Page 12 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

Henry hissed my name from the doorway. If he didn’t need the other crutch to stand, he might’ve hit me with it.

“Give me back his crutch,” I demanded, feeling all eyes on me. “I know it’s in here. Either you give it to me, or I’ll search everysmall”—I paused and gave the loser another up-down—“inch of this place until—”

“Sienna—”

I was about to wave Henry off again before something approached me from the left. I say something because it was a scent, a pleasant whiff of the past—like freshly cut grass and lemonade and warm blueberry pie.

But it was a guy, in case you’re wondering, Mom.

I snatched the crutch from him, holding it back to Henry. Narrowing my eyes, I turned back to the guy who had the audacity to speak.

“I’m not sure if you remember. I’m—”

“The only thing you should introduce yourself as is an asshole,” I growled.

I went to leave before the unapologetic jerkoff spoke again.

“I didn’t—”

He didn’t have the chance to finish his sentence because I hit him. Right in the nose. He didn’t look hurt, so much as he did shocked, even though it was a good punch. But do you know what he did right after, Mom? Hesmiled.For a second, I thought I had hit him hard enough to rattle his brain.

And even though I tried to hide it, I smiled back. Do you know what the grin on his face felt like? Kind of like the anticipation of an awesome thing, like when you’ve been waiting for the most important person in your life to come home after being away, and you finally hear keys opening the door.

“The last time you hit me was with a Wiffle ball bat.”

That smile on my face? It dropped. Actually,Idropped. Right back to a decade ago when we lived in this town, when I used to ride bikes and climb trees with the short boy with the long brown hair.

“Beau?”

I felt stupid for not recognizing him, but to be fair, I was in a fit of rage. And honestly, Mom? He looks the same. There’s justmore of him.

“You got taller,” I whispered.

“You’re still pretty.”

My cheeks burned when the left side of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

I know now, Mom, that you can smell a memory. A happy one. And for the first time since you died—for the first time in nearly a month—Ifelthappy, and do you know what I was thinking about? This place.

I remembered the crack on the sidewalk to the right of our old driveway and how Beaualwaysgot his bike stuck in it. I remembered his mom ran a baking business from her kitchen and how he always smelled like candied sugar and vanilla. I remembered us being chased out of that kitchen after trying to grab a spoon full of cookie dough. It all whooshes through my mind on video—riding bikes, playing tag, selling lemonade, climbing trees—a tornado of sounds of childhood laughter, teasing, and fun.

Everything I now recall about living here has to do with Beau. And it’s all I could think about when I got home and faced Dad.

“Yousluggedmy wideout?”

“Your what-out?”

“Beau Walker is going to be one of my starting receivers next fall. Probably a captain. And youhithim?”

I lifted the foil covering another casserole and closed the oven. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Dad sighed. “That’s what I told the principal. Butyou, I’m telling you something different. You never raise your hand to anyone unless you’re being attacked.”

“Henry was being attacked.”

“Standing up for him and doing what you did are two different things.”

“Mom would’ve been proud of me.”

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