Nobody Cries at Bingo by Dawn Dumont Page A

there?” asked Celeste. “I think about four hundred.”
    â€œPfft. Probably more like two thousand.”
    â€œWanna climb them?”
    I was raising the necessary courage to go nearer to the bales when a fair head poked its way out.
    â€œWho are you?” the voice called. It was a squeaky voice, high pitched for a boy. He didn’t look like anyone we’d ever seen on the reserve before. This boy was even whiter looking than Celeste.
    We introduced ourselves. “We’re Odie’s kids.” This was our Mom’s nickname on the reserves and it was how people described us when we ran into them on the street. “Look here, it’s Odie’s kids. You can tell by the socks on their hands.”
    â€œWhat’s your names?” he asked. We told him and then asked his.
    â€œShane.” Even his name was different.
    â€œWanna see something cool?” Shane asked.
    We nodded.
    Shane ran the full length of the pile of bales and then jumped. He flew over the gap like a flying squirrel and landed in the other stack with a couple inches to spare.
    Wow. Our mouths flew open. Celeste and I had never seen such daring.
    â€œHoly cow, you could have died,” I said.
    â€œThat looked like fun,” Celeste added.
    David only nodded sagely. He had always known that such daring was possible. He was so used to being thwarted by his sisters that he had retired most of his dangerous instincts.
    Shane laughed at our amazement, then turned red from the excitement and jumped down the back of the bales. We heard a voice calling his name; it was Richard, his foster dad. Without saying good-bye, Shane leapt off the pile of bales and ran down to the stables, his body crackling with energy.
    Another head popped up on the bales. The head was darker, the body longer and leaner. He smiled at us. “You’re Odie’s kids, right?”
    â€œYeah, that’s us. What’s your name?”
    â€œDylan.” He chewed on a piece of straw and stared down at us.
    â€œAre you gonna jump?” David asked.
    Dylan looked at the other stack of bales. Then he walked to the edge of the bales, stared down at the drop to the ground. “It’s too far,” he said finally. “I could break an ankle or something.”
    â€œThe other one did it,” I said. “That other boy, he jumped.”
    Dylan smiled and chuckled. “Yeah, that’s something Shane would do.”
    Dylan was two years older than Shane. I found it interesting that he knew his younger brother was more daring than him and that it didn’t bother him. At home I had to endure the comparisons with my sister, “Celeste has such pep, and Dawn . . . she sure reads a lot.” They pronounced the word “read” in the same pitying tone you might describe someone with a metal brace on her leg.
    Dylan wore the mantle of “the less daring one,” proudly and while it didn’t make me feel better about being the “chicken shit one,” I respected him for it.
    â€œHow many bales are in there?” Celeste asked Dylan.
    â€œAbout four hundred,” he replied.
    Celeste smiled smugly at me.

    We lived less than a kilometre away, which made us the luckiest kids in the world. At school, Dylan and Shane had already been declared to be the cutest brothers, with Shane having the overall title of “cutest boy in the school.” And they were also the most fun.
    When we were at their house, nothing was off limits. We could chase after the cows and swim in the dugout. We could run through the horse pen trying to escape Ruby, the white horse who used to bite everyone on the ass.
    Shane glared at her every time we passed her pen. “Ass-biter,” he would say under his breath.
    Dylan would laugh. “Nobody told you to go in there.”
    â€œYou did!”
    â€œNobody told you to listen.”
    Up on the hill next to the house, the hay bales were a constant source of