“I’d have a better time if Tyler moved here.”

His mom used a key to hack through the tape sealing the box. “That would be nice, but you’ll have to settle for e-mail. Get to work.” She left the room.

Still seated at the end of the mattress, Nate leaned forward and pulled back the cardboard flaps. The box contained a bunch of his old trophies cocooned in newspaper. He had a lot of trophies for a ten-year-old, having played four years of soccer and three of Little League.

He unwrapped the biggest trophy, earned last year by his first-place soccer team, the Hornets. He had been stuck at fullback all season, and had seen less action than ever. The forwards and halfbacks had generally kept the ball at the other end of the field as the team paraded unchallenged to their undefeated season. The coach, a black guy from Brazil whose son was the star forward, had spent the season yelling at Nate to stand up and stop picking grass. As if he couldn’t just hop to his feet on those rare occasions when the ball visited his side of the field. Picking grass was far more entertaining than watching his teammates score goals off in the distance. They should have equipped him with binoculars instead of shin guards.

Soon the trophies were aligned on a shelf, and the newspapers were wadded on the floor. Beneath the trophies, Nate found a bunch of his books, along with a broad assortment of comics. He loaded them into the bookshelf, then heaped the wadded newspapers back inside the box.

He walked out into the hall, weaving around boxes to get to the bathroom and wash the newspaper ink off his palms. There were even boxes in the bathroom. He lived in a warehouse.

Inspiration struck while he was rinsing his hands. If they saved all the boxes, he could construct an awesome fort. He stood at the sink considering the possibilities, staring into the mirror without seeing anything. It would need a drawbridge, and secret passages, and a rope swing. How many stories tall? Where could he get barbed wire? What if the fort ended up bigger than the house, and his family chose to live there instead? He would have to weatherproof it.

“You all right, Nate?”

He turned to face his dad. “Could I have the boxes when we’re done with them?”

“I’m sure we could spare a few. How come?”

“I want to build a fort.”

“We’ll see.”

“Maybe you can glue milk cartons under it and sail to Hawaii.” This comment came from his older sister, Cheryl, poking her head into the bathroom. She was referring to his failed attempt to assemble a raft out of milk cartons. He had insisted that the family store empty cartons in the garage for months after he had seen a guy on the news piloting a milk-carton barge. Eventually, overwhelmed by the logistics of joining milk cartons to form a seaworthy vessel, he had abandoned the project.

“Maybe you can go polish your braces,” he retorted. “They look rusty.”

His dad stuck out an arm to hold Cheryl back. “None of that,” he said, suppressing a grin. “Nate, why don’t you go outside for a while? I saw some kids playing out there.”

“But I don’t know them.”

“Then go get acquainted. When I was your age, I was friends with whoever happened to be out roaming the neighborhood.”

“Sounds like a good way to get stabbed by a hobo,” Nate grumbled.

“You know what I mean.”

“I guess. Is my bike in the garage?”

“It’s buried in there somewhere. I’ll dig it out for you.”

*****

Summer pedaled furiously up the street on her stupid pink bicycle with the white basket between the handlebars. She could hear Trevor closing in behind her. He always gained a little when they went uphill. At the top of the street, she coasted around the corner, then pumped her legs hard. She would pull farther ahead now that the road was flat, then make the lead embarrassing when they headed back down Monroe.

She rounded the last corner.

“Car!” Trevor screamed from behind her.

She hit her brakes before realizing the warning was a desperate trick. Grunting, she pedaled wildly to recover her lost momentum. Trevor almost pulled alongside her. She glimpsed his front tire out of the corner of her eye. Then it was gone, and she was stretching her lead. A kid standing on a driveway beside a bike watched her race past. The downward slope of the road was working to her advantage. Wind whistled in her ears and made her hair flutter. She passed the mailbox that served as the finish line and coasted to the bottom of the circle.

Glancing back, she saw Trevor reach the mailbox a few seconds behind her. Poor Pigeon had barely passed the kid standing in his driveway. The kid mounted his bike and followed Pigeon down the street. He looked about her age, with reddish-blond hair and a blue T-shirt. His bike looked new.

Summer stood straddling her bike. Trevor and Pigeon pulled up near her, turning to watch the new kid skid to a stop.

“What are you guys doing?” the kid asked Trevor.

“Playing water polo,” Summer said.

“You’re pretty funny,” the kid said. “You should join the circus.”

Trevor and Pigeon laughed. The kid smiled.

“Are you new here?” Trevor asked.

“My family just moved in from Southern California.”

“What area?” Pigeon asked.

“Mission Viejo. Between San Diego and L.A. My name’s Nate.”

“I’m Trevor.”

“Summer.”

“Pigeon.”

“Like the bird?” Nate asked.

“Yep.”

“How come?”

Pigeon shrugged. “Everybody just started calling me that in second grade.” He shot Trevor and Summer a meaningful glance, silently imploring them to keep the rest of the story secret.

“How long have you had that bike?” Summer asked.

“Since Christmas.”

“Have you ridden it before?”

“What do you mean?”

“It looks brand-new.”

“I wash it sometimes. I’ll teach you how if you want.”

Pigeon and Trevor chuckled. Summer glanced down at her dirty bicycle frame, groping for a comeback. She had nothing. “What grade are you in?”

“I’m going into fifth.”

“So are we,” Trevor said.

“What’s the school again?”

“Mt. Diablo,” Pigeon said. “It means Devil’s Mountain.”

“Sounds like a roller coaster. Have you guys always lived here?”

“I moved down here from Redding three years ago,” Trevor said. “Summer and Pidge have always lived in Colson.”