He would never forgive himself.
Never.
“Kennedy!” He knelt beside her, touching her cheek, looking for blood, his voice raw. “Kennedy wake up! Look at me.”
Instantly her eyes snapped open, shining like amber stones. And Brent was so relieved, he didn’t realize what was happening.
Not until Kennedy said, “Gotcha!”
Then she laughed. Loudly. Freely. Without a worry in the world.
Brent sat back. Relief turned to understanding. And understanding turned to anger. “You idiot! You scared the crap out of me.”
Disgusted, he scrambled to his feet and walked a few steps away.
“You should’ve seen your face!” Kennedy cackled.
Then she slipped her glasses on and was able to see what Brent’s face actually looked like. Pale. Tight. His breath escaped fast and hard.
Then she wasn’t laughing anymore. Because she realized what she hadn’t before: Bad things, terrible things really did happen. And Brent knew that better than anyone—because they had happened to him.
The smile fell from her lips. She crawled forward, rose to her knees. “Brent, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it was stupid. I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t look at her right away. He stood, turned around, his hands on his hips.
And Kennedy wanted to cry. She could do it, easily, because she felt so awful.
When he did finally face her, his eyes were hard, two sharp-cut sapphires. Then he forced out a big breath. “It was stupid. And do you know what happens to stupid girls?”
“What?”
“They get the mud.”
Kennedy wasn’t familiar with that expression. But as she started to ask what the heck he was talking about, a glob of cold, wet mud landed on her shirt—splattering across her chest and neck.
“Ah!” She yelled out.
She looked between her muddy shirt and the boy who’d made it that way. And he was smiling again.
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “You are so dead.”
She scooped up the wet earth and formed a ball in her hand, like a mucky snowball.
Brent wiggled his muddy fingers at her. “Oooh, I’m so scared.”
Kennedy Randolph didn’t just spit like a girl—she threw like one too.
A girl with perfect aim.
Brent tried to dodge the attack, but a moment later the back of his white t-shirt resembled the Rorschach Test. And it was on. They scrambled and crawled, flung and smeared, screamed and shouted and trash talked. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean spot between the two of them. Brent spit brown saliva. Kennedy used a leaf to wipe off her glasses.
“If my mother saw me right now, she’d shite bricks.”
“What?” Brent laughed.
“Seamus, our new driver is Irish. That’s how he says the s-word—shite. I like the way it sounds. Shite bricks. It makes me feel powerful.”
Brent fell on his back, still laughing. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Kennedy shrugged. “I’d rather be crazy than boring.” Then she smacked Brent’s leg – leaving a muddy handprint behind. “Let’s ride down to the river and clean up.”
Brent sobered as they stood and walked toward the bike. “Maybe we shouldn’t ride anymore.”
“Why not?”
“We could fall again. You might get hurt, Kennedy.”
The small girl turned to him, hands on her hips, stubbornness in her jaw. “We probably will fall again—and that’s why we have to get back on and keep riding. The ride is the only thing that makes falling worth it.”
Brent squinted. “Okay, human fortune cookie.”
Kennedy stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be such a pussycat.”
He just looked at her blankly. “What the heck does that mean?”
“I heard Seamus say it to the gardener. He said, ‘Don’t be a pussy,’” She shrugged. “I think he meant pussycat, like ‘Don’t be a chicken.’”
“I don’t think Seamus is gonna be your driver for very long,” Brent said before reluctantly climbing on the bike with Kennedy on the handle bars.
He rode slower at first, but when she begged him to go faster, he did.
Because he
Never.
“Kennedy!” He knelt beside her, touching her cheek, looking for blood, his voice raw. “Kennedy wake up! Look at me.”
Instantly her eyes snapped open, shining like amber stones. And Brent was so relieved, he didn’t realize what was happening.
Not until Kennedy said, “Gotcha!”
Then she laughed. Loudly. Freely. Without a worry in the world.
Brent sat back. Relief turned to understanding. And understanding turned to anger. “You idiot! You scared the crap out of me.”
Disgusted, he scrambled to his feet and walked a few steps away.
“You should’ve seen your face!” Kennedy cackled.
Then she slipped her glasses on and was able to see what Brent’s face actually looked like. Pale. Tight. His breath escaped fast and hard.
Then she wasn’t laughing anymore. Because she realized what she hadn’t before: Bad things, terrible things really did happen. And Brent knew that better than anyone—because they had happened to him.
The smile fell from her lips. She crawled forward, rose to her knees. “Brent, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it was stupid. I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t look at her right away. He stood, turned around, his hands on his hips.
And Kennedy wanted to cry. She could do it, easily, because she felt so awful.
When he did finally face her, his eyes were hard, two sharp-cut sapphires. Then he forced out a big breath. “It was stupid. And do you know what happens to stupid girls?”
“What?”
“They get the mud.”
Kennedy wasn’t familiar with that expression. But as she started to ask what the heck he was talking about, a glob of cold, wet mud landed on her shirt—splattering across her chest and neck.
“Ah!” She yelled out.
She looked between her muddy shirt and the boy who’d made it that way. And he was smiling again.
Kennedy’s eyes narrowed. “You are so dead.”
She scooped up the wet earth and formed a ball in her hand, like a mucky snowball.
Brent wiggled his muddy fingers at her. “Oooh, I’m so scared.”
Kennedy Randolph didn’t just spit like a girl—she threw like one too.
A girl with perfect aim.
Brent tried to dodge the attack, but a moment later the back of his white t-shirt resembled the Rorschach Test. And it was on. They scrambled and crawled, flung and smeared, screamed and shouted and trash talked. When it was over, there wasn’t a clean spot between the two of them. Brent spit brown saliva. Kennedy used a leaf to wipe off her glasses.
“If my mother saw me right now, she’d shite bricks.”
“What?” Brent laughed.
“Seamus, our new driver is Irish. That’s how he says the s-word—shite. I like the way it sounds. Shite bricks. It makes me feel powerful.”
Brent fell on his back, still laughing. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Kennedy shrugged. “I’d rather be crazy than boring.” Then she smacked Brent’s leg – leaving a muddy handprint behind. “Let’s ride down to the river and clean up.”
Brent sobered as they stood and walked toward the bike. “Maybe we shouldn’t ride anymore.”
“Why not?”
“We could fall again. You might get hurt, Kennedy.”
The small girl turned to him, hands on her hips, stubbornness in her jaw. “We probably will fall again—and that’s why we have to get back on and keep riding. The ride is the only thing that makes falling worth it.”
Brent squinted. “Okay, human fortune cookie.”
Kennedy stuck her tongue out at him. “Don’t be such a pussycat.”
He just looked at her blankly. “What the heck does that mean?”
“I heard Seamus say it to the gardener. He said, ‘Don’t be a pussy,’” She shrugged. “I think he meant pussycat, like ‘Don’t be a chicken.’”
“I don’t think Seamus is gonna be your driver for very long,” Brent said before reluctantly climbing on the bike with Kennedy on the handle bars.
He rode slower at first, but when she begged him to go faster, he did.
Because he
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