Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Yeah.”
“Alright,” Pop agreed with a nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’m gonna go find your nana and tell her the plan.”
He ruffled my hair as he passed me, giving it a joking little tug.
“You gonna go on the rope swing?” Bird asked, climbing back onto the table.
“Maybe,” I hedged. I’d been eyeing the swing all summer, trying to work up the courage to jump. I was a strong swimmer, but that first second of hitting the water had always freaked me out. I knew after I’d tried it once I’d like it, but making myself do it that first time was a struggle.
“Hey, who’s that?” Bird yelled, pointing as a kid around my age came running from behind the building, a giant water gun in his arms.
We’d been coming to this place for barbecues and parties whenever we stayed with Nana and Pop, but there were always so many kids running around I could never keep them straight. When you only saw people once or twice a year, it was easy to forget them.
“Dunno,” I mumbled, turning back to the grass. “Stop yelling.”
“Hi,” Bird yelled, completely ignoring me. “Who are you?”
“Jesus, Bird,” I griped, hunching my shoulders in an attempt to make myself invisible.
“Hey,” the kid yelled back as he jogged toward us. “I’m Rumi. Who are you?”
“I’m Bird!”
“Who’s that?” the kid asked, coming to a stop a few feet from us as he jerked his chin in my direction.
“That’s my sister, Nova,” Bird said proudly.
“Nova and Bird, huh?” he said, grinning as he pushed his long hair out of his face. “Cool.”
“It’s actually Firebird,” my little brother said, puffing out his chest. Now that he had this new boy’s attention, he wasn’t willing to lose it.
“Your names are Nova and Firebird?” the boy replied, his lips twitching in amusement. “Really?”
“Your name is Rumi,” I shot back. I had a vague recollection of him running around with the rest of the pack of boys the year before. “What kind of name is that?”
The boy looked at me for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “A poet.”
“What?”
“I’m named after a poet,” he said with a shrug, walking toward me. He handed Bird the big squirt gun and pulled a rubber band off his wrist, tying his hair out of his face with it.
Sitting down next to me in the grass, he leaned back on his elbows and crossed his ankles. If he’d turned blue and started levitating, I wouldn’t have been less surprised.
“Your parents like cars, huh?” he asked, grinning at me.
“My mom,” I confessed. “Well, actually, I think my dad named me. But then when Bird came along, she went with the same theme even though he has a different dad.”
“At least she’s consistent?” Rumi said thoughtfully.
I couldn’t stop the derisive laugh that burst out of my mouth. I was pretty convinced that my mom was the least consistent person on the planet.
“I guess it could’ve been worse,” I said, shaking my head.
“How’s that?” Rumi asked as we watched Bird running back and forth, shooting water at nothing.
“I could’ve had a brother named Trans Am,” I replied dryly.
Rumi’s head twisted quickly in my direction like he was checking to see if I was serious and a beat later, his laughter filled the space around us.
“I guess that’s true,” he said, nodding. “Wanna know something kind of funny?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got a brother named Otto.”
“Auto?” No freaking way. I would’ve remembered a name like that. “Like a car?”
“No, Otto, like O-T-T-O.”
“Oh.”
It was quiet for a few seconds.
“You know what my mom sometimes calls him, though?” His lips pulled up in a sly smile. “Otto-mobile.”
“Shut up.”
“Swear to God,” he said with a grin, lifting one hand like he was being sworn in at court. “You’d fit right in at our house.”
“Lucky me,” I joked, ripping out more grass so I could sprinkle it over my shoe.
“You’re Samson’s granddaughter, right?” Rumi asked.
“Yeah.” Samson was the nickname Pop had long before he’d even met Nana. He said it was because of the long hair that he wore in a braid down his back, but I thought the truth was that he’d been given the nickname because he was so strong. I’d seen him lift a fridge once with just his arms and a belt thing strapped over his shoulders.
“He’s cool,” Rumi said, wiggling the toes of his shoes. “So is Ash.”
“Yeah.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Ash makes the best spaghetti bake thing,” Rumi murmured with a sigh, closing his eyes as he tilted his face up to the sun. “She puts it all together and then bakes it with all this cheese shit on top, and it melts—”
“Yeah, I’ve had it,” I replied dryly. His eyes popped open.
“Right,” he said sheepishly. “’Course you have.”
“It’s good,” I conceded, making him smile.
“But her potato soup is better.”