The Catcher's Dreams (FEATURED)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - tree sap eyes and small teeth

"A Thursday. In May. That's when the new kid decides to show up."

"What's wrong with that, Tommy?" Drake asked.

"Don't you think it's odd? Coming to school near the end of the year?" Tommy laughed. "Hey, I'm going to ask him." He walked off, leaving Drake pulling at the fake grass of the soccer field. Under the plastic green blades the soil was made of black and white crystals that stained his hands. They looked like the jewels Cassandra used to go after. He picked up a handful and flung them away.

"...where did you go before?" It was Tommy, getting nearer.

"I went to school in the United States," said an unfamiliar voice. Drake looked up. Tommy was coming back, his overexcited freckles smirking at a gangling stranger. Drake's eyes immediately averted to the stranger. He hadn't seen the new kid before.

He consisted of five ingredients:
1. A dark maroon glow with the smell of pistachio ice cream.
2. Light olive skin, pointed chin.
3. Eyes like tree sap, melting, melting.
4. Huge curls of dark hair, not stick-straight-up candy floss curls but lazy, silky lollipop spirals falling into the tree sap.
5. And he was taller than Drake. The only kid in class taller than Drake.

The new kid smiled at Drake, and Drake returned the favor.

"You're American? That explains your weird accent," said Tommy.

"From my perspective, you're the one with a weird accent," the boy replied smoothly.

Tommy's smirk faded and freckles blushed. "You have a weird accent. I do not."

"Everyone has a weird accent to people who aren't used to it," the boy said. "It's only logical. So, technically, we both have weird accents to each other because the other isn't comfortable with our style of pronunciation."

"No, you have a weird accent. My pronunciation is impeccable." Tommy was turning red. His cheeks clashed with his golden brown hair. "And if you argue I'll...I'll Drake you, you horrible little..." He stomped off.

""Drake" you? What's that supposed to mean?" the boy asked.

It took a while for Drake to realize that he'd started talking to him. "Well...um..."

"I mean, is it a code word, or a curse around here?" The boy grinned, shaking his head. His curls bounced around like a dark halo and the pistachio ice cream pulsed. "Drake..."

"Well, I'm Drake."

"Oh," the boy said, startled. "Oh, sorry."

"It's okay, he isn't teasing me with it or anything," Drake said. "I'm not sure what he means, though. Suppose Tommy's not entirely sure what he means himself."

The boy settled down next to Drake, inspecting the grass. "Yeah. I'm Cody. Cody Sagan."

Drake didn't reply.

"So, what's your name?" Cody wheedled.

"I'm Drake Hirsch," Drake said. "That boy was Tommy Johansson."

"Ah." Cody looked around. "So, what do you do around here?"

His glow was immense, but Drake found it impossible to sniff in the pistachio because it weaved in and out of his senses, shaping itself strangely to avoid him. He hadn't seen that in a glow before, but he took it to his liking. "They play football, mostly. I'm rubbish at football, though I try sometimes."

"Football?" Cody repeated. "You mean soccer?"

"Eh," Drake said. "If that's what you call it. I'm rubbish at them both."

"Yeah, I'm not that good either." Cody dug around in his pocket and produced a rubber band. "I'd like to say I'm good at other stuff, though." He looped it quickly around his fingers and held up his hand in the shape of a gun. "And...fire." He flicked his pinky and the rubber band went flying, landing some distance away.

He grinned, flaunting small, straight teeth as he got up to retrieve the rubber band. "Wanna try, Hirsch? Betcha can't beat my record."

This time Drake spoke voluntarily, though it was more of a mutter. "Don't be so sure."

He'd returned, triumphantly brandishing his weapon. "Here. Gimme your hand and I'll show you how."