He grins. “I’ll bet.” He purses his lips then. “We can be friends, Carly. We’re not as different as you think.”

Yes, we are. But he obviously can’t be convinced otherwise, at least not right now. I nod. Pretending to agree seems like the only way he’ll let me leave on my bike. And I’ve got to start dinner before Julio gets home. “Friends,” I say, as if the word is foreign to me.

“Friends.” He grabs the door handle of his truck. “See you in social studies.”

“Okay then.” I turn around and start pedaling, trying to stir up a symbolic dust cloud in my wake.

Eight

Arden pulls into the long dirt driveway at 86 Weston Road. Long rows of straggly azalea bushes stand guard on either side of the drive. When in full bloom, this driveway is a sight fit for any Southern gardening magazine. That is, if trimmed properly. From the ruts and holes in the red clay, it doesn’t look like Uncle Cletus has even had his driveway smoothed over in some time, let alone paid anyone to clean up the bushes.

And why should he have to pay someone? Arden thinks to himself. When he has a perfectly capable nephew with an abundance of time on his hands?

Hating himself more and more, Arden takes the last curve and pulls under the vaulted, monumental carport in front. The grand stone steps that lead to Uncle Cletus’s double front doors are covered with last season’s leaves and this season’s moss; Aunt Dorothy used to keep flowers in the concrete vases at the bottom of the stairs. Now the vases stand purposeless and forlorn and pathetic looking. Up top, two giant lion statues on either side of the front door show their teeth as Arden rings the bell. The elegant noise echoes through the house in an uninviting way, as if to say, “Why bother?”

Not surprisingly, no one comes to the door. Uncle Cletus used to keep a maid, Mrs. Beeman, who came a few days a week to tidy up and prepare meals. She would even play the role of butler and answer the door. It’s been a long time since Arden has seen Mrs. Beeman. It’s been a long time since the front steps have seen Mrs. Beeman.

Arden retrieves his check card from his wallet and finagles the lock by the doorknob, hoping that the deadbolt isn’t set. One minute and a bent check card later, Arden strolls into the enormous foyer. The house smells like a decade-old dust ball mixed with cheese. Dust lies on everything like a second skin. Aunt Dorothy and Mrs. Beeman used to keep the house meticulous. Now it looks like it could be undergoing a remodel, with books and magazines and papers strewn about, along with clothes and shoes and paint cans and pieces of art that fell and were never re-hung.

To Arden’s left is the “fancy” room where he and Amber were not allowed to play. That’s where the expensive stuff is kept. Vases and tea sets and a grand piano and a china cabinet full of porcelain collectibles and a pink antique couch that had probably accommodated the butts of some very important guests in its day. Now a pile of decaying wood sits by the fireplace in a delicate brass basket.

Arden knows there’s no use checking the dining room or the kitchen or the library or any of the bedrooms upstairs. Uncle Cletus prefers to drink himself to death in the ballroom. There he has the perfect setup. The ballroom is empty except for the one corner of it haunted by Cletus Shackleford. Him, his polyester couch, and his old television. It’s the only place in the house he claims has enough room for all his “lofty thoughts.”

Arden pushes his shoulder into the ballroom door, which creaks open. This room seems to get smaller and smaller each time he visits. As a child, he always thought it was as big as town, dignified and luxurious but decidedly boring. All shiny baseboards and brass mirrors and chandeliers that cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the floors in the summertime. To Arden, the only thing the ballroom was good for was inside rollerblade hockey. He and Amber didn’t need to be worried about oncoming traffic of the street or weather conditions like they did at their own house. And the bonus was that if you wiped out, you just got marble-floor burn instead of asphalt embedded into your bloody knees. Now that Arden thinks about it, it was pansy hockey. Not manly at all.

His steps reverberate through the room that was designed to deliver music to every corner. There’s no way his uncle doesn’t know he’s here. He walks toward the couch facing the far wall, with the TV tucked into it. Two booted feet hang off the end of the sofa, and the channel is turned to some sort of hunting show. Arden hears the swish of a bottle being upturned. He wonders how productive this conversation with Uncle Cletus will be.

“Hey, old man,” Arden calls. The boots don’t move. Arden rests his elbows on the back of the couch, looking down at Cletus. His uncle’s hair is disheveled, his flannel shirt exposing a stained wife beater, and he’s actually wearing an honest-to-God polka-dot bow tie around his neck. Arden nods toward it. “What’s the occasion?”

Cletus reluctantly draws his attention away from the TV and fixes his gaze on Arden. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”

Arden almost cringes. “If you wanted people to visit, you should come to the door when they ring the bell.”

“Back door’s always open. You know that.”

“After what happened to you the other night, I figured you’d be smart enough to lock all the doors.”

“What do you know about what happened?” Uncle Cletus sits up on his elbows, almost spilling the contents of the bottle, which smells like whiskey.

“Mom told me.” As soon as he says it, Arden regrets it. Now Cletus knows that Arden knows he messed himself. He’d wanted to save his uncle from that indignity.