By Mary Jane Beaufrand
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Being a hefty, deaf newcomer nearly makes Will Halpin the least well known man at Coaler excessive. but if he befriends the one man much less renowned than him, the dork-namic duo has the smarts and guts to determine who knocked off the megastar quarterback. Will can’t pay attention what’s happening, yet he’s an exceptional observer.
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He took in all the rainwater sluicing off me and onto the carpet. “Get a towel and change your shirt, please. ” I ignored him. ” Dad and I stared at each other for a beat. I continued to drip. ” Dad kept wiping, even though the stein was clean and dry. “Be right there,” he finally said. Ranger Dave, meanwhile, either didn’t hear me broadcasting his woe, or didn’t care. He took off his boots and shuffled over to the hearth, where he carefully swept little embers back into the fireplace. S. Forest Service, he was always on the lookout for anything untended and emitting smoke.
I mean, she listened to Christian rock. Don’t you hate Christian rock? ” “I thought it was cute,” he said, whacking a burning log. “That is not cute, it’s pathetic,” Dad said, rolling his eyes. ” I prodded. Dad winked at me and mouthed the words good one behind Ranger Dave’s back. “I said she could punch a hole in the ozone layer above her vanity table with all the Aqua Net,” Ranger Dave admitted. Dad smiled. The two of us, working together, had forced a confession. Ranger Dave’s case for heartbreak had just collapsed into a heap of black embers.
I pulled my head back in and rolled up the window. “Take me home,” I pleaded. Ranger Dave nodded and pulled the car back out onto the road. I leaned my soggy head against the door, miserable. He didn’t understand. He was taking me east, toward Patchworks, when I wanted him to take me west, back to my old home—my real home—in Portland. Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this whiny. I used to have things to look forward to—after-school activities where I didn’t have to devein anything or shovel anything or grout anything, and friends who weren’t already developing beer guts at the age of sixteen.
The River by Mary Jane Beaufrand