When things were good, Mom made us grilled-cheese sandwiches and chocolate milk with bendy straws. Shauna always left her crusts, but she would nibble down to the very outer edge trying to get all the cheese. I would bend my straw back and forth like an accordion, making fart noises, just to make Shauna laugh. The first time I did it, by accident, she spewed milk out her nose.

"That's enough of that," Mom said, confiscating my straw.

I didn't care, because Shauna was still laughing, despite the chocolate milk everywhere.

Mom wiped Shauna's hands and face, pretending to be annoyed but laughing and shaking her head and finally tapping the end of Shauna's nose with her finger.

"Thanks, Mrs. Foster." Mom didn't even hear her, because Shauna talked really softly when we were little, before we started school, at least when anyone else was around.

I heard T.J.'s cleats on the back porch, and so did Shauna. She stared at the door with big eyes, nibbling at her lip, waiting for him. She didn't have any brothers, and she was kind of in awe of T.J., at least when T.J. wasn't being mean.

"Eh! Cleats off," Mom yelled before T.J. could get through the door. "I swear, if you track mud through here again, you're going to be spending the afternoon -"

"Yeah, yeah," T.J. said. He was thirteen and almost as tall as Mom. He leaned against the door frame, kicking his cleats off onto back the porch, grinning the whole time, like it was a game.

He thought he was so cool just because he was on the traveling baseball team with the older kids.

"Time to cut that hair," Mom said, miming with her fingers and catching some of T.J.'s hair. He swatted her hand away, then ducked past her toward the fridge.

"Go wash up first." Mom sighed, waving him down the hall.

On his way past, T.J. slimed my ear with his spit-wet finger.

"Quit it!" I yelled.

"Teddy!" Only Mom got to call him that. Even then, he'd have beat my ass if I called him Teddy. "Act your age, please."

"Mo-om," I whined, rubbing my ear.

"I know, bud," she said, like she couldn't do anything about T.J.'s wet willies.

Shauna rolled her head to her shoulder in sympathy, or maybe to protect her own ear.

T.J. slid into his chair next to me and swiped half my sandwich before I remembered to protect my plate. He took a huge bite while I shrieked. After he put it back, he grabbed my milk and pretended to drink it. I tried to grab it back, but I couldn't reach far enough without jumping off my chair.

"Teddy, cut it out." Mom plucked my favorite red plastic cup from his hand and put it back next to my plate. I pushed my ruined sandwich half onto the table.

"Mom," I whined, already feeling the heat and tears hit my eyes, but trying not to cry in front of Shauna.

"I'll make you another half," she said, rubbing her hand over my head, trying to calm me down.

It was no fair. He always got away with stuff.

T.J. chugged some milk, then burped really loud. Shauna giggled.

I was so mad. I didn't want her laughing at T.J. She was my friend. And he was being a jerk.

He nudged my leg with his foot and did it again - chugging more milk and burping. But this time, it was like we were playing together. I gulped down some milk, tucked my chin, and forced out the smallest burp.

"Nice!" T.J. said, high-fiving me. My hand stung from the too-hard slap.

"Lovely," Mom said, shaking her head but smiling again.

And when Shauna laughed, it was for me.

It was the last good summer, and the last year T.J. played baseball.

That summer we practically lived in the kitchen, Mom and T.J. and me. Dad worked a lot, and sometimes he would go away for a few days if he had sites to inspect too far away to drive back and forth. When he was away, we planned parties just for us, and indoor picnics, or went to the lake until dark.

But even when Dad was around, a lot of the time Mom would make us our own dinner before Dad got home. We'd have breakfast for dinner, or tacos, hot dogs, or pizzas with faces out of the toppings, things that were more fun than the boring food Dad wanted. And we talked, and made up stories, and laughed. She had a great laugh. When she laughed. When things were good. Before it all went to hell.

Before that summer ended, things were different. Mom was different. Some days she wouldn't even get out of bed.

Mom walked me into preschool that first day, but she started freaking out when it was time to leave, and Mrs. Gruber had to calm her down.

By Halloween Mrs. Gruber was picking me up most days and taking me to her house until Dad got home. Mom rallied around Christmas, but was all weird again by Valentine's Day. In April, I came home one day and she was gone.

A few months after Mom left, we heard she was in Philadelphia, living in the basement of a church or something. An hour away, and it might as well have been the other side of the world.

When the police came to the door to tell Dad she was dead, Dad didn't invite them in. If there was a funeral, no one told me.

Dad moved us to the new house a couple months after Mom died, four blocks from the old one. None of the pictures of Mom or her things came with us, not even the big picture of all four of us that had hung in the hall my whole life.

After we moved, Shauna didn't come over as much, but we still spent more time together than apart on weekends - at least for a while. Then she found soccer, and a whole bunch of new friends, girl friends. Later, the guys who hung around her girl friends. One day I looked up and she had a boyfriend, and huge tits, and everything about her made me hard. But to her, I was still just her old friend Matt.

It's been getting harder to ignore how hard she is to ignore. Sometimes it's so stupid - she does something with her hand or mouth or laughs at a joke or, hell, sits too close, and I'm scrambling for cover. I have to remind myself not to stare.

She has soccer, and her other friends, her "girls' nights," and sometimes a party. Sometimes she goes on dates, and I sit home and try not to think about what she could be doing.

I have her calls and her texts, car rides to and from school, and a night or two a week when it's just us - not to mention all my fantasy versions of her, who fill in when she's off having a life.

And since November, we have all this new weirdness - mostly mine, I know - getting in the way. She'd been busy all fall, fitting me in, between everything and everyone else. I was pissed at her. Sometimes even at the fantasy versions of her. But when we heard, I couldn't call her, couldn't say it, and I'm not sure she's ever going to forgive me for her having to hear that T.J. was dead from someone else.

Still, after T.J. died, she was right there, whenever I thought I'd lose it. But it got so that I couldn't breathe. I couldn't tell her what I needed - too close to saying what I wanted, and I felt like shit for wanting anything when he was dead.

She spent one too many nights trying to carry a conversation by herself, then she pushed a little too hard and I said some stuff I can never take back, about how she'll never understand. For a few weeks, we hardly talked at all. Things got better for a while, but not back to where we were. There's only so much of her worried looks I can take, but at least now I bail before I can say something to make her go away for good.

Dad's recliner creaks and groans overhead. I can track his bedtime routine by the sounds. Slow steps to the kitchen. The water runs as he washes his glass. After the water, he checks the back door - open, close, lock. Lights off. Then down the hall and up the stairs, the sound of the creaky second step, and a few minutes later he flushes the toilet and water flows through the pipes. Walking down the hall, into his room, probably dropping his watch and wallet on the bureau, tossing his clothes in the hamper. Then the squeaking bedsprings. Every night - at least the nights when he makes it upstairs - it's the same routine. Once he's snoring away, he's out until morning, barring something really, really loud - like a train through the living room.

I creep up the stairs and stand in the open door to the kitchen, listening for the bedsprings. Back downstairs, I slide under the covers. Shauna will be calling in less than two hours.

And yet, for ten minutes I lie there awake, thinking.

All that's left of T.J. is in that bag.

No way Dad would just throw away the flag from T.J.'s coffin. Wherever it is, the bag has to be there, too.

I'm not giving up.

I won't give up until I find it. Or until there's nowhere else to look.

Yeah, I've already looked everywhere. Time to look harder. Time to start emptying boxes, moving furniture, banging on walls, and pulling up floorboards.

I can snoop around the downstairs and out back in the shed or garage whenever.

But I'll take a look at Dad's book, see where he's scheduled to be the rest of the week. Whatever day he's farthest away, I'll tackle the upstairs again. Less chance he'll stop home and catch me.

Better wait until Thursday or Friday, at least. Maybe then I'll have healed enough I can outrun him if I get caught.

AS THREATENED, SHAUNA CALLS EVERY COUPLE HOURS FOR all of Monday night into Tuesday morning, well past the time when it's clear I'm not gonna slip into a coma. Eventually, I threaten to turn off my phone if she keeps it up, and she finally stops.

With Dad gone and my phone silent, I sleep until lunchtime.

But once I'm awake, I start to go stir-crazy. The quiet's making me nuts. I'm climbing out of my skin. Too awake and jittery to sleep. Too achy to move. Kind of hungry, but too pukeish to actually try to make something.

The stupid part is I miss Shauna's calls. They'd be a good distraction. Especially because then we'd hang up and I'd be here, by myself, with time to kill and her voice still in my head.

But she won't call now, and there's no way I can call her, not after making such a scene to get her to stop.

The upstairs is tempting me. But it would be suicide to risk it today. He's local, and no telling when he might decide to stop home. Worse, even if I had a couple hours, it's not enough. I need a whole day so I can search hard but slow, and careful, and have time to put things back together right. One single thing out of place could give it away. Can't risk it. Not today. Besides, I can barely move.

I snuck into Dad's bag last night and looked at his book. He's local all week. But next week he's scheduled to be way up north. Means he'll leave early, be home late, and there'll be no chance of him surprising me. I'll have to find a way - go in late or cut out early, something.

The phone rings, as if he's sensed what I'm planning. The house phone. I don't even have to look at the caller ID: Dad.

"You up?"

"Yes," I say, trying not to shift and make the bedsprings squeak. And good morning to you, too, Dad.

"Good. Enough lazing around. Find something productive to do." The "or else" hangs there between us.

"I already left a message for Mr. Anders to see if he can get me on a crew later this week." It's a lie, but a harmless one. Dad'll never call Anders to check.

Dad says something to someone else, his voice just as irritated as with me. Good to know that not all that pissed off is about me.

"Call Anders again. See if he has anything tomorrow." Tomorrow? "Dominick low-balled his bid on the display case, but he couldn't go below twelve sixty-five." Twelve hundred dollars? "I want this paid and done asap. I told Pendergrast you'd have the first half in by the last day of classes."

Half? No fucking - "No way he gets to say shit about this family, like he's gonna have to chase us for it."

Shit. Dead set on some insane deadline, just to make this suck that much harder. "I'm not sure -"

"Call him again." Dad hangs up without anything else. No "I'll be home for dinner" or asking how I feel.

I stare at the phone, ready to chuck it against the wall. Everything still hurts like hell, but I've got two weeks to come up with more than six hundred dollars. Even with what I've got saved up, it's gonna be tough.

T.J. worked for Anders & Sons all through high school, and I've worked for Mr. Anders the last three summers. That first summer, he just had me mowing lawns or running errands or doing other odd stuff now and then when I needed money - like picking up supplies at the hardware store or cleaning the paintbrushes at the end of the day. But the last two summers, I've worked my way up to a full-time spot on one of the crews that comes in after the serious renovation work is done. Usually I sand, paint, clean up, or install the final touches, the light-switch covers and doorknobs and cabinet doors and handles. It's not bad - the guys are OK, and I make more than I could doing pretty much anything else.

I return the phone to the cradle and dig for Mr. Anders's cell number. While I listen to the phone ring, I brace for the conversation. He'll find me something. I know he will. But he'll be pissed I got suspended. Maybe so mad he won't let me work during the days I should be in school. It would be just like him to say I should study and not get to make money for getting in trouble.

"You need the money badly?" Mr. Anders asks after I ask if he can give me any work right away.

"Yeah. I have to come up with twelve hundred dollars fast. Any way you can use me this week?"

"This week?"

"Yeah, I was hoping Thursday and Friday." Not tomorrow. Probably couldn't hold a hammer or crouch down tomorrow, but I'll have to by Thursday. "Then maybe after school and weekends until school's done?"

"After school, weekends, sure, maybe. But Thursday? What about school? Matt -"

"I got suspended. There was a fight. Display case got busted. That's what I need the money for. I have to pay for it." Freaking Dad. "I really need the money."

Anders blows out a breath across the receiver and then mutters to himself for a minute. I know this is a lot to ask. He'll either be eating the extra cost or shorting someone else, one of his year-rounders, or maybe some guy with a wife and a bunch of kids.

"OK," Anders says. Some papers rustle near the phone. "I have an interior painting job a couple blocks from you. You can work that starting Thursday. The crew I've got you on for the summer doesn't start until the third week of June, but I'll look at the schedules and see if I can use you somewhere else until then."

"Great."

"Might not be painting. Might be some cleanup or hauling stuff."

"Whatever you have. It'll be great. I really appreciate it."

"OK, well, see you Thursday. Get there by eight. On Fenton. You'll see my sign out front."

I leave a voicemail for Dad, telling him about the job. Then make a circuit of the downstairs as best I can. I look everywhere I can without bending over or reaching too high - in every drawer and cabinet, in or under everything on the shelves and in the hutch. Then I knock on all of the panels and walls, looking for any space he could have hidden the bag or T.J.'s things. Nothing.

When I start jumping at every car outside, I spread my algebra notes out on my bed and pop in a movie I know so well I can close my eyes and just drift. Best if Dad finds me down here and zonked out, ignoring my homework, as he expects. Actually doing my homework would be that step too far.

The walk over to the job site on Thursday morning feels weird. The neighborhood is too quiet, with everyone off at work or school except for the old people, the moms, and the little kids. I keep looking over my shoulder, like a cop car or something's gonna come along and ask why I'm not in school. But by the time I get to the house, being out alone feels kind of cool, freeing, and my muscles are loosening up, less stiff with every step. I don't even have to look for the ANDERS & SONS sign, because Mr. Anders is out front, leaning against his black truck sporting the blue Anders & Sons logo on the side. Between all the years T.J. worked for him, and now me, we have a gazillion of his shirts, that logo across the back, splattered with a variety of different color paints.

A second too late to be smooth, I wipe my hand on my jeans and reach out to shake his hand. But when he sees my scabby, messed-up knuckles, his hand stops midair. Instead of shaking, we both pull our hands back and nod hello.

I don't know what to do or say, so I wait for him to start.

Somehow it feels like an interview, or a test: maybe he isn't sure he really wants me working for him anymore.

"Well, you don't look too bad," he finally says. But then he looks at my right hand again and looks away. For the first time I feel a little weird about the fight - maybe not the whole fight, but how bad it got. I pull my hand behind my leg so he can't see my knuckles. "Are you really up for working?"

"Yeah. Not everything, but I can sand, scrape, paint. Maybe not ceilings, because of the ladder, but . . ." I try to stand real straight, like my knee and shoulder aren't throbbing. "Yeah. And, uh, I really need the money."

"So you said." His mouth flattens out into a lipless line. "How much trouble are you in? I mean, other than suspended. Did you have to talk to the police, or . . ."

"No, no, just the suspension - and paying for the display case that got smashed."

"Your dad OK'd you working so soon? Still seem pretty banged up," he says, motioning toward my hand, and then my face.

"He's fine with it. More than fine." I laugh a little. A mistake, because Mr. Anders's eyes narrow. Shit. Dad is cool with Mr. Anders, and not just because Mr. Anders is retired Navy or because he hires a lot of guys from military families. But I'm never sure how cool Mr. Anders is with Dad. "I really need the money," I say again, staring at his boots.

"OK," he says, even though it sounds like anything but "OK." "I just wanted to check on you before you started. So, if you're sure you're well enough to work . . ."