6
Liam
We roll up to a tiny yellow Cape Cod with brown shutters. Ginny steers her beater into a grassy parking area next to the garage. Her stereo blasts bass heavy pop and as I step out of the car, my cape blows in the wind. A boy rides by on his bike, and as he passes he turns his head to stare.
“I’m effin’ Liam Stone,” I say under my breath, because right now I feel like this is the stupidest decision I’ve ever made and I need some bolstering.
I shut my door and plant my feet on the dry grass. Then I take a look around. The street’s packed tight with small houses. They vary on a theme. Small, yellow, beige, or white, chain-link fences and brown grass. Some have flowers, most don’t. Some have boarded windows, most don’t. There’s a house on the end with a rusted car on concrete blocks
