Page 2 of To Catch a Firefly

“Ellis,” my mom urges.

With a nod, I stand. The crickets keep me company as I walk the short way to the blue house next to ours. Ninety-seven steps today. I must be getting taller.

The new neighbors moved in this morning. I watched from the window as the trucks came and went, but it reminded me too much of my dad, so I didn’t watch for long.

I see him now—Lucky—before he sees me. He’s on the old tire swing that hangs from a big maple, not quite swinging, just drifting around and around and around. His hands are holding the rope at the top of the tire, his body through the center, and his head is hanging back, hair dangling toward the ground. It’s longer than most boys’ around here and shines bright under the moon.

He’s nearly upside down when the tire stops and he spots me.

He snaps upright. “Hi.”

We look at each other for a moment, both of us seemingly waiting.

“What’s your name?” he asks, breaking the silence. He twists in the swing a little, rocking it back and forth as he watches me. “I’m Lucky.”

I know.

Lucky hangs his arms over the top of the tire. “Where’d you come from?”

I point behind me, and he nods.

“Don’t talk much, huh?” he says.

I shrug.

He tilts his head, hair falling messily around his face. It’s blonde, I think. “Well, hello.”

I give him a nod and turn to leave, wondering where the fireflies disappear to when it’s not dark. Are they still there, blinking uselessly in the sunlight? Can they talk to each other then?

“Hey!” Lucky calls, dropping down out of the swing. He jogs over to me, having to tilt his head up when he gets close. He’s shorter than me, but most kids my age are. “Where are you going?”

I point behind me again.

“Do you have to?” he asks, not waiting for an answer before he grabs my hand and tugs. I follow him to the center of the yard. He gives me another tug as he sits down, and I glance back at my house before lowering myself to the ground beside him.

My mom would be proud. I think I’m making a friend.

“It’s too quiet here,” Lucky says, picking at the grass.

I cock my head, listening to the buzzing crickets, the slow passing of a car on the road, and some sort of bird farther off. Maybe an owl. It’s not quiet to me.

“Nebraska sucks,” he says. “I didn’t want to leave Chicago, but my parents made me.”

I don’t answer. I wouldn’t even know what to say. I haven’t known anywhere but Nebraska.

“There’s, like, a hundred people here,” he adds, sounding glum. “Hey, what grade are you in?”

I hold up my hand.

“I’m in fifth, too!” he says excitedly. “That’s awesome. At least I’ll know someone.”

I nod.

“Do you like school?” he asks.

I shrug.

“My dad got a job at the paper mill,” he tells me, heaving a sigh and picking at the grass again. “That’s why we moved here.”

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