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the skinniest, too. The problems continued from there. His ears stuck out and he had a long nose. Even his teeth were screwed up—the metal braces he wore weren’t scheduled to come off for three more years. Willie said the braces were going to “scrunch up his teeth.” James thought it sounded like a good idea because each of Willie’s teeth was about a mile away from the next, and sometimes globs of food would settle in these spaces until Reggie noticed it, groaned in disgust, and demanded Willie go rinse out his mouth.
    When they got upstairs, Willie insisted on hearing about the funeral. He listened with huge eyes and absently scratched the scar on his neck, which wasn’t wet but always looked it.
    “What are they going to do with Greg’s drawings?” asked Willie.
    “His what?” asked James.
    “His drawings. On the walls outside the art room, with everyone else’s. Are they just going to throw them away or what?”
    “Forget his stupid drawings,” said Reggie. “I want his shoes. He had cool-as-hell shoes. You think his family will give all his stuff away? Or hold a big sale?”
    “I keep thinking of where he stood in line for gym,” Willie said quietly. He nodded his head like he approved of the memory.
    “What about his locker?” asked James. “I bet he left tons of stuff in his locker.”
    “Right,” said Reggie, his eyes lighting up. “Crap, man, there might be
baseball
cards in there.”
    “In gym, Greg Johnson—walking around in blue shorts,” said Willie. James ignored the comment. He was used to Willie’s fantasies. Secretly, James wondered if this was how Willie got hit by the truck. Isn’t it possible that Willie had been daydreaming again and wandered into the middle of the road?
    “He sucked in gym,” said Reggie. “The guy couldn’t catch a stupid pop-up. You ever see that kid try and catch a ball? It was embarrassing.”
    There was silence for a moment. The boys squirmed.
    Finally Reggie sighed. “There’s something I got to tell you guys.”
    James and Willie looked at him.
    Reggie paused mysteriously, then spoke. “This could be our last summer.”
    James looked at Willie, then wished he hadn’t. Willie’s face was pink and vulnerable and his arm stump was tiny and useless. Something in James’s stomach rolled nervously and he knew immediately what Reggie was talking about. Maybe they were next.
    “But the curfew,” James protested.
    “But the curfew,”
Reggie mimicked. “What about the stupid curfew? Are we going to stay in our rooms every damn night and let the entire summer go by?”
    It was a challenge, maybe a threat. James looked at Willie; Willie looked at Reggie.
    “No?” Willie asked.
    “That’s right,” said Reggie. “I know I’m not.”
    “Yeah, but your mom’s not home at night, it’s easier for you to sneak out,” said James. “I got a mom and a dad, and now they got Louise on my back, too.”
    Reggie ignored the remark. “Look. Willie got hit in the daytime.”
    “Dusk, technically,” Willie said. He shrugged when Reggie glared at him.
    “All right, fine,” Reggie continued. “But it was still light out. Now, Greg Johnson, he got hit at night. That means going inside at eight won’t help because it couldhappen to any of us at any time and there’s nothing we can do to stop it, except run real fast if we see a silver truck coming. What, you guys want to just sit inside and get old? Not me. We have to get out there every night, this summer more than ever. Because—and I’m not trying to scare you here. But because this could be our last chance.”
    There was some truth in what Reggie was saying, and also some silly drama. But James couldn’t help it, he found himself nodding along.
    “We should do everything we ever wanted to do,” said Reggie. “We shouldn’t follow any stupid rules. We should—”
    “Take risks,” Willie finished. James looked at Willie, alarmed.
    Reggie nodded, and allowed himself a small