No one can solve the puzzle that is Sammy Lou.
They shouldn’t even try.
Avery kicks the gate one more time and then pulls free, fingers fluttering like they hold invisible puppet strings. ‘You can call Vin if you need me. But I’m leaving now.’
If he needs Avery? More like when Avery needs him.
But he thinks Avery means it. He thinks Avery’s trying to be a big brother.
Sam could laugh. Or maybe just cry.
He’s still trying to find an answer when Avery’s shoes skim the street and he vanishes back to his world of shiny things to pocket between here and nowhere.
Sam holds on to the fence for a long, long time.
Finally Moxie crosses the grass, still damp with early-morning dew, and rests her chin on Sam’s shoulder. He wants so desperately to scoop her into his arms and just hold her. But he doesn’t.
‘Can I tell you everything later?’ His voice is made of weary bones.
‘After the beach party,’ Moxie says. ‘Then we’re officially talking to my dad. About everything.’
He just nods.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Moxie looks down the street, but Avery’s gone.
No, he’s not. Avery’s just going to crack again and again if he keeps this up. Sammy’s lived with him for fifteen years and he knows Avery better than anyone.
Sam looks down at his fingers wrapped around Avery’s phone. ‘I’ll catch him if he falls.’
‘Who catches you?’ Moxie says.
Sam stitches on a pretend smile. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Sam fits his hands into his pockets and walks self-consciously downstairs. He hates plenty of things: seeing Avery hurt, a lock outwitting him, his skin stinging from a beating, the thought of losing Moxie. But having dozens of eyes look at him?
He loathes that.
This is why he fits so well in the invisible boy’s bones.
But when going to a party with the De Laineys, there’s no escape from the volunteered honest appraisal.
Mr De Lainey is in the kitchen making gingerbread men with Toby, and Jack sits on the bench, legs swinging, on his phone. He tends to be glued to it when he actually has it. Six pairs of eyes immediately lock on Sam.
‘Whoa,’ Jack says, ‘the eighteenth-century circus just arrived.’
Mr De Lainey wipes his floury hands on a towel. ‘Sam! You look incredible. Moxie and you made this?’
Sam nods and looks down at himself to avoid their eyes.
The waistcoat is marvellous. It’s burgundy and rust and charcoal and gold. Hundreds of thin strips of material are sewn so the colours merge in a rich ombre. It folds over his chest, six mismatched buttons on either side. And it’s slim fitting. Sam didn’t even argue about the tightness, mostly because he isn’t painfully thin with protruding bones any more.
But the secret of his outfit is a key strung around his neck and tucked deep behind his shirt. No one will know. He needs it. More than ever, with the image of Avery walking away replaying every time he closes his eyes.
‘You look like a particularly fine gentleman,’ Mr De Lainey says.
No one has ever called Sam a gentleman before.
He wonders if Avery would laugh at that and then he feels sick – knowing that after tonight he tells Moxie everything and this summer ends. Aching, because he could face it if Avery was beside him. And there’s that constant whisper deep in his bones that says maybe Sam and his hitting and unattainable dreams is the reason Avery is always leaving.
He can’t think about it right now.
Moxie flies down the stairs in a rain of hair ties and buttons and an explosion of hair. Her eyes are wild and there’s a comb clamped between her teeth. She frantically dumps herself on the bottom of the staircase and skewers bobby pins covered in white flowers into her braid.
‘We’re going to be late.’ She rips open another packet of bobby pins and they scatter over the stairs.
Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. ‘The sun’s not fully down yet. Chill, sis.’
Sam hides his smile and folds himself behind Moxie on the stairs. The first time they sat like this, positions were reversed and Sam was about to be scalped. Now they’re always somewhat sandwiched together, her tucked against him while she whispers a joke, or him resting his chin on her shoulder while she tells him her wishes and fears.
He will never get tired of leaning on her while she leans on him.
Jeremy catapults down the stairs and vaults Sam and Moxie at the bottom. He skids into the kitchen wearing boxers and a collared shirt patterned with pineapples.
‘Does it look OK?’ His eyes are possibly more wild than Moxie’s.
‘No,’ says Jack.
‘What have you been doing all this time?’ Moxie says. ‘You don’t even have hair to fuss over.’
Jeremy is too flustered to react. He fixes a few buttons and looks anxiously at his father.
Mr De Lainey pops raisins in his mouth. ‘Well.’ He pauses. ‘Well … you need pants.’
Jeremy looks down. ‘Oh, yeah.’
‘And a different shirt,’ Jack adds, stealing gingerbread. ‘Because we’re identical and I’m not letting my face walk around a pivotal social event with that shirt on.’
Jeremy casts a desperate look at Moxie.
‘Don’t you also have that really nice salmon shirt?’ Moxie stabs bobby pins in her hair.
Jeremy nods several times and bolts back upstairs. ‘OK. Salmon. I need to wear a salmon. OK.’
Moxie glances at Jack. ‘Does he have a new crush? Is that why he’s flapping?’
Jack shrugs. ‘Why are you asking me about his f— um, frick fracking crushes?’
‘Did you just say frick fracking?’ Mr De Lainey says.
‘No.’ Jack puts his phone behind his back. ‘I’m not speaking again unless I’m talking about the Lord Jesus Christ, can I get an amen?’
‘Amen,’ says Moxie.
Their father sighs and looks very old.
Sam nudges Moxie with his knee. ‘Are you going to show them?’
A proud spark flashes behind Moxie’s eyes and she pops off the steps. ‘Dad? Watching?’
She stalks to the centre of the room and raises her arms above her head. Her dress is yellow cotton, the bodice embroidered with half a million flowers. It looks like any other nice dress – knee length with a flared skirt and tulle peeking below the hem to give it ‘body’ as Moxie informed him. Whatever that means.