Read Online 13 Gifts by Wendy Mass - Free Book Online

that sorry fact, I ask, “Do you, like,
live
here?”
    “In the guest room down the hall,” he says, then shoves the rest of the roll in his mouth.
    The guest room that should be
mine,
I can’t help thinking.
    He sits down across from me and opens the paper. I quickly finish my cereal and bring the bowl to the sink.
    “See you later,” I say, turning to go back upstairs.
    “Getting ready for your party?”
    I stop in my tracks. I’d forgotten all about that! The cereal in my belly congeals into a solid lump. “Do you think I can ask them to cancel it? I’m really not a party person.”
    “Nope. Your aunt loves to throw parties.”
    “I, um, I think I need fresh air.” I hurry outside and over to the shed. I need to be riding. It always helps me sort things out. Tools of all shapes and sizes hang from metal hooks that run the length of one wall. I find a wrench and raise the bike seat as high as it will go. A few swishes with an old rag and the spider-webs are gone. The tires are completely flat, but a bike pump solves that. I check under the seat to make sure no spiders are lurking, then walk the bike past the giant hole and around to the front yard.
    The tires are a lot thicker than I’m used to and it’s hard to build up any real speed on the flat streets. But the air on my cheeks feels good, and I can move around easier without all the usual reflective gear.
    After a few minutes, I can relax enough to put the looming party out of my head and take a look around. The houses are all pretty large, larger than the ones at home, but none as large as Emily’s. Not too many people are outside yet, only two dogwalkers and a little kid on his bike. The kid and I nod at each other as we approach on opposite sides of the street. He glances at my bike and then up at me and then down at my bike again. I pretend not to notice and keep riding.
    After a few more times around the block I figure I better get back in case anyone’s looking for me. As soon as I enter the backyard, I hear a very strange sound. Not chanting, not singing, but a combination of the two. The voice is male. I don’t know what language it is, but it’s definitely not Australian. And the voice isn’t deep enough to be Uncle Roger. The only thing is, I don’t see anyone.
    I walk the bike as silently as possible through the still-damp grass. The voice gets louder and louder. I look around for a hidden tree house, but see only leaves and sky. There’s only one other option. But who would willingly hang around the bottom of a pool pit? Maybe the boy fell in and it’s up to me to rescue him. I don’t have much practice in the rescuing department. I glance up at the house. The upstairs rooms are still dark. Guess it’s up to me. When I reach the edge of the hole, I kneel down and peek over, afraid of what I might find.
    A boy around my age with short, spiky brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses is sitting cross-legged on one of the wooden boards. His eyes are closed, and he’s swaying slightly as he chants/sings. Sometimes the words are really hard and guttural, and sometimes they’re soft. It’s not unpleasant, just … different. Almost like it’s from another time and definitely another place. As far as I can tell from this distance, the boy doesn’tlook wounded in any way. I think I’m off the hook on the rescue.
    I start to back up before he spots me, but of course my sneaker catches on a rock and sends a bunch of dirt and pebbles skittering down the side. The singing stops abruptly.
    “Is someone up there?” he calls out.
    Would it be really bad to just leave? Probably. So I step into view. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
    He scrambles to his feet. “No, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
    I shake my head. My experience talking to boys my own age is pretty much zip. That goes double for boys chanting in a foreign language from a really big hole in the ground.
    “You must be Emily’s cousin,” he says.
    I