“…not skipping it just to make up for your poor planning.”
They’re right below the tree house. I glance around at the windows, then realize I left the little trap door wide open. Will they see that and realize someone is up here?
There’s a pause and a forced laugh, then the voice comes again. “Yeah, I’d call getting hammered the night before a big job pretty fucking poor planning.”
Oh, God. He’s angry, with a hint of hurt in his voice.
I’m up here, eavesdropping on a conversation I definitely don’t want to hear. My arms start to burn with the effort of holding the comic book totally still in my hands. The person below might not hear it if it crinkles, but I don’t want to risk it.
There’s the faint buzz of a loud voice over the phone, and I realize whoever is on the other end is shouting at full volume. He saidhammered. Is he arguing with a drunk person? Maybe it’s a friend who drank too much.
“No, Dad. I’m not fucking doing it.” When the other voice — male, young, likely around my age — starts speaking again, he doesn’t sound surprised or even bothered by being yelled at. Isthat really his dad? If either of my parents yelled at me like that, I’d burst into tears immediately.
“Yeah, well, you lost the privilege of telling me what words to use when you decided to check out of my life.”
A pause. Should I reveal myself? Climb down now, or stay here and pray that whoever it is doesn’t realize I’m up here? They haven’t so far, so I just look up to the ceiling, hoping I don’t shift and accidentally make a noise.
He snorts, then speaks again, “I’m not doing this right now. Lose the job, or don’t. I don’t give a fuck what you do, but I’m not skipping practice and sacrificing playing time to cover your ass. Again.”
More yelling. I can hear the crunch of leaves below the tree house. He must be pacing.
“Ask Lawrence or something. Don’t call me again, or I’m going to block you.”
When the buzz of the voice comes again, it’s abruptly cut off, and then there’s just the sound of him walking around at the bottom of the tree, taking deep breaths.
I hold mine, staying perfectly still.
For a second, there’s nothing but the sound of a few straggling crickets, thewhooshof the frigid October night air moving through the branches outside the windows.
When I hear his steps again, I think for a second that he might be walking away, going back to the party, and I let myself relax.
Instead, like in a horror movie, I hear the worst sound that could possibly meet my ears right now — the unmistakable creak of the first wrung on the tree house’s ladder.
CHAPTER 2
JAKE
Once upon a time, my dad might have built me a tree house like this.
Nestled in the palm of a white oak, the branches bloom like fireworks out against the sky. Constructed from mostly two-by-fours and plywood, it’s painted a shade of ocean blue that’s chipped and peeling now.
I bite my tongue as I climb, trying not to think about the shoddy construction. Why not use Torx head screws instead of Phillips? A bunch of them are stripped out completely.
I think about the guy throwing this party — Connor, a total asshole, but a great goalie for our team — and how he and his dad probably built this thing together, Connor pressing way too long and hard on the drill. I could have built something better than this, even at ten years old. Not that it matters.
Connor has been going to hockey camps since he was old enough to hold a stick. At the start of every season, he comes in talking about his club games, the kids he’s met, and the coaches he worked with. Last year, he even got to talk to a couple of guys inthe NHL. He’s always got the newest gear, perfectly fitted. Brand new JetSpeed stick every season, even when his old one was working perfectly fine.
The guy has had everything handed to him, his hockey career carefully curated by his dad.
Some of us aren’t so lucky.
As I climb, I almost puncture my hand on a nail sticking out of the wood, but manage to move it just in time.
I’m so busy thinking about the poor construction, and wondering if the thing is going to come tumbling right out of the tree, that when I pop my head through the open trap door and find it’s not empty, I actually let go of the ladder and fall back. My shoulder hits against the wood, my stomach flipping with the feeling of being up high and losing my grip.
“Oh!” The girl inside leans forward, grabbing me without hesitation so I can regain my hold on the ladder and not plummet to my death.
Okay, maybe not my death. But definitely the end of my hockey career.
