I didn’t understand at the time why Max was so stand-offish. He acted like he was too good for me. But he was just very shy. He was like a fox, or a deer. If you hold still, you might catch a glimpse. One move, and it vanishes into the wild. So that was Max. He was my first friend in Crowne Point, and for most of fourth grade he was my best friend. R Almost every day that summer, Max and I played in the scrubby forest a few blocks from our street. It was hardly a magical place. The woods were under assault as bulldozers cleared out the subdivision lot-by-lot and new houses went up. “Progress,” they called it, and we hated it. But the forest was ours to occupy while it lasted. Making forts was Max’s favorite pastime. Sticks, scraps of stolen lumber, and pieces of leftover metal became our windows and walls. We made tables and chairs from fallen logs and pretended the mossy ground was our carpet. We’d pack up some snacks and books and play all afternoon. Sometimes we’d light some twigs with a candle and get a campfire going. We’d cook a hot dog on a stick, or roast corn we harvested ourselves. We always buried the fire carefully to make sure we put it out. The woods were a refuge of our own, our own little world separate from everyone else. Max didn’t tell me much about his home life, but even at that young age, I could tell he was embarrassed about his family. In the summer, people left their windows open to let in the night air. Sometimes I could hear Mr. Hallman, Max’s dad, yelling at his mom; sometimes it was even worse. What was happening over there? Why couldn’t anybody make him stop? He was a big man, and he’d come home tired and angry after work, simmering with rage. I steered clear of Mr. Hallman. Sometimes I could hear crying, too, and the next day I could see that Max’s arms were bruised. But I knew better than to ask him about it. We had an unspoken agreement to keep each other’s secrets. So maybe our life in the forest was a place of peace for Max. I would like to think so; I would like to think that what happened wasn’t my fault. But deep inside, I will always blame myself. If I had, if I had only, I should have … I hear those words over and over in my head. R Page 18
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