We’d grown up on the same street. His house was three doors down from mine, the one with the green shutters and the basketball hoop with no net. We’d been riding bikes and catching fireflies together since we were four. He was a year older than me, skinny, with a bad haircut his mom did in their kitchen, and he was always, always trying to be the funniest kid on the block.
That summer he had a scar over his left eyebrow. A fresh one, still pink. He’d split it open on the monkey bars in July and needed four stitches. I’d called him Frankenstein for a week. He’d pretended to be mad, but he liked it.
“Bet you can’t go higher than that!” he teased, standing behind the swing.
“Watch me!” I shot back.
I leaned back and kicked my legs out.
The next thing I felt was a sharp shove from behind. Two hands, flat on my back, at the very top of the swing.
