Chapter 13

Chapter 13 As Heavy as a Wet Blanket simile (n) a comparison of one thing with another using "like" or "as" Evan woke up on Saturday morning in a bad mood. It was the same mood he'd gone to bed with on Friday night. The same mood that had followed him all that day, hanging over his shoulders like a heavy, wet, stinky wool blanket. But after he'd complained to his mother for ten solid minutes about the lack of milk in the house and then snapped at Jessie for leaving her shoes on the stairs right where he would trip over them, both his mother and Jessie declared that he was a beast and told him to get out of the house until he turned back into a human being. He decided to grab his snowshoes and hike

through the woods and into the cemetery. There were good trees for climbing there, and it was his favorite place to think. He went to the garage and started rummaging through the big plastic bin of outdoor stuff. About four inches of snow had fallen last night, and although he could have gone out in just his boots, it was more fun to wear snowshoes. He started hunting through the shelves in the garage. Instead of finding his own snowshoes, though, he found his dad's. They were behind the pile of sleds, Boogie Boards, and Skim Disks, wedged between the wall and the shelving unit. Evan scowled. Things that used to belong to his dad were always turning up. He'd be looking on the bookshelf for one of his old Calvin and Hobbes books, and he'd find a book on fly- fishing instead. Or he'd be reaching all the way to the back of the linen closet for a clean pillowcase, and there would be his dad's old Michigan Wolverines hat. Evan hated finding

these reminders. He figured, what's done is done. There was no point in even thinking about the past. But this time, he looked at the snowshoes and then at his own feet. He'd been growing a lot this year. He was the second tallest boy in his class. Maybe his dad's old snowshoes would fit him. He sat down and adjusted the toe straps to their smallest setting. Then he jammed the toes of his boots into the straps and cinched the heel straps as tight as they would go. He stood up and took a few scratchy steps across the concrete garage floor. The snowshoes stayed on. Out in the cemetery, the snow had drifted and banked so that some spots were several feet deep, but others were covered by no more than a dusting. Evan decided to circle the whole cemetery once, then do a double crisscross through the middle and end up at the Civil War monument, which was made from three old

cannons welded together. That way he'd be hot and sweaty, and sitting on the cold metal would feel good. When he finally dropped his snowshoes and started to haul himself to the top of the monument, he was glad he'd put on gloves. The cannons were freezing cold, and getting to the top was like shimmying up a giant black icicle. But Evan was good at climbing, and he made it to the top without too much slipping and sliding. Once he was there, though, that feeling of power that usually came over him—the one that made him want to shout "I am the king of the world!" —didn't come. Instead, it was as if the heavy, wet blanket had followed him, and now it draped itself over his shoulders, just as before. What was the point of getting out of the house if you couldn't ditch your bad mood? And then something even worse happened. Walking up the back path from the opposite end of the cemetery with her old, half-blind dog

came Megan Moriarty. She was the last person Evan wanted to see—or be seen with—and he quickly looked around to check for anyone who might be watching them. But the cemetery was empty. Megan was nearly at the monument before she noticed Evan. She had her head down because of the wind, and her dog trailed behind her as if he was having trouble keeping up. When she caught sight of him, Megan stood up tall and waved enthusiastically, a big smile lighting up her face. Evan barely nodded, then looked the other way. He couldn't pretend he hadn't seen her, but he sure as heck wasn't going to give her the idea that he cared she was there. "What are you doing up there?" Megan asked as she walked up to the base of the monument. "Nothing," said Evan, and shrugged to show that she wasn't going to get any more out of him. "I'll come up." Megan turned to her dog and said, "Sit. Stay." Then she put one foot on the

lowest cannon. "There isn't room. And it's slippery. You'd probably get hurt." Megan stopped, took her foot down, then stared up at him. Evan was careful to look off in the distance, as if he'd forgotten that she was even there. The wind had picked up again, and it was really cold on top of the monument. Evan half wished he could climb down. For a split second he imagined the two of them heading back to his house for hot chocolate, but he pushed that thought out of his head. Instead, he let the beastliness rise up in him again, and he said, "Dogs aren't allowed in the cemetery. It's a new rule." "Nobody ever told me that," said Megan. "We always walk him here." "Well, you've just been lucky, that's all. If the police see you walking your dog, they'll fine you twenty-five dollars." He didn't really know what the fine was, and he'd never seen the police stop