Free 100 Days by Nicole McInnes Page B

you’ll go straight to hell, and I’ll never see you again.”
    All I can do is laugh. I know it probably confuses him, but I can’t help it. All this talk of who’s going to heaven and who’s going to hell is ridiculous. As if humans have any control over that sort of thing. As if we have any way of really knowing whether or not there even is a heaven or hell in the first place. “If nothing else, you’re going to make a great preacher someday,” I say. “So can I borrow your slingshot?”
    Isaiah looks a little disgruntled. “What’ll you trade it for?”
    I think about this for a minute. I wasn’t expecting to haggle. “Hey, you could have my old sling from when I broke my arm. A slingshot in exchange for a sling, right? Even Steven?”
    He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m sure it’s way too small for me.”
    Man, this kid drives a hard bargain. “I know,” I tell him. “How about my old retainer? I’ll bring it for you next time I come.” A few years back, I had this fantasy that my teeth wouldn’t grow in all funky and crooked like other progeria kids’ teeth do. The retainer was my dentist’s way of humoring me until I learned to face the facts, and I’m banking on it being both gross enough and cool enough to warrant a loaner on the slingshot. It is. At the mere mention of used orthodontia, Isaiah’s frown disappears. He holds his hand out to seal the deal.
    â€œThanks, buddy.” I shake and then reach up to tousle his hair. I’m not quite tall enough, though, so Isaiah puts down his toothbrush and bends at the waist, lowering his head to just the right height.

 
    19
    BOONE
    DAY 82: APRIL 4
    I make sure to show up at Agnes Delaney’s house right on time Monday afternoon. God knows I don’t need any more grief from Principal Weaver.
    I get out of the truck and squint at the yard before reaching into the bed for a rake and a big plastic bag for the dead pine needles and leaves covering the lawn. I’m wearing a flannel shirt and old work boots with brass hooks for the laces and steel toes shining through the worn-out leather. They were my dad’s, of course. Next year, they’ll probably be too small for me. A knit cap is pulled low over my head, pressing my raggedy bangs over my eyes like a screen, the way I prefer.
    I remember this place. I was here once, years ago, for Agnes’s birthday party in fifth grade. Agnes hadn’t been at our school very long, and not too many kids went, if I remember right. Before presents were opened and the piñata was smashed to pieces, Ms. Delaney led us all out to the grass. With Agnes right there, she asked what we knew about progeria. Everyone was quiet. Nobody knew anything about progeria. A few kids peeked at Agnes to see if the questioning bothered her, but she seemed fine with it. Her mom told us Agnes’s body was aging much faster than our bodies were (as if we couldn’t see that), but that Agnes was still a kid.
    â€œAnd you should treat me that way,” Agnes chimed in.
    â€œBe a bit careful with her,” Ms. Delaney added. “But also remember she’s not an old person. She’s a young person, just like you guys.”
    Afterward, we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey. When it was time for everyone to go home, Agnes handed out party bags full of candy and little toys. I got a plastic maze with a ball bearing trapped inside that you were supposed to tilt through the maze and into a divot at the end. The divot wasn’t deep enough, though, so the ball would just roll right past it. That thing drove me crazy.
    My dad picked me up from the party. Right away, I could tell he was having what my mother called an “off day.” His off days didn’t happen too often back then, before his roofing accident, but when they did, watch out. When I got into the truck, he nodded at the toy in my hand and