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attentively beside him all through dinner.
    We were almost done eating when Dad got home from work. Shayne stood up and shook his hand and called him sir, like he was in the army.
    My father, as I’ve mentioned, is a recovering alcoholic. It’s been three years since he’s had a drink. Ever since then, he’s been out to prove to everybody just how perfect he can be. Especially to my sister. He treats her like a princess, and the nicer he is to her, the more bratty she gets. But, with Shayne there, Marie was on her best behavior.
    Dad asked Shayne a lot of questions. Shayne told him that he was living with his aunt, that he’d grown up in Arkansas, and that his parents were doctors spending the year in Uganda giving people vaccinations and stuff. I almost said something, because that was a completely different story than he’d told me.
    â€œWhat organization are they with?” Dad asked.
    Shayne didn’t miss a beat. “Doctors Without Borders,” he said.
    My dad ate a forkful of rice, chewed for a few seconds, swallowed, then said, “That’s a fine organization. You should be proud.”
    â€œI
am
proud,” said Shayne, as Marie gave him her patented look of adoration.
    Dad looked from me to Shayne, then back at me with a sad expression. He didn’t say anything, but I knew what he was thinking as he looked at me:
Why can’t you be more like
him?
    What I said before about Shayne being nothing like my dad? Not quite true. They both put a ridiculous amount of effort into being perfect—like the way Shayne was so polite and restrained, as if holding himself in, and the way Dad always thought for a second or two before speaking,as if they both had a belly full of TNT, and any sudden movement might cause them to explode.
    Later, Shayne and I were in the backyard kicking a soccer ball, and I asked him how come he told so many different stories about his parents.
    â€œThey’re really not very interesting,” Shayne said. “My dad’s a computer programmer in Atlanta, and my mom’s in New York working for some bank.”
    â€œSo how come you’re living with your aunt?”
    He juggled the soccer ball, keeping it in the air with one foot, then kicked it straight up. I tried to header it back to him but hit it wrong and the ball bounced over the fence into Mrs. Garcia’s garden.
    â€œOops.” I grabbed the top of the wooden fence and pulled myself up to see where the ball had gone. “Uhoh.” One of Mrs. Garcia’s peonies was completely squashed.
    â€œI’ll get it,” Shayne said.
    â€œWatch out for—”
    He was up and over the fence in an instant.
    â€œâ€”the dog!”
    Shayne had reached the ball when Cujo came roaring out of the house through the dog door and charged at him, barking as loud and fast as ten dogs. Shayne grabbed the ball and took off, but I could see he wouldn’t make it over the fence in time. Cujo latched on to his leg just as he reached the fence. Shayne threw the ball over the fence and tried to shake the dog off, but Cujo, teeth locked on his pant leg, was going nowhere.
    Mrs. Garcia banged open the back door and screeched: “Cujo! Down, girl!”
    The six-pound Chihuahua let go, gave Shayne a series of admonishing barks and growls, then trotted back to the house, snorting and shaking its head indignantly. Shayne climbed over the fence with an embarrassed grin on his face.
    â€œCujo?”
he said.
    I was laughing too hard to reply.

15. MIKEY
    The next day I wore my red blazer with a pair of dark maroon pants. I looked a little like an usher or a bell boy, only much classier.
    Shayne showed up in American Lit the same as always—calm, quiet, watchful, and dressed in black. We were taking turns reading out loud from an Edgar Allan Poe story so I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. He didn’t show up at lunch. I was sitting alone with my bean burrito and