Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy Read Free Book Online

now.
    “Well, obviously, we need to head back down that way.” He points down the street in front of us. “Because we came up this way, right?”
    I gaze down the street. “Yes.”
    “And then we’ll just look for more houses we recognize. They’ll be our Hansel and Gretel crumbs.”
    “That’s a good name for a song,” I say, automatic.
    He peers down at me with this look on his face that makes me feel . . . I don’t know. Valued. Or more like . . . treasured. Or something. But then he turns and faces the street, squares his shoulders, and starts us down again, arm in arm.
    “Tell me how it would go, this song,” he says.
    “I wasn’t being serious. I just—”
    “Stepmom didn’t want us; Daddy was too weak!” he explodes, loud and drawly and low, like some country singer in a bar. Or someone at bad karaoke.
    I giggle.
    “Come on, songwritin’ girl. What comes next?”
    “She kicked us out of Dodge,” I try. “She threw us to the streets.”
    He nods. We are bouncing now, to the rhythm of this crazy made-up song.
    “And outside there were wolves, my friend,” he booms. “Witches and goblins to run from . . .”
    Immediately, I know what comes next: “But tucked safe in our pockets . . .”
    Together we holler, both our tunes going off in different directions, “were our Hansel and Gretel crumbs!”
    We’re laughing at ourselves, but also because right then we see a house we recognize and a street we know to turn left down. This gives us immense confidence, both in ourselves and in the song. So Trip hollers out the rest of the chorus and the next verse, with me butting in every now and then to adjust a line. We actually get the chorus pretty good— “I’m winding a trail through the woods while you sleep”— and sing it over and over, like some kind of talisman. I catch myself being a little curious if the people in these houses think we’re together : me and him skipping andsinging in the middle of the road, but just then we pass a house surrounded by tons of security lights. Behind it we can see the edge of the park we passed to get in this neighborhood.
    “Look at that,” he says, panting a little.
    “Wow,” I gasp. “It really worked.”
    He crazy-grins at me. “Come on.” Grabbing my hand, he runs through the unfenced yard. Another motion-detecting light springs on, but we quickly break into the safety of the park— neutral territory—both of us breathing hard.
    “We did it.”
    “Of course we did.” He winks.
    It’s ten after eleven—only twenty minutes until my curfew, which Dad still refuses to extend to midnight. Trip and I move fast and don’t talk.
    “We’ll make it,” he tells me, finally getting to the car.
    “I know.” But I don’t, exactly. I won’t get in that much trouble, but I would like to be allowed to do this again.
    The music from Trip’s stereo fills the quiet, until at 11:31 we slide up to the curb in front of my house.
    “What did I tell you?” He is obnoxiously—and endearingly— victorious.
    “I wasn’t worried in the slightest,” I scoff.
    “You were.”
    “Was not. I knew right where we were. All part of my evilplan to get you to help me with my songs, even though you’re not in the ba—” I clamp my lips shut.
    “Ah, yes. Well.” He clears his throat and looks away from me, toward the house. “Next time you can just ask.”
    I put my hand on his arm. “I only meant—”
    “It’s cool.” He opens his door, gets out. I climb out too, to meet him at the front of his car and give him a thanks and I’m sorry hug.
    “This really was fun,” I say into his chest.
    His arms tighten around me. “It was.”
    The Hansel and Gretel song floats back into my head. Around me his hug stays and stays. Warm and strong and safe and happy. Comfortable, and right, with a glimmer of . . . what? I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Mainly I’m glad, in spite of the changes, that Trip isn’t evaporating like Lish did. It makes me