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from my shoulder – through my arm, down my back, and into my shoulder blade. My teeth slice into my lip, and I fight the four letter words I want to scream.
    My bag falls to the floor, and I lean against the wall until the throbbing stops. Hopefully this pulled muscle will be better by Monday morning. I grab my hidden bottle of Tylenol from the glove compartment when I get in my car and chase the pills with a swig of Gatorade.
    Micah is on his front porch when I pull up next to the tree of skulls. His hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and he looks more solemn than usual. Those stupid lanterns hang above his head.
    He pulls the screen door back and pushes the front door open for me. I walk straight to his room, drop my bag on the floor, and fall onto his bed. He closes his bedroom door behind us and sits next to me.
    “Tired?” he asks.
    I nod and close my eyes. I could go to sleep right now. At least I wouldn’t be dwelling on the pain surging through my body if I was asleep.
    The mattress sinks when he lies next to me.
    “You hungry?” he asks.
    “Starved.”
    “You like fish?”
    I open my eyes and look to my left. He’s propped up on his elbow staring at me.
    “I hate fish,” I admit.
    I haven’t been able to eat seafood for the past year. Jordan wanted to go to an aquarium on our last vacation before Dad died, and I can still see those stupid puffer fish looking back at me through the glass. It was like they were staring into my soul with those bulging eyes, daring me to eat them or their friends or their families. Shrimp just didn’t sound appealing anymore after that. Or lobster or catfish or even fish sticks.
    “Really? You hate fish?” Micah says it as if I’d said I hate oxygen.
    I prop up on my elbow to mirror his position.
    “Is that a problem?” I ask.
    “Nah,” he says. He shakes his head and shrugs it off, but I know there’s more.
    I rest back on his bed. “So what’s tonight’s plans?”
    “My family is having a fish fry.”
    That sick seafood feeling invades my stomach, and I can’t speak because of the giant lump in my throat. I bring my arm up to shield my face so he won’t see how flustered it is.
    “You’ve lucked up, though,” Micah says. “Jade hates fish too, and Zoey always has to make something else for her. I told her you like Italian, so she’s making spaghetti. But you’ll love it. She has a recipe for homemade spaghetti sauce, and I swear, it’s the best you’ll ever put in your mouth.”
    I’m glad Micah’s niece can be such a diva. It saves me from having to choke on fish and smile while I pretend to like it. I’d never show my face in Bear Creek again if I got sick eating fish while I was a guest on their reservation.
    “Good deal,” I say, trying to hide my relief from Micah. But then I have to ask. “How did you know I like Italian food?”
    “Seriously? You go to that Italian place nearly every time you go to the mall,” Micah says.
     
    His sister’s back is turned to us when we walk into the kitchen. The fan above the stove hums. Even though she’s shielding it from my view, I hear water bubbling.
    “Zoey,” Micah says.
    She turns around to greet us. She looks more Italian than Native American, but she has Micah’s eyes, the same long black hair, and slightly less predominant cheek bones. She’s a lot prettier than Samantha.
    “This is Ridge,” Micah tells her. He looks back at me. “My sister, Zoey, but I figure you know that already.”
    “It’s nice to meet you,” she says over her shoulder. She hands a spoon to Micah. “Make yourself useful, little brother.”
    Micah walks over to the counter and picks up where she left off on her spaghetti sauce.
    “Micah says you play basketball?” Zoey says, turning to look at me.
    It sounds more like a question than a statement, so I nod in response.
    “So you’re going to be here all summer then?” she asks.
    “Yeah,” Micah answers for me.
    She looks over at him and points to