The Summer of Riley by Eve Bunting

away.
    It did. The blue widened, then widened more. And there was the sun. People streamed out of their cars and trucks like they were bears bursting out of their winter caves.
    I’d spotted Grace’s family station wagon earlier, on the other side of the park. Her two little brothers were first out, then Grace. I squeezed past Mom and flailed my arms. “Over here, Grace.”
    She came running across the field. “William!” she said breathlessly. “It’s great you changed your mind about coming. Want to go sign up for the Frisbee competition?”
    We signed up for everything, the way we do every year. The grass was damp, but not squelchy, and it didn’t bother anybody. “Of course not,” Mom said. “We’re true Oregonians.”
    Grace and I ran in the sack race while the Insane Five blasted out some hot salsa music. In about three steps we tripped each other and fell together in a lumpy heap. “You’re not supposed to take
strides,”
Grace scolded. “You’re supposed to hop, William. You’re supposed to coordinate with me.”
    We wriggled out of the cold, wet sack. “How about you coordinating with me?” I scolded back.
    “I swear, I would have done better with one of my dorky brothers,” Grace grumbled.
    “So don’t be my partner next time,” I said. Grace and I go through this every year.
    It seemed half of Monk’s Hill had come, never mind the rain. I saw Officer Zemach, who’d taken away Riley on that awful night.
    She waved to me and called, “Good luck, William.” I think she meant about Riley and not about the three-legged race coming up next.
    Mr. Bingham, the photo shop man, asked if I’d heard anything yet and squeezed my shoulder.
    Pete, who owns Pete’s Hardware, said, “William? Are you still planning on finishing that pond? I’ll take back that butyl liner, you know, if you’ve no use for it.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure.”
    Pete nodded. “Just give me a call.”
    Ellis Porter and Duane Smith were sitting on one of the picnic tables. Each time someone fell, they cheered and whistled.
    “Typical,” Grace said. “Typical dweeb attitude.”
    The adults had their own sack race, and every kid watching turned into a dweeb, too. We catcalled and booed and blew raspberries as they fell. I watched Mom and Stephen. They toppled over quickly, laughing into each other’s faces as they rolled on the wet grass, squirming free of their sack.
    In the truck, on the way here, they hadn’t given any hint of the way they’d been last night when they were dancing. There’d been no lovey-dovey looks or anything like that. They hadn’t held hands. Of course, that would have been pretty hard with me sitting between them.
    I made myself look away.
    Riley would have loved this park, all the space, the trees. But even if we still had him, he couldn’t have come today. Dogs are not invited to the Monk’s Hill Old-fashioned Summertime Picnic. Those that were here were locked into cars with the windows cranked down just enough to tempt them with the day outside.
    There was a mockingbird perched on a picnic bench. I played a game with myself. If it flew up into the oak tree, the commissioners would vote for Riley on Monday. If it flew up onto the wire, they’d vote against him. I clenched my fists in my pocket. Fly into the tree, bird. Go to the tree. It hopped onto the grass, darted low into the shrubbery, and disappeared. I told myself it was a stupid game anyway.
    I took second place in the Frisbee-throwing competition and Grace took fifth. “Just a fluke,” she told me. “I’m better than you any day.” Grace, to use her own words, has superior self-esteem.
    Throwing the Frisbee reminded me of Riley, of course. Everything reminded me of him. But still, I figured being here was probably way better than being alone at home.
    We did the Bunny Hop all the way around the field, everybody together, even Ellis Porter and Duane Smith. The Insane Five played and sang some corny song that