
“Why’d you do it?” he asked. “Why’d you shoot my window?”
Brady fumbled. “You … you …”
“Don’t start with ‘you.’ I didn’t do anything,” said Evan. “You know I
didn’t. I never did anything but be myself.” His voice rose. Mochi looked
back at him, worried. Evan hated himself. For wanting an answer only Brady
could give. For needing an answer.
“I just did,” said Brady. “You messed up everything. Everything was
going to be great, and then you rolled in.” He made his voice nasally,
pretending to be Evan. “I’m so smart; I’m so great. I found stuff about the
Civil War that even the teacher didn’t know.” He cleared his throat. “I was
mad. I just did it.”
Then there it was, like a punch between the eyes. For a moment, Evan
couldn’t see anything, then he shook his head, trying to get clear. It was a
doozy. He hadn’t felt one like this in a long time.
“You’re lying,” he said. His mind started to race. Here’s where things got
tricky. Evan could sense when people were lying, but he didn’t always know
what they were lying about.
“I am not!” said Brady. “Why would I lie?” Which only sent another
punch right to Evan’s brain.
“I never said I’m so great,” said Evan, trying to find the lie.
“You don’t have to,” said Brady. “You act like it.”
Evan stopped to steady himself against a tree next to the sidewalk.
Amazingly, Brady stayed with him. Maybe Evan was too involved. Maybe
his detector was off completely. Just like with Dad. Mochi pulled him to the
other side of the tree, going after a smell.
For a second, Brady disappeared behind the tree.
Brady. Tree. Brady. Tree.
Something was trying to click, like a switch that would not quite catch
and hold. But he was getting close. Brady. Tree. Brady. Tree.
Brady in the field, shielded by the tree. Calling out directions from the
tree.
Evan stepped around the tree so he was directly in front of Brady.
“Where did you say you were when you fired the gun?”
Brady hesitated. “Bedroom,” he said.
“Your bedroom?”
“No, your mom’s bedroom,” snapped Brady.
“Have you … have you always had the same room in your house?”
“Charlie’s not exactly dying to have the smallest room in the house,” said
Brady. He turned abruptly and walked ahead, Nero following obediently
behind him. Evan walked a few paces behind. They passed the school,
headed down the long hill. They passed Max’s street. The rain had stopped
and the sweet smell of earth rose up. The streets glistened.
It was Max’s story. He climbed out his bedroom window, shimmied
down the tree. Brady. Tree. The road curved and Brady’s house came into
view. Evan looked, to be sure, but he already knew. There were no trees in
the front of Brady’s house. A tall gray tree peeked over the roofline from the
back of the house. The back, not the front.
“You didn’t do it,” Evan said. It wasn’t a question.
“Just stop. Shut up.” Brady raised his chin, trying to keep his advantage
up. But Evan could see all the cracks inside. The throbbing in his head
stopped. The picture had snapped into place.
“You don’t know everything,” said Brady.
“I know what side of the house you need to be on to see my house, and
it’s not the side with the tree,” Evan said.
Brady speed-walked ahead and then turned around. “You got what you
wanted. You got your dog back. Everyone at school hates me. You even have
a Civil War … thing. What more do you want?” His words came out like
stomps. What. More. Do. You. Want. “I just wanted to do this one thing, this
one thing and keep it pure, and you have to go and mess that up, too.”
“Why would you take the blame …” Brady didn’t let Evan finish.
The NO MERCY car turned onto Carnegie from the opposite side, from the
main road. Brady broke into a run toward his house, Nero racing beside him.
“Don’t come near me,” he half shouted. “We’re done talking.”
Evan couldn’t tell if it was a threat or a plea.

* * *

Mochi’s feet didn’t touch the ground for the first hour she was home. Mom
and Celeste just kept holding her and kissing her. For her part, Mochi was
pretty willing to soak it all in. Celeste took approximately three thousand
pictures of her. When Mom asked how Evan found her, he just said,
“Someone told me to check Miller’s field.”
 “Did they tell you to get soaking wet, too?” Mom made him take a hot
shower before dinner and put on socks and slippers afterward. “Be sure to
keep your feet warm,” she told him. “If your feet are warm, the rest of you
will be warm.”
Mom cooked some chicken and then divided it between plates for the
people and Mochi. Mom put Mochi’s bowl right next to her chair and added
some rice. It felt comfortable. The room felt good and warm and complete.
“Anyone home?” said a voice. It was Uncle Joe. “Come in, come in,”
said Mom. “We were just sitting down to dinner.” She got out a pair of
slippers for him and told Evan to set another place.
Evan tried to soak it in. The goodness, the feeling of home. Uncle Joe
was there now. Just think of the good things, he told himself. Mochi was
home. But Brady nagged at him. He’d finally gotten the answer to his
question, why’d you do it, and gotten more than he’d bargained for. A whole
unspooling of different events than he’d expected.
There was one other person he wanted to ask that question—why’d you
do it? Dad. They had picked up their lives and moved on, but the question
had left a hole inside of him. Why had he taken the money? Why had he left
them behind? He wished he could be as hard as the words he’d said in the
car that day—I don’t care. But he did. It was his curse.
They spent the evening finishing up the costume for Battlefield Day. A
pair of jeans would have to do for the bottom, and Evan had black sneakers
instead of boots, but that was okay, he convinced himself. The main part was
the jacket. “Did you find gold buttons for the jacket?” asked Evan. Mom
nodded. “Can you show me how to sew them on?”
“I can do it for you,” said Mom. “It would be quicker. And you won’t
have to worry about pricking your finger.” She had already gotten out her
sewing box and picked out a spool of dark blue thread.
“But I want to do it,” said Evan. “I want to know how to do it.” Mom
raised her eyebrows. “Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
She showed him how to thread the needle and knot the ends together, and
then how to stitch the button to the coat. Evan sewed a single row of buttons
along the edge of the jacket flap, careful to keep the buttons in a neat row. He
only stuck his finger a few times, pushing the needle through the thick cloth.
But something was still missing.
“I have an idea of how to make one of those caps,” said Celeste. “All we
need is a baseball cap to sacrifice.”
“You’re going to help?” asked Evan. “I thought you said this was weird.”
“It is weird,” said Celeste. “But I’m not going to let you look like a fool.
It’s too important.”
Celeste cut back the brim on a baseball cap, and then pushed down the
crown of the hat with a circle of cardboard. She covered the whole thing
with some dark blue felt and added a black strip across the front. “Amazing
what you can do with a glue gun,” she said.
Celeste wouldn’t let him look in the mirror until she finished the cap. She
made him walk backward into the bathroom and put the cap on him. She
stood back and appraised him first. She closed one eye and cocked the cap to
one side. “Not bad.”
“Okay, now look,” she commanded. She grasped him by the shoulders
and turned him around.
For a brief second, Evan didn’t recognize himself. An older person
stared back at him. Serious eyes peeked out under the cap. His shoulders
looked broader under the coat. “I look like them,” he said. The few precious
images he had seen. Joseph Pierce. Edward Day Cohota. Hong Neok Woo.
Plus all the other people he could only imagine, their faces lost to time. The
ones who had lost their lives, fighting for a country they believed in. A future
they believed in.
That was their legacy. It wasn’t just having them in the past, as a stake to
say we were here, that mattered. It was their story, carrying Evan into the
future. We are here, and we’re here to stay. We’re here to fight for the
country that is yet to be.
Mom joined them in the bathroom, looking at Evan in the mirror. Thinking
of the soldiers had made him brave.
 “I want …” Evan slowed down, trying to choose his words carefully. He
did not want to hurt Mom, or anyone. But he had his own needs. “I think I
want to talk to Dad, about what happened.”
Mom reached over and cut off a piece of thread with her silver scissors.
Snip. “You have to be careful. Dad has not been honest.”
“I know that,” said Evan. “I know that more than anyone.”
“I just want to keep you guys safe,” said Mom. “You’ve already been
through a lot.”
“I don’t want the kind of safety that’s fake, though. Not the kind of safety
from not knowing the truth,” said Evan. “I want to know the truth.” He looked
over at Celeste, half expecting her to yell at him. She didn’t say anything, but
her head nodded, the tiniest bit.
Mom let out a long breath. “Let’s go slowly, okay?”
“As long as I can do something,” said Evan. “Maybe write a letter?”
Mom nodded. “That might be a start.”
It was one start. There was still another truth he had to contend with.

* * *

Getting to the first branch of the tree was the hardest part. It was about seven
feet off the ground. If he could get to that branch, everything else would be
easy.
Nero had sniffed at him and wagged his tail when Evan snuck into the
backyard. Evan had come prepared for that. He gave the dog a piece of
chicken from dinner, and petted him. He had the leash with him, figuring that
if he got busted, he could say that he was returning Nero’s leash. He had to
get up the tree.
He tried bear-hugging the trunk to get to the first branch. Jumping.
Running up the side at full speed. Nothing. Evan sat on the ground panting.
Maybe it was a sign that it wasn’t meant to happen. Nero pawed at him. He
probably thought he was entitled to a walk because of the leash.
 A walk. The leash. Evan held the leash in front of him, and then threw the
leash over the branch. It was just long enough. He grabbed the end with the
handle and attached the clip. Now he had a loop around the branch. Slowly,
slowly, wishing he had more muscle, Evan pulled himself up to the first
branch. Now the trick was not to look down. He reached up and grasped the
next branch. Evan focused on moving upward, feeling the distance growing
between himself and the earth. The tree started to sway as he went up. This
was crazy. But he couldn’t shake the feeling again. Not even Mochi could
help him this time. This was the only way.
Brady’s bedroom was small, barely large enough for a bed and a chair,
covered with dirty clothes. Brady was sitting on his bed, playing a video
game.
“Brady,” said Evan. Brady did not hear him.
Evan scooted along the branch that went closest to Brady’s window. The
branch began to dip so low Evan thought it might snap off. He clung to the
branch and quickly tapped on the window.
Brady looked up and dropped the game. Quickly, he shut the door to his
room and then slid the window open.
“Are you nuts?” Brady whisper-shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk,” said Evan.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” said Brady. He was still shout-whispering
and glancing over his shoulder toward the door. “And you’re not supposed to
talk to me, remember?”
“This is an emergency,” said Evan.
“You on that branch is an emergency,” said Brady. “Go back toward the
tree trunk.”
Evan scooted back and the branch rose up. “Don’t you ever just get tired
of not talking about the truth?” asked Evan.
Brady sighed and closed the door to his room slightly. Then he lifted the
screen, leaned out the opening, and grabbed a higher branch, slightly above
the window. He hoisted himself out of the window, and then made his way to
Evan.
 Evan wrapped his arm around the tree trunk as the tree swayed from
Brady’s movement. “You do this a lot?” asked Evan, trying to hide the fear in
his voice.
“Enough,” said Brady. “But this is the first time someone has climbed up
here to me.” He paused, thinking. “How’d you make it to the first branch?”
“I used the leash,” said Evan. “Threw it over the branch and made a loop
to grab on to.”
Brady nodded, as if approving. “There used to be a lower branch, good
for climbing.” Then an awkward silence began to fill the space between
them. It was now or never, thought Evan.
“I want to know the whole story,” Evan said. “Everything.”
“Huh,” said Brady. “You want the whole story? Of my life? Try being a
Griggs in this town. We peaked in the 1800s and it’s been downhill ever
since.”
“I’m not sure Jubal Griggs was a peak,” said Evan. Then he covered his
mouth. He’d forgotten the desertion paper was a secret.
“Huh, it was you who put that paper in my lunch,” said Brady. “I should
have figured.” He laughed, bitterly. “He did come back, just so you know. He
didn’t walk away and stay away. He just needed to take care of his family for
a while.”
“What about you, though?” Evan tried again. “If you didn’t do it, you
shouldn’t take the blame.”
Brady let out a long breath. “It might as well have been me,” said Brady.
“It was as good as me.” He said this as if that made everything else make
sense.
Evan’s skin prickled. “So you admit it wasn’t you.”
Brady sighed. He pointed to one of the windows on the lower floor. “My
brother Charlie’s down there. You see him?”
Evan leaned back on the branch to get a look. “I can see someone
moving.” Shadows and light shifted. Someone was watching TV in the dark.
Brady grabbed the branch overhead and rested his head on his forearms.
“Charlie will be nineteen next month.” When Evan didn’t say anything, Brady
added. “Charlie is an adult.”
Evan wasn’t sure how to respond. “My sister, Celeste, is going to be
sixteen.”
“No,” interrupted Brady. “You don’t get it. If an adult shoots at a house,
he’s going to court and probably jail, especially if he’s already known as a
troublemaker like Charlie Griggs. Even if his dad knows some of the guys on
the force. But a kid? Like me? It’s definitely a better deal.”
Evan puzzled out what Brady was saying. “You’re saying that Charlie
shot at our house.”
Brady nodded, barely. He stared into the darkness. “You went to the
council meeting and talked about those Chinese soldiers. It made him so mad.
And then he lost his job, again.” Brady rubbed his face against his arm. “I
was home sick that day, remember? I was walking by his room and he said,
‘Hey, Brady, come watch this.’ He already had the window open.” Brady
paused. “Charlie already had his rifle out. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ He
said, ‘I’m just reminding some folks who’s in charge.’ I said, ‘Don’t do it.’
He said, ‘Nobody’s home. Whose side are you on?’ ”
Evan felt like he was watching a movie. With each description, he was
there, with Brady.
Brady shook the branch he was holding. “He kept pretending to fire the
gun, to mess with me. He’d look through the scope like he was going to fire
for real, and then he’d turn and shout, ‘BANG!’ Right in my face. He thought
it was so funny. And then I thought, maybe he won’t do it. Then he did, he
pulled the trigger, and then he stopped laughing. He looked at me, and he
said, ‘I’m doing this for you.’ ”
Brady stared into the darkness. “At that point, all I could think was,
nobody’s home. That was like the only thing that kept me from losing it. I just
kept thinking, nobody was home. That’s what I was thinking when the police
showed up.”
“And then you went along with taking the rap,” said Evan.
Brady nodded. “Yeah. Dad didn’t give me much choice. He said they
wouldn’t give me too bad a time, but Charlie? They’ve cut him some slack,
but this probably wasn’t something they could let slide.” Brady brushed his
hair out of his eyes. “At first, I was mad, but then I thought, that’s gonna be
me, anyway. That’s where all this is going. With enough time, it’s going to be
me taking that shot. So what’s the difference between me and Charlie? I’m
just takin’ my punishment a few years early.” Brady let out a hard laugh.
“Some punishment. Even Dad was surprised we didn’t go down to the
station.”
“You were surprised,” said Evan, emphasizing the you. “It was like they
didn’t even think about us.”
Nero looked up the tree at them and barked. A light came on and a door
opened. Nero went inside.
“But when I found out that Mochi was in the house, that she could have
been shot, or even just scared, that stopped me. I didn’t want any part of
that.” Brady took in a deep breath. “I had to do something right. Something
good.”
“You did,” said Evan. As soon as he said the words, Evan scolded
himself. Stop being nice. Even if Brady had not pulled the trigger, there was
a reason why it had seemed possible. “Though you’ve still done plenty of
terrible things. To me.” Flag football. The swing at Dalloway ravine. Do you
have the China virus?
Brady stood up on the branch, grabbed for the one he had used to get out
of the window and shook it. “It’s not right. It’s not right,” he said. Evan
wasn’t sure what the it was. Was it what Brady had done, or what Evan had
done? Brady let go of the upper limb, letting it snap back to place, and stood
up on the branch. He held his arms out, a perfect T balanced on top of a
slender branch.
Evan froze, not daring to move. Please don’t fall. Then he had a worse
thought. Please don’t jump. “What are you doing?” asked Evan, barely
daring to move his mouth.
“I’m seeing if I’m ready to fly,” said Brady. His voice was almost
playful.
 “Please,” said Evan. “Don’t.” His arms tensed. If Brady started to jump,
maybe he’d get one shot at grabbing him. A few days ago, if you’d told him
that Brady could disappear from view, he might have said good. But now
Evan’s entire being was focused on making sure Brady sat back down.
Evan thought of something. “Wait. You want a cookie? A Fig Newton?
These packages come with two.” Evan pushed his hip out, rebalancing
himself on the branch, reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow
package.
“A Fig Newton?” Brady said.
“Who doesn’t like a Fig Newton?” I hope you do, he thought. If food had
worked for Mochi, maybe it would work here. “They have all these different
flavors, but I still like fig the best. It’s a classic. Did you know that they’re
over one hundred years old? It’s kind of squished, but it’s all the same in
your stomach.” Keep talking. Keep talking.
Brady didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at Evan. Then he bent his
knees and then reached out and clasped a smaller limb, one that Evan had not
seen in the dark. He sat down. Evan leaned against the trunk and exhaled. He
tore open the package with his teeth and held it out to Brady. Brady took one
cookie.
Brady’s mouth twisted. “My mama used to say that. It’s all the same in
your stomach.” He took a bite.
“Doesn’t everyone’s mom say that? That and, if everyone jumped off a
bridge, would you do it, too?” Evan was still jabbering, trying to make sure
his words kept Brady tethered to the tree.
Brady tore off a piece of Fig Newton. “I don’t know what else she says.
She’s not around anymore.”
“Oh,” Evan had not expected that. “My dad’s not around, either,” Evan
heard himself say. Funny. Brady was just about the last person he thought
he’d say that to.
Brady grunted, a sound of recognition. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” said Evan. “It does.”
 For a moment, neither boy said anything. The tree gave Evan a new
perspective of the town, seeing the shapes of roofs of the houses below,
seeing the lights of trucks going by.
“Why do you care so much, anyway? You should hate me. I’ve done
plenty to warrant that,” said Brady.
Evan didn’t answer right away. “You have,” said Evan. “But that doesn’t
mean I don’t care about the truth now.” It was more than that, though. He
knew it from that moment when Brady stood teetering on the branch. He
wanted Brady to live.
Brady snorted. “The truth.” He made air quotes.
“What?” said Evan. “The truth matters.”
Brady shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. If you tell the kids at school that I
helped find Mochi, they’ll say it’s because I had taken her and I knew where
she was all along. If I tell the truth about Charlie, well, I better say it while
I’m running so I get a head start on him. Maybe my dad, too.” Brady looked
at Evan. “You cannot tell a soul about Charlie. I’m as serious as a heart
attack.”
“It can’t be like that,” said Evan. “The truth matters. I’ll tell ’em the truth,
that Mochi got out on her own and you helped me find her.”
“Then they’ll want to know why I helped if I had nothing to do with it,
because Brady Griggs wouldn’t do something just because it was right. And
if you tell them why I helped, then we’re back to telling on Charlie,” said
Brady. His face softened for a moment. “Even if I wanted to change, no one
would let me.”
“Brady,” said Evan.
Brady wouldn’t let him finish. In one quick movement, he moved toward
the window and slid back into his room. He turned around, hesitating. “I am
sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. I was wrong about you.” Then he closed the
window and turned out the light.
The morning of Battlefield Day started cool and clear. Max had spent the
night on the sleeping porch and woke up to the sound of birds. He’d been
looking forward to Battlefield Day as long as he could remember. When he
was a kid, it just seemed fun—getting to put on the uniforms and stay outside
all day, going to the different stations and talking to people. Today, though,
felt like it meant more than that.
“Morning.” Mama joined him on the porch in her bathrobe, carrying a
cup of coffee. “You ready for today?”
Max sat up and stretched. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He padded over to
her and leaned up against her, still waking up. Being a middle child, Max
rarely got to have a quiet moment with his mom. Usually he was in the thick
of the scrum, competing with his brothers for attention.
“You have a good day for it. When it was your brother Clark’s turn, it
was so hot one of the kids passed out. Those uniforms are hot.” She took a
sip of her coffee. “Just stay hydrated. Tell your friends. I’m supposed to be
running the sloosh station over the fire, have mercy.”
“What’s going to happen after this year? Are they still going to have
Battlefield Day after Mrs. Norwood retires?” asked Max.
“That is the subject of much debate among the school moms. None of the
other teachers want to do all that work, that’s for sure. But tradition, right?
Also, Jacob will pitch a fit if he doesn’t get a turn.”
 “You could probably bribe him with a trip to Kings Dominion instead,”
said Max. Kings Dominion was the amusement park they went to every
summer.
“Right? Oooh, that’s tempting. Probably only a little more crying and
throwing up than Battlefield Day.” Max laughed. “But seriously, here’s my
question. We do all this work, with the fire and the tents and the food. And I
know you guys love it, but do you actually learn something, or is it all fun and
games?”
Max paused, thinking about his mom’s comment. “I mean, I learned about
the Chinese soldiers, although that was before Battlefield Day.”
“Oh, you mean the thing with Evan? That’s really nice for him, but what’s
something you learn that matters? That’s like …” She fluttered her fingers in
the air. “Not trivia, exactly, but you know what I mean.”
“Mama, it matters. It’s not just a thing for Evan.” Max was a little
shocked his mother would say that, but maybe she had to be there, to be in the
class.
“Mmmm … maybe.” Mama took another sip of coffee.
“My whole idea of what the war looked like, and who fought, it changed
because of Evan. Other kids, too. Maybe you might think it’s some story off
to the side, because you hadn’t heard it before,” said Max.
Mom pursed her lips. “That’s true, I suppose. Maybe Evan could talk to
me about his profile and I can learn some more.”
“Um, but don’t embarrass me, okay? Like, just, don’t.”
“When have I embarrassed you?” Mom asked.
When he was younger, Max loved having his mom at school, but recently,
it seemed like a dicier proposition. A few weeks ago she had come in to help
with the book fair, and she had waved with her whole arm in front of
everyone. Her whole arm for everyone to see!
“You want your answer in alphabetical or chronological order?”
deadpanned Max.
“Oh, git.” She smacked him lightly on the bottom. “You better go get
ready for school. I’ll see you at the sloosh.”
 Max raised a fist in the air. “Slooosh!”

* * *

“What is sloosh?” asked Evan.

Evan, Casey, Julia, and Max had worked their way around the different
stations at Battlefield Day, getting their pictures taken and looking at the
medical kits. They had taken turns crawling inside a white canvas tent that
made Max feel slightly claustrophobic. It was a great day so far, especially
when Evan said his dog had come home. Now they could just have fun. Mrs.
Norwood had assigned them to groups so they would rotate and not clump up
at one station or another. Sloosh was next on the list but it had already
become a word of the day. When they had been at the coding station, all of
their messages were about sloosh, mostly to get on Max’s case, and because
sloosh was fun to say.
“Send … more … sloosh …” said Evan, decoding Julia’s message.
“Save … our … sloosh …” said Casey, writing out another one.
The sloosh station radiated heat from the fire. Mama was sweating,
keeping the fire running, waving off the smoke. She showed them how to
make sloosh. She cooked bacon in a pan, then added cornmeal to the grease.
Once it became doughlike, she wrapped it around a straight stick, which was
supposed to be like the ramrod the soldiers used, and cooked it over the fire.
“Can we have a piece of bacon?” asked Evan. He was practically
drooling over the cake pan that Mama was filling up with slices of cooked
bacon. Mama shook her head. “Sorry, boys, just the grease for sloosh. Also,
if I give you bacon, I have to have enough for everyone else.”
Evan stared at the pile of bacon sadly. “Don’t let it go to waste, okay?”
Mama winked. “Some of this might end up at my house. You’re just going
to have to come over again.”
Sloosh turned out to be one of the more delicious parts of the meal. Evan
recognized Mrs. Hoover, the real estate agent, as she passed out pieces of
hardtack, which were about as tasty as cardboard. She spotted Evan. “Look
at you,” she said. “You look great! Fitting right in!”
“Thank you,” said Evan. If his cheeks were not already red from the heat,
they would be red from blushing.
“Why’d they make these crackers so hard,” asked Casey, gnawing on a
square. “If I break my braces, my mom’s going to kill me.”
“Soldiers soaked them in stew,” said Mrs. Hoover. “Let ’em soften. But
you kids never want the stew so we just stuck with hardtack.”
“If this is what they gave soldiers, what did they give prisoners?” asked
Casey. Mrs. Hoover didn’t know. They moved on to the next station under a
large tree, where Mr. Catten was in charge of dried apples. The shade from
the tree was a relief. “More soldiers died of disease than battle injuries in
the Civil War,” Mr. Catten told them. “Scurvy made it hard for the men to
march and fight because it made their joints hurt. Apples prevent scurvy
because they have vitamin C.” He handed each of them a small wax paper
bag with apples in them. “Hey, did you and your friend find your dog?” He
was talking to Evan.
Evan seemed to freeze. “Yes, we did. Thanks,” he said. He stood up and
moved away from the shade of the tree. The group followed him.
“Someone helped you find Mochi?” asked Max. He had thought Evan
was alone when he found Mochi.
Evan looked straight at Max. “Yeah. Brady Griggs.”
Max laughed. “Yeah, right. And Abraham Lincoln helped me with my
profile.” Max looked across the playground and spotted Brady. He had
drifted away from his group. He was eating by himself along the fence.
“It’s the last day,” said Evan.
“You mean, for the silent treatment,” said Max. Evan nodded. It seemed
like the silent treatment had done its job, putting Brady in check. “Yeah.
Everything goes back to normal on Monday.”
“I’d rather not,” said Evan. “Have everything go back to normal. The
way it was.”
 “I mean, not like that,” said Max. “I hope he learned his lesson and Brady
will leave you alone.”
“What if I don’t?” asked Evan.
“You don’t want Brady to leave you alone?” said Max, raising his
eyebrows.
“What if I want something different?” asked Evan.
Evan started walking across the blacktop, straight for Brady.
Brady looked at him and shook his head slightly. When Evan didn’t stop,
Brady made a small brushing motion with his hand. Don’t come here. Finally,
Evan stopped, letting his shadow fall over Brady. Brady looked away.
“You’re going to get us both in trouble.”
“Calm down,” said Evan.
“If you leave right now, you can say you just went crazy from the heat.
Go. Just go.” Brady wouldn’t even look at him. He was talking without
moving his mouth, like a ventriloquist.
“The silent treatment was because of me,” said Evan. “I think I should get
to have some say in when it ends. Or how it ends.” He sat down next to
Brady, letting his back press into the chain-link fence. Evan felt relaxed,
calm, even though Brady was freaking out. Max had followed him halfway
across the playground before stopping.
“Don’t be scared,” said Evan. Brady’s emotions threatened to overwhelm
his own. Evan took a deep breath. He was going to handle this. His way. The
way where he felt the bravest, the most sure.
Other kids noticed Brady and Evan together. First, they just stared, then
they began to edge closer.
“What going on?” asked Julia. The kids turned to look at Max, who
nodded toward Brady and Evan.
 “Children!” said Mrs. Norwood. She swished onto the blacktop in a dark
gray dress that went all the way to the ground. “You’re supposed to be on the
schedule, not gathering here.”
“Wait,” said Evan. He had to think fast, so the group wouldn’t break up.
“I have a question about the Civil War. The end part.” He looked at the faces
of those around him, taking in their feelings. Curious, surprised, interested.
Some seemed a little annoyed.
“Oh?” Mrs. Norwood looked around the blacktop. Now the adults were
watching with interest. “Well, I suppose that would be appropriate on
Battlefield Day.” The volunteers chuckled lightly.
“When the war ended, how did people get to where they could be
neighbors again?”
“Not sure they have,” said one of the parents.
“Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, and the other armies of the
Confederacy followed,” said Mrs. Norwood, almost automatically.
“I don’t mean surrender,” said Evan. “That just means you agree not to
kill each other. I mean something else.” Evan couldn’t quite put his feelings
into words. “I mean, like actually figure out how to get along in the future.
Maybe someone apologized.”
“That’s not usually how wars end,” said Mrs. Norwood. Some of the
adults covered up smiles. “Governments don’t normally apologize.”
Evan saw his opening. “People do, though,” said Evan. “And people
figure stuff out together. People apologize. And people forgive.” He stood up
and turned back to Brady, offering him a hand up. Brady hesitated, then
clasped Evan’s hand to stand. For a brief second, Brady was completely at
Evan’s mercy, his balance dependent on Evan’s grip before he stood up. Then
he leaned slightly forward and let go. A murmur of surprise rippled across
the playground.
Mrs. Norwood was unaware of what had just transpired. She clapped her
hands. “Let’s return to the stations now, shall we? Get back in your groups,
please.”
 “You’re in for it now,” said Brady under his breath. “You chose the
wrong side.” Max, Casey, and Sophia joined them. Evan thought Max might
be mad.
“Why do I feel like the silent treatment has been broken already?” Max
asked. He didn’t sound mad—just confused.
“It was an emergency,” said Evan.
“It must have been,” said Sophia. “For this to happen.” She gestured from
Evan to Brady, then back to Evan. Brady jammed his hands in his pockets and
looked at the ground.
“What happened?” asked Max. Brady looked at Evan urgently and shook
his head slightly. Max’s eyes widened. “When I asked you …”
“What you need to know,” said Evan, interrupting Max, “is that Brady has
apologized and I’ve forgiven him. Everything else is just details.” He
gestured between Brady and himself. “We’ve worked it out.” Brady nodded,
hunching his shoulders.
“I was wrong about a lot of things,” said Brady. “About Evan.”
It felt like the whole group exhaled at the same time. Forgiveness was
enough. Forgiveness was its own kind of truth.
“Okay,” said Max. “Okay. We’re done.”
“I wouldn’t say done,” said Evan. “I’d say beginning. There’s at least one
more thing Brady needs to do.”
Brady lifted his head. “What’s that?”
“You know your mother is terrifying, right?” asked Brady as they stood on the
front porch.
“You climb in and out of a tree that’s taller than your house, take the rap
for your brother in front of the police, and you’re scared of my mom?” asked
Evan.
“Yes,” said Brady.
“Have you met your dad?” asked Evan.
“I know what my dad’s going to do,” said Brady.
“She’s not going to do anything to you physically,” said Evan. “Though
you might feel a little scorched when she’s done talking to you.”
“Tell me again, why am I doing this?” Brady could see his house from
Evan’s porch. It would take nothing at all to jump down and run home. But he
stayed.
“One, you need to make things right with my mom, so then two, you can
come over,” said Evan. Before Brady could change his mind, Evan opened
the door to the house. “Mom?”
“In here.” The voice was very close. Too close. Brady forced himself to
step into the house. Evan’s mom was sitting on the couch with her legs tucked
up, petting Mochi. When she saw Brady, though, she stood up quickly. Mochi
ran over and jumped happily on Brady.
 “Brady is here to talk to you,” said Evan. Evan said he would tell his
mom that Brady was coming, but she still seemed upset.
“Hello, Ms. Pao,” said Brady, petting Mochi. She nodded, not saying
anything. She seemed surprised by Mochi’s reaction.
Evan nudged Brady. This was the hard part. Brady knew plenty about
war; he knew a lot less about apologies.
He let the words come out in a flurry, the words they had practiced. “I am
coming over to apologize for the harm I have caused your family,” he said. “I
hope you will forgive me.” Brady and Evan had worked out the words so
they were still truthful. He had caused harm; he knew that now. He was sorry.
Almost reflexively, they both turned their heads to look at the window. In
his mind, Brady could still picture the cracks, the gap in the glass. Evan’s
mom narrowed her eyes. “You could have killed someone,” she said coldly.
“Someone in my family.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you weren’t
arrested.”
That makes two of us, Brady wanted to say. “No one was hurt,” said
Brady. “But my intentions were not good.” What had someone said to him the
first day he met Evan, the day he had asked if Evan had the China virus?
Words like that have killed people. It seemed truer now than it did then. “And
now I want to do better. By you.”
“You can’t do those things,” said Ms. Pao. She looked down. Her hand
was curled into a fist. She unclenched her hand and took a step so that she
was standing right in front of Brady. She was smaller than Brady, but he was
the one who felt vulnerable. “When does it stop?”
Brady swallowed. “With me, it stops now. I hope you can find it in your
heart to forgive me.” He closed his eyes. This is usually the point where Dad
started calling him names. You’re stupid. No-good. Irresponsible. The
waiting was as bad as anything.
“And you won’t do those things,” she said, stressing the future tense.
“Not ever again.”
“No, ma’am,” said Brady. “I will not.” He also emphasized the future
tense. “I’m going to do better, I promise.”
 Evan’s mom folded her arms and stared at Brady for a long time. “Is he
telling the truth?” she asked Evan, finally.
“He is,” said Evan. “Absolutely.”
Evan’s statement seemed to change something inside of Ms. Pao. Her
hands dropped to her side. “You’re just a kid,” she said. Her voice shook.
Ms. Pao said something in Chinese. Brady looked at Evan for a
translation. Evan shrugged. Ms. Pao made a sound. Ai ya! Brady didn’t know
the words, but he knew the tone. Parental irritation.
“You should know this,” said Ms. Pao to Evan. She repeated the sounds,
more slowly, and then explained them. “People at birth are basically good.
But … they become different if they are not properly taught.” Then she
looked away and blinked. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Ma’am?” He was certain he had misheard her.
“I need time. Come back tomorrow,” she said impatiently. Brady looked
at Evan for guidance. Evan looked as puzzled as Brady felt. “I guess you
should come back tomorrow,” said Evan.
Tomorrow sounded like a beautiful word, even said in an irritated tone. A
balm. Room to do better. Room to change.
Evan, Brady, and Max crouched down in the bushes, by the side of Brady’s
house. The final steps of Evan’s plan were finally being carried out.
“I have just confirmed the subject is sleeping,” said Brady.
“My dad is holding a staff meeting,” said Max. “Emergency calls going
out only.” He checked his watch. “The meeting will last for another twenty-
seven minutes.”
“Then let’s go,” said Evan. “Remember, if we need to scatter, pretend
you’re looking for Mochi.”
“I brought my Frisbee,” said Max. “We can act like we’re just hanging
out.” Max and Brady took a few steps into the front yard and began tossing
the disc back and forth.
“If I’m the bad one,” said Brady. “Why are you guys so good at faking
people out?”
“Oh, I know all the schemes from my dad,” said Max.
“It’s for a good cause,” said Evan. Evan got down on his hands and
knees, and crawled between the two cars in Brady’s driveway so that he was
facing the passenger door of Charlie’s car. The asphalt warmed his hands and
knees. “Are we good?”
“Yup,” responded Max and Brady, continuing to throw the Frisbee. “All
clear.”
 The idea had come to Evan a few days before, and once the idea had
come into his head, he couldn’t let it go, though he had to check with Brady
first.
“He’s not going to blame you?” Evan had confirmed with Brady, after he
told Brady the plan.
“Plenty of people hate that car,” said Brady. “I won’t be the first person
he thinks of. Heck, he’s got friends who would do something like that.”
Now Evan pulled out the white paint pen he’d ordered online with a
birthday gift card, and cleaned off a little space on the car door with the hem
of his T-shirt. Time to focus. He shook the pen, hearing the mixing balls rattle
inside, uncapped the pen, and tried to visualize what he was going to make.
He touched the pen to the door. This was it. No going back.
“How long is it going to take you?” asked Max after a few minutes.
“I want it to blend with the other letters,” said Evan. “It can’t look like a
garbage job.” The other letters were written in an old English font, with extra
swirls and lines. Evan stopped occasionally to consult an alphabet sheet he’d
printed out. It was important to pay attention to the height of the letter, the
spacing. He had to do it twice—once for each side. On the driver’s side, a
large rhododendron and a carefully positioned trash can hid Evan from the
road.
“Hi, Celeste. Hi, Ella,” said Max a little too loudly. Evan froze. He had
forgotten that Celeste and Ella went for walks around this time of day,
usually followed by watching cooking videos on their phones. Sometimes
they even made what they had watched, a practice that Evan heartily
approved of.
“Hi, Max. Hi … Brady.” Celeste was still wary of Brady, though she
managed to be polite, if a little remote. “I thought Evan was with you.”
“He is,” said Brady. “He’ll be along in a minute.”
Mochi whined and pulled toward the trash can that shielded Evan. “No,
Mochi!” scolded Celeste. Mochi’s claws scrabbled against the pavement.
She bumped the trash can. Evan tucked himself into a tight ball. Mochi could
probably smell him. “What have you got in that trash can? Bacon?”
 “That would be a crime, throwing away bacon,” said Ella dreamily. “I
love bacon.”
“We should make pasta carbonara!” Celeste said, excited. “I think we
have bacon at home, and eggs and pasta.” Evan’s stomach rumbled loudly in
response. Brady coughed over the sound. “Pollen,” he croaked.
“We should make our own pasta,” said Ella.
“We should! I’ve heard it’s not that hard …” The girls’ voices slowly
faded away.
“All clear,” said Brady after a moment. “Also, we’re going to your house
when we’re done, Evan. Sounds like there’s going to be food.”
Max exhaled loudly. “That was close. I thought Mochi was going to blow
your cover.”
“Lucky it wasn’t Nero,” said Evan.
Brady looked up at the house. “Bathroom light just came on,” he said,
keeping his voice low. “He usually takes his time in there but you should
finish up.”
Evan drew a deep breath and willed his hand to stay steady. He finished
the last swirl on the driver’s side just in time to hear the front door open and
bang shut. Evan ducked into a row of bushes against the house, trying not to
shake the branches.
“Hey, Max,” said Charlie. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Still a shrimp, I
see.” From his place in the bushes, Evan could see Charlie standing in the
driveway, watching the two boys throw the Frisbee back and forth.
In his mind, Charlie Griggs was enormous, overshadowing. The one who
had shot their house. The angry person at the podium. The owner of the
howling screeches in the streets. But looking at him now, Evan realized that
Charlie was not that big. He had a soft round belly that hung over the
waistband of his jeans. His face was dotted with angry red pimples. He was
a person.
Maybe this was what the beginning of justice felt like.
“Hey, Charlie,” said Max. “Still unemployed, I see.”
 “Huh,” said Charlie. “Very funny.” He got into the car, swinging his keys
at the end of a long silver chain. The engine roared to life. The car backed
out of the driveway, and then raced down the street, screeching as it banked
the corner. The boys ran to the side yard so they could all see what they had
accomplished.
Charlie’s car now proclaimed NOW MERCY. Instead of rejecting mercy,
the car was now hailing it. One letter had changed the message. “Does it look
too good?” wondered Max out loud. “Shouldn’t it stand out more?”
“It will take him longer to notice,” said Brady. “But he will notice.”
“I like it,” said Evan. “Not bad for a first-time job.”
Brady pulled out a small package of gummy bears. “Left over from
Halloween,” he explained as he doled them out.
“I thought that was Evan’s job to bring food,” said Max. “And bring food
and bring food …” Evan punched Max playfully in the shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter who brings the food,” said Brady. “Just that we have
it.” Brady tilted his head back and shoved all of his gummy bears into his
mouth at once. Evan ate them one by one.
“It is the tradition,” said Evan, chewing a pair of pineapple gummy bears
vigorously. “Now.”
“Now mercy,” said Max. And then they started laughing, trying not to spit
out candy. Evan hoped people would see the words, notice them. Maybe they
would wonder if they had been misreading it all along, puzzled by the
combination of the gentle message and the harsh images.
Though why shouldn’t mercy show up among skulls and knives and fire?
Wasn’t mercy just as powerful as intimidation?
Maybe even more.
This book grew out of a desire to explore two ideas. The first idea was
finding out that Chinese men fought in the American Civil War. After years,
decades, of having the role of Chinese people in American history limited to
the transcontinental railroad, when it is even discussed, my discovery that
Chinese men were soldiers in one of our country’s most formative wars left
me simply agog and wanting more. I wanted to share that moment of
uncovering with readers, and then explore how a person might view both the
past and the present differently as the result of this additional knowledge.
The second idea came out of my desire to explore themes that arise from
working on issues in the criminal legal system. Our current system is rife
with shortcomings—one of which is being unable to achieve meaningful
reconciliation between two people. My own experience occurred when I
was a child; we discovered that someone had shot at our house, twice. Much
like Evan’s situation, it was the act of a teenage neighbor, driven by racial
hatred, though he was actually angry at another group of people; we were just
the closest approximation. When my parents went to court, they asked for an
apology, which the neighbor refused, and both families ended up moving out
of the neighborhood within a year of the incident. I have often wondered
what happened to that young man, and if he continued on the path he had
started on. I wonder whether a different kind of intervention would have
assured that he would make different and better choices in the future.
This story became a question about what it means to be a gentle person in
a tough world. At this time, so many people seem to have little capacity for
engagement, preferring instead to shout at each other across the Internet, to
label, and to shut down important parts of our history. It seems safer to be
hard, rather than to contemplate each other’s humanity, our mutual foibles,
and the fact that we all must live together. The cracks forming in our society
are leaving us with few paths to each other.
While writing this book, I came across the Paolo Freire quote, “To speak
a true word is to transform the world.” Evan’s path might not be how
everyone could or even should behave, but it reflected his truth and created a
connection he would not have had otherwise. It changed his world and the
lives of those around him. Evan found a way to stand up for himself, to
navigate his own values, and to find strength in his tenderness. For the
readers who find themselves in Evan, I hope you do, too.
I am very grateful for the work of Ruthanne Lum McCunn, whose research on
Chinese Civil War soldiers inspired and informed this book. Her article,
“Chinese in the Civil War: Ten Who Served,” shows the astonishing breadth
of experiences that brought men to the battlefield. The National Park Service
handbook, Asians and Pacific Islanders and the Civil War, which included
the contributions of many talented writers including McCunn, was also
invaluable, as was the website, The Blue, the Gray and the Chinese.
Many, many thanks to Lisa Sandell, who is an endlessly patient and kind
editor, and Madelyn Rosenberg, my writing and walking partner par
excellence. Shout out to my writing group: Laura, Anna, Ann, Judy,
Anamaria, Marty, Carla, Jackie, Susan, Madelyn, and Lenore. Much love and
gratitude to my family for their support, much of which involved leaving me
alone for swaths of time during a pandemic. I’m ready to come back to earth.
XOXO
Wendy Wan-Long Shang is the author of The Great Wall of Lucy Wu, which
was awarded the Asian/Pacific American Award for Children’s Literature;
The Way Home Looks Now, an Amelia Bloomer Project List selection and a
CCBC Choices List selection; Sydney Taylor Honor Book This Is Just a
Test, which she cowrote with Madelyn Rosenberg; Not Your All-American
Girl, a Tablet magazine Best Children’s Book, also cowritten with Madelyn
Rosenberg; and The Rice in the Pot Goes Round and Round. Wendy lives
with her family in the suburbs of Washington, DC.
Also by Wendy Wan-Long Shang
The Great Wall of Lucy Wu
The Way Home Looks Now

with Madelyn Rosenberg

This Is Just a Test
Not Your All-American Girl
Copyright © 2022 by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

First edition, May 2022

Cover Illustrated by J Yang

Cover design by Keirsten Geise

e-ISBN 978-1-338-67886-4

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