Free The Rock and the River by Kekla Magoon

section. It should have stood at a clean right angle to the main tower, but it was angled strangely, as if it had been hastily built. Butthere was nothing hasty about a five-year-old block tower. I freed a few bricks, preparing to realign the wall. Inside the gap, I spied a patch of green. Something was back there.
    I loosened more bricks until I could make out the neatly folded piece of fabric hiding inside the block tower. One of Stick’s shirts. Why was it in there? It made no sense at all.
    I drew it out, carefully. It was slow to move, almost heavy. When it was free of the blocks, I picked it up, but it didn’t come smoothly. It unfolded awkwardly and something rolled out of it, landing with a thump against the floor. A handgun!
    I dropped the shirt as if it were too hot to touch. I shut the bedroom door softly, my hands leaning against the wood until the latch clicked. My knuckles found the lock and depressed it. My fingers lingered on the knob, waiting—for what?
    I knelt in front of the tower again. My hands trembled as I reached, gently this time. Deliberately. I lifted the shirt away with two fingers.
    I hadn’t dreamed it. It was real. The dark metal seemed to gaze back at me, threatening even in its stillness. I could practically hear the twisted shout that was locked inside, waiting to be triggered, released.
    I smoothed my finger across the nose and down the L of the handle. Cool, but not cold. Textured, but not rough.I pulled my hand back and wiped it on my pant leg. What had I thought it would feel like?
    With the edge of my fingernail, I eased the gun back inside the tower, uncovered. I restacked the blocks to shield it inside. Each piece I returned to its place made me feel worse. The tower seemed ugly now. Violated. All because of Stick, the one person I thought cared about what we had built as much as I did.
    I slipped my arms into the sleeves of Stick’s green shirt. It fit me better than I expected, but I paused in the middle of buttoning it. My stomach churned. The shirt I was putting on had just been wrapped around the gun. I almost took it off, but I didn’t. I wore it as I collected my schoolbooks and packed my bag. I wore it while Mama kissed my cheek and wished me a nice day, and while Father watched me over the top of the morning paper as I put on my shoes and coat and slipped out the door. I wore it as I went out looking for Stick.
    I found him after The Breakfast. He was standing against one of the side walls of the school building smoking a cigarette. Leaning nonchalantly against the bricks, he watched me come over. I weaved through groups of kids running and playing in the yard. I passed Maxie turning a jump rope for Bucky’s sister Shenelle and some other little girls. Shenelle grinned and waved at me, waiting her turnto jump. I waved back and caught Maxie’s eye. She gave me a half-smile and lifted one shoulder. Did Shenelle really understand what had happened to Bucky? Maybe it was better that she didn’t.
    â€œWhat do you tell Mama when you race out of the house every morning?” Stick said when I got close enough.
    I glanced around. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œShe doesn’t know you come here, does she? Do either of them?”
    â€œI guess not. Why?”
    Stick laughed. “’Cause you act like a bandit every time I see you here, like you’re breaking somebody’s rule. Why do you hide? You don’t have to do everything Father wants, you know.”
    My stomach fluttered. “I don’t know what he wants.”
    â€œFor us to be what he is.”
    I kicked at some loose stones along the asphalt. “I don’t know what that means.”
    â€œYes, you do.” He turned to me. “Is that what you want?”
    We looked at each other for a while. “Maybe,” I said.
    Stick smiled. “Well, you can’t be the rock and the river, Sam.” Placing one hand against the bricks, he