2

Thirteen Years Old

I READ THE FINAL WORDS in the book, and then hand it over to Atlas. He smirks as he lies in the grass on his stomach, parallel to my outstretched legs. His eyes breeze through the words; he's always been a faster reader than I am. I wait patiently, wanting to see how he feels about the ending. I pull blades of grass from the ground, tying them together into a small wreath. Atlas murmurs to himself, catching my attention again.

I watch his face for any emotion. I wait for his brow to furrow, his eyes to widen at the plot twist. Or maybe he'll even throw the book across the grass in frustration like I was tempted to do.

Will he be as happy as I am with that ending?

Or will he hate it?

We don't often agree on books. By the time we finish discussing one, we're usually ready to move on to the next.

He shuts it with a loud thump, letting it fall to the grass next to him. As I expected, his brow is furrowed, and his eyes are burning with a frustration I only ever see him get when a book has annoyed him.

He hates it.

"All of that build-up just for him to die?"

I smirk. "That's the point. He fought—in vain—to become everything he wasn't. And in the pursuit of something impure, he lost himself. It's symbolic."

Atlas rolls his eyes as he turns onto his stomach, then rises to his feet. "It's depressing. Don't you ever want to see the characters succeed in the end?"

I shrug. "Sure. But seeing them fail is more realistic."

Atlas offers his hand, helping me to my feet. He runs his free hand through his hair, contemplating. "Succeeding isn't unrealistic. I'm going to pick the book next time."

I laugh. "I didn't know it was going to have a sad ending. I picked it for the cover."

Atlas shakes his head, grinning. "I guess I'd better offer to mow the yard again so I can get some money."

The same tradition. The same chores. The same five-dollar bills saved up to buy one book from the store. All of it feels right. Natural. It's what we've done for a while now, and probably something we'll continue to do until we're old enough to have jobs to pay for the books.

Atlas glances at his phone, checking the time. "We should head home. My parents will be looking for us."

He says us because that's the other routine. My dad won't be wondering where I am and what I'm doing because he isn't home. He's always working, trying to balance raising me with two jobs; he's hardly ever home these days except for a brief moment after dinner time. He'll show up before I'm going to bed, sleep through the night, then he'll be off to work before I'm finished eating breakfast.

He worries, despite my reassurances. He knows full well I'm spending my free time with Atlas and his family. Besides that, we have a system. Every two hours, I text my dad, letting him know I'm alive. Letting him know where I am.

None of this is by his choice, but it's easier when I'm at school and he doesn't have to worry about me being alone. Summer is different. But school will start again soon. And then he won't have to worry.

Atlas walks beside me through town, holding the book closely.

"I wish it would stay like this forever," I say.

"Like what?"

"Simple. Us reading in the park. Going to your house for dinner. Sitting in your backyard after dark and naming constellations in the sky."

He smiles. "It's always going to be that way. It's us against the world, remember?"

A quote he picked up from a book we read a few months ago had quickly become our motto. The book was about two best friends on a journey to save their kingdom.

Our lives aren't so dramatic, but when the world feels like it's caving in, he always comforts me with that quote.

Our promise.

Our vow.

I stop walking and he stops, too. I hold my pinky finger out towards him. "Promise me."

He hooks his finger with mine. "I promise we will always be this way. Even when we're old and have gray hair. We'll always be best friends."

I laugh. The idea of being old is so far away.

We make it to his house and everything is as it should be. Dinner with his family. Constellations in his backyard. His dad trailing behind as Atlas walks me back home. When we get there, Atlas walks me to the porch, as he always does, then he and his dad wait until I'm inside to leave.

I lock the door. The house is dark, so I turn on a lamp in the living room for my dad. He'll be here soon, but I don't want him stumbling around looking for a light switch.

It's no fun being here by myself. I know Atlas hates leaving me alone, too. But I don't have much of a choice. My dad is constantly working to provide for me. And my mom left us when I was only two, not wanting to be a wife or a mother anymore.

There are no pictures of her lining the hallways. Just me and my dad. Sometimes me with cousins or other family.

I do have one picture of my mom. I take after her, as much as I wish I didn't. The same small nose, the dark hair, and the green eyes. Sometimes I wonder if it bothers my dad how much I look like her.

I was too little to remember her leaving. Too little to know how my dad was left broken and reeling from the shock of it all. He's told me stories, telling me she was his greatest heartbreak. When I was nine, I would ask him if he ever planned to find me a new mom.

The answer was always ‘Not yet.'

As I got older, I realized he wasn't brave enough to tell me he would never remarry.

I climb the stairs and make my way to the bathroom so I can get ready for bed.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into my pajamas. It's simple. It's the way I wish life would stay.

I climb into my bed, squeezing the life out of the teddy bear I have. It's the one Atlas gave me when we were ten and he won a game at the carnival.

One day I won't sleep with it. We'll both be older, wiser. I won't need a teddy bear to sleep.

But that time isn't here yet. Part of me wishes it would never come.

I drift off, dreaming of stars and constellations and wishes.