Non-classifiable
I reached down and picked up one of the tomatoes. It was so overripe it was squishy and soft to the touch. My fingers sunk in, almost breaking the skin. I tossed it a few inches up into the air and caught it again. Nice weight. Nice.
Keegan still had his back to me. There was a slight wind—left to right—so I'd have to take that into account. I drew my arm back and threw the tomato. It flew through the air, slightly spiraling, toward him and—splat! It smashed right into the back of his head and exploded into a thousand pieces of pulp!
I landed heavily on the rough wood of the dock. Somehow I tripped over the rope in my hand and fell sideways. But I never let go of that rope. I scrambled to my feet and eased the boat against the dock. Dad stepped off to tie the stern rope while I tied the bow. I waited for him to say, "Nice work," or "Well done," or maybe, "Sorry I yelled at you," but he didn't even look my way. He patted the pockets of his shorts. "Anyone seen my wallet?" he asked.
Amy appeared from nowhere. "I'll get it, Dad," she said and disappeared into the cabin.
I stared after her. Dad? Since when was he her dad? This kid wanted everything that was mine.
Everything hinges on my next decision. Do I trust the bush with my weight? It feels secure from here, but I can't be sure it will hold me if I step off the ledge. I'm more than two stories up, above a solid stone floor. If I fall now, it's goodbye Byron.
