More Than Lies (More Than #1)
N. E. Henderson
Prologue
Shawn
“Shane,” I call out as I run out the door of my bedroom, hauling butt down the stairs to find my brother. He is by far the coolest person I know, and I want to be just like him when I grow up. He’s eleven years old, but he tells people all the time that he is six years older than I am. He’s not. I’m five and my birthday falls the month before his does, so he is really only five years older than me.
“Shane!” I shout a little louder as I land on the next to the last step. Steadying myself, I leap to the bottom. “Yesss! I made it,” I squeal when I realize I have finally jumped down without landing on my butt. This calls for another jump off the ground as I throw my fist high into the air.
Dang, where’s Dad when I need to show off my moves?
Once all my excitement settles down I remember why I ran down to the living room in the first place. My brother!
Eyeing the room, my brown eyes land on the picture sitting on the end table next to the couch. It displays the face of a pretty woman with blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She looks happy in the photo. Mom says this was her best friend since diapers—or something like that. My mom gets sad when she stares at that picture. I don’t know why she keeps it around if it “hurts her heart” as she says it does. I’ve never met the lady. I don’t know why that is, if she and my Mom are such good friends.
I turn my head, looking away from the picture. Shane’s not in here, so I head into the kitchen where I find my mom pulling stuff out of our refrigerator. She’s always in the kitchen—at least when she isn’t at work being a doctor—or so it seems. I’m not complaining though, because she makes the yummiest things in here. And by yummy, I mean, YUMMEE.
“Hey, baby,” she says with a broad smile turning around to speak to me. She’s wearing her pink apron with lots of flowers on it over her dress. This has to be a good sign.
“I’m NOT a baby, Mom.” I mean, really, I’m five. I’m not a darn baby any more, but she doesn’t seem to get that even though I tell her daily—a bunch of times a day, in fact. And she claims I have a one-track mind and can’t remember what I’ve been told from day to day. Pretty sure it’s the other way around, lady. Not that I’m going to tell her that. No freakin’ way! I’d get the back of my head smacked in a heartbeat, and that stuff is not fun. Not that it hurts, because it doesn’t, but it’s embarrassing as heck, and she always does it in front of my friends or my brother and his friends.
“Sweetheart, you will always be my baby for forever and ever. You know that, right?” Her voice is like an angel. When she’s baking, mom’s usually singing and going on and on about how this is her only time to relax and enjoy peace and quiet. Whatever that means. My mom is a confusing person for sure, but then, so is my grandma. I’m so glad I’m a boy.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask, purposely ignoring her question. I will not be a baby forever. I’m a big boy, who does big boy things, just like Shane. I peer up at her and wait. She’s smiling as she closes the fridge.
There’s a ton of stuff laid out on our countertop, so I know she is about to bake something that I’m going to love. The “baby” calling will be forgiven. I so love this lady because she knows the way to my heart. Through chocolate!
“Out back. I think Shane’s . . .” I stop listening once she’s told me what I want to know.
I bolt for the sliding glass door that leads to our big back yard. Our backyard rocks! We have a big wooden swing set with two slides and a sandbox underneath. Not to mention a ginormous pool. I’m not allowed near the pool unless Mom or Dad is outside; plus there’s a gate with a lock, and I’m not tall enough to climb over it yet. Swimming is my favorite thing to do. Too bad summer is not year-round. I’d be in that sucker right now if it were. I mean, why do we need winter? Cold weather stinks. It’s freakin’ cold. Well, maybe winter’s okay for that one day a year when Santa visits, but other than that it should be summer all the friggin’ time.
Walking down the steps leading into the yard, I see my brother walking out of the gate toward the front yard. I pick up my pace and follow him.
“Shane, wait for me!” I call out.
He stops, turning to look in my direction as I run toward him. I see another boy walking up behind my brother. I’ve only seen him one other time. Shane told me his name is Trent, and he moved in a few blocks from our house not too long ago.
“Whaaat do you wannnt?” my brother drags out as he crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m busy, Shawn.” He’s been giving me this same speech for a month now, and it’s as annoying as the first time I heard it. He’s been busy ever since he met that Trent kid. Now my brother never has time to build Legos or play with me in the backyard. He used to love swinging on the big tire swing with me while Dad pushed us, or jumping on our trampoline like monkeys. Now he’s always gone with the new kid, or closed inside his bedroom playing the guitar he got for Christmas. And I don’t like either.
“I want to show you what I drew. It’s so coo—”
“I’ll check it out later. I’m going to hang out with Trent.” He turns away from me.