in one intriguing direction after the other....
I grumbled under my breath. Even when he wasn’t around, Mason made me feel like an idiotic version of myself.
“Thera?” Ben hollered from his room. “Where’d you go?”
I didn’t answer. As I stared down at the things piled neatly on Mason’s desk, a thought hit me so hard that I almost stumbled sideways.
What if Mason has a list of concert venues
in here?
Months of obsessing over the Loose Cannons, and it came down to this: me in Mason’s room, gawking at the papers on his desk, knowing that without a doubt I was closer than ever
to discovering one of music’s best-kept secrets.
At first glance, I saw nothing related to the Loose Cannons. A checkbook paper-clipped to a stack of bills, all of which were addressed to Mrs. Milton, and all of which were opened cleanly with
either a knife or a letter opener. A dark-brown leather day planner that outlined Ben’s swim practices and Mrs. Milton’s work schedule. A stack of glossy pamphlets—Skydiving at
Night, Parachute Operations 101, Connecticut Skydiving, and Parachute Sense. A single sheet of notepaper, where Mason had left a half-finished poem, “November.”
Wait. Not a poem. A song:
Winter and spring are all but gone/but the bitter wind never stops playing that song/so I fall back to November every time it blows. Yeah my dad never meant to go/and as strong as he was he
never could know/that I’d fall back to November every time it blows. I know I know I know/it’s always November/I know I know I know/it’s always November. Sure his memory fades in
me/but I know deep down I’ll never be free/’cause I fall back to November every time it blows/I fall back to November every time it blows/yeah I fall back to November every time it
blows.
An ache so bottomless that it seeped off the paper settled into my chest, crushing my heart and lungs. I don’t know what did it—the pain in the lyrics, the way Mr. Milton’s
photograph had tugged at my gut, or just the shock that I was actually standing in Mason’s room, hoping to stumble across some sort of hint that unlocked the secrets of the Loose
Cannons—but suddenly I felt light-headed. I closed my eyes and groaned quietly. I was too overcome to hear the front door opening, or to pay attention to the parade of footsteps coming down
the hallway, or to take note of the approaching voices. Until I heard the doorknob turn. Then all at once my mind snapped back to me.
And I panicked.
My eyes flew open at exactly the same time as the door. Mason and three other boys tumbled into the room, laughing and shoving one another. They stopped short when they saw me. Shock flitted
across Mason’s features. It was replaced quickly with contempt. He took one intimidating step toward me.
“What the
hell
are you doing in here?”
M y heart clubbed in my chest, and I stood there for several miserable seconds, frozen and mute, praying for the floor to open up and suck me in.
All the while, three unfamiliar boys, all roughly my age, sauntered forward and regarded me with various degrees of interest. To my left smirked a heavily pierced, slim-shouldered boy, his eyebrows
hiked up clear to his hairline. Just behind him was a red-faced stocky kid who shifted hesitantly back and forth on his feet. The tallest of the three boys—a lanky, tattooed guy who twirled a
set of drumsticks between his fingers—ogled me as though I were a souped-up 1968 Mustang. Oblivious to his friends’ antics, Mason just stood there glaring at me, anger rolling off of
him like thick, suffocating smoke.
“I got lost,” I said finally. Which was actually 100 percent true.
“You got lost,” he said.
I swallowed. “That’s what I said.”
Mason did not answer. He just stood there, skewering me in place with his eyes. Tattoo Guy, openly disregarding Mason’s hostility, scratched his chest with his drumsticks, jerked his chin
in my direction, and said to Mason, “Bro. Been
I grumbled under my breath. Even when he wasn’t around, Mason made me feel like an idiotic version of myself.
“Thera?” Ben hollered from his room. “Where’d you go?”
I didn’t answer. As I stared down at the things piled neatly on Mason’s desk, a thought hit me so hard that I almost stumbled sideways.
What if Mason has a list of concert venues
in here?
Months of obsessing over the Loose Cannons, and it came down to this: me in Mason’s room, gawking at the papers on his desk, knowing that without a doubt I was closer than ever
to discovering one of music’s best-kept secrets.
At first glance, I saw nothing related to the Loose Cannons. A checkbook paper-clipped to a stack of bills, all of which were addressed to Mrs. Milton, and all of which were opened cleanly with
either a knife or a letter opener. A dark-brown leather day planner that outlined Ben’s swim practices and Mrs. Milton’s work schedule. A stack of glossy pamphlets—Skydiving at
Night, Parachute Operations 101, Connecticut Skydiving, and Parachute Sense. A single sheet of notepaper, where Mason had left a half-finished poem, “November.”
Wait. Not a poem. A song:
Winter and spring are all but gone/but the bitter wind never stops playing that song/so I fall back to November every time it blows. Yeah my dad never meant to go/and as strong as he was he
never could know/that I’d fall back to November every time it blows. I know I know I know/it’s always November/I know I know I know/it’s always November. Sure his memory fades in
me/but I know deep down I’ll never be free/’cause I fall back to November every time it blows/I fall back to November every time it blows/yeah I fall back to November every time it
blows.
An ache so bottomless that it seeped off the paper settled into my chest, crushing my heart and lungs. I don’t know what did it—the pain in the lyrics, the way Mr. Milton’s
photograph had tugged at my gut, or just the shock that I was actually standing in Mason’s room, hoping to stumble across some sort of hint that unlocked the secrets of the Loose
Cannons—but suddenly I felt light-headed. I closed my eyes and groaned quietly. I was too overcome to hear the front door opening, or to pay attention to the parade of footsteps coming down
the hallway, or to take note of the approaching voices. Until I heard the doorknob turn. Then all at once my mind snapped back to me.
And I panicked.
My eyes flew open at exactly the same time as the door. Mason and three other boys tumbled into the room, laughing and shoving one another. They stopped short when they saw me. Shock flitted
across Mason’s features. It was replaced quickly with contempt. He took one intimidating step toward me.
“What the
hell
are you doing in here?”
M y heart clubbed in my chest, and I stood there for several miserable seconds, frozen and mute, praying for the floor to open up and suck me in.
All the while, three unfamiliar boys, all roughly my age, sauntered forward and regarded me with various degrees of interest. To my left smirked a heavily pierced, slim-shouldered boy, his eyebrows
hiked up clear to his hairline. Just behind him was a red-faced stocky kid who shifted hesitantly back and forth on his feet. The tallest of the three boys—a lanky, tattooed guy who twirled a
set of drumsticks between his fingers—ogled me as though I were a souped-up 1968 Mustang. Oblivious to his friends’ antics, Mason just stood there glaring at me, anger rolling off of
him like thick, suffocating smoke.
“I got lost,” I said finally. Which was actually 100 percent true.
“You got lost,” he said.
I swallowed. “That’s what I said.”
Mason did not answer. He just stood there, skewering me in place with his eyes. Tattoo Guy, openly disregarding Mason’s hostility, scratched his chest with his drumsticks, jerked his chin
in my direction, and said to Mason, “Bro. Been
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