Rogue by Lyn Miller-Lachmann Page A

before the bridge, lifts his leg over the bar, and slides to the ground. His face glistens with sweat. Today he wears a long-sleeved shirt, but with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms.
    â€œI fixed it up,” I say.
    He strips off his gloves and runs his finger along the top bar, stopping at the bumps where I sanded and repainted the frame. “Nice job. What did you use for paint?”
    â€œNail polish. Looked it up on the Internet.”
    â€œI guess you can get away with buying that stuff easier than I can,” he says.
    I swallow the tightness in my throat. “Where were you yesterday?”
    â€œYou stopped by?”
    â€œYeah.” I say nothing about Chad.
    â€œI had a race down in Mystic.”
    I examine Antonio’s bike up close. Its metallic red paint is nicked and dulled, but the bike is way fancier than Chad’s, with shock absorbers underneath the seat as well as on the front fork. The wheel rims are black rather than chrome. It’s the kind of bike someone would use for racing. “How did you do?”
    â€œNot so good. Fourth. I was in the lead until my asthma kicked up.” He clears his throat. “I’m taking it easy today. Still hurtin’.”
    I wish I could touch him, help him feel better, but I keep my hands on my bike.
I’m not Rogue,
I tell myself.
I won’t suck out his emotions if I touch him.
    I step backward, stumble over a root, and plant my foot in the creek. Cold water rushes over the top of my canvas high-tops. Antonio grabs my upper arm to steady me. I stiffen.
    â€œYou okay?” He lets go.
    I pull my foot onto the bank. Water streams toward the creek, back where it belongs. I shift my weight, hear the squish, feel the icky cold dampness.
    â€œI’m fine,” I mumble. “It makes me nervous, people touching me.”
    â€œThat’s like this kid in my calculus class. He sits in a corner because he doesn’t want anyone near him, but he’s pure genius. He says he has some form of autism.”
    I smile. Antonio understands. Like Mrs. Mac. “Asperger’s syndrome,” I tell him. “It comes from a genetic mutation. My father had cancer before I was born, and I think . . .”
    Antonio holds his hand out, palm up, as if telling me to stop.
    â€œMax must have told you,” I say.
    â€œNo. He never said anything.” Antonio bites his lower lip, and I wonder how good a friend Max was if Antonio didn’t know a basic fact about our family. “My father had cancer too,” he says softly. “But he . . . didn’t . . . make it.”
    â€œHe died?”
    Antonio nods.
    â€œIs that why you have the Livestrong tattoo?” Today the shirt covers it up, but I know it’s there, and it’ll be there forever.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œEven though Lance Armstrong didn’t die either?”
    Antonio grimaces, and I realize I said the wrong thing. But he doesn’t call me stupid or retard or freak, like most kids would. Instead, he reaches into a cargo pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slides a photo from behind what looks like his driver’s license. I notice UNDER 21 in big red letters on the license.
    He hands me the photo. The way Mr. Elliott and Dad traded photos with each other this morning. “My father.”
    The man has deep-set eyes, a narrow face, and straight, dark hair. Antonio’s hair is lighter and wavy, and his face fuller. I think this man in the picture already looks sick, with sunken cheeks and thin lips.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I mumble. I know it’s what I’m supposed to say when I hear that someone has died, even though it isn’t my fault that he died.
    I give the photo back to Antonio. He slides it into his wallet.
    Antonio and I never get to the BMX track that day. Instead, he shows me the entire route of trails, though many of them are too hard for me to ride and I have to walk