from her mouth.
Abby wouldn’t let it go. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. I guess to him, it means everything.”
Abby grumped, “I wish he could say more. I hope he can tell us Ollie Octopus stories again.”
“Let’s try to concentrate on what he
can
do,” said my mom, “not on what he can’t.”
“Don’t get old, kids,” said my father.
It was quiet the rest of the way home. As we were pulling into the driveway, Abby piped up: “It must have been terrible not to have a single word. And now he has one. And he can use it for
anything
! I’m going to be happy about that.”
She bounced out of the car—and she did, she looked happy.
Tonight after dinner, I was taking the trash outside when I heard footsteps running up the street. It’s no big deal for somebody to go running past our house; half the people in town seemed to jog around. But these feet weren’t jogging, they were sprinting.
I looked. The sprinter went zipping past our house. It was too dark to tell much. But a couple houses up there’s a streetlight, and for just a second there he was, out of the dark and back in: a kid, skinny.
Webb.
The first thing I thought was: Somebody’s after him. I ran to the sidewalk, looked down the street, listened. Nothing.
After Deluca drenched him with the Uzi, Webb was out of school for two days. I heard he almost had pneumonia.
I looked in the other direction. The footstep sound got slower, then stopped. That meant he was walking, maybe coming back. I went in.
38
F EBRUARY 28
My mother turned the paper bag upside down. Two glittery red high-heeled shoes tumbled onto my study desk.
“Mrs. Linfont found them when she was dust-mopping under your bed today. She said she didn’t want to be snoopy, but she thought it was kind of unusual. And she couldn’t imagine they were a present for me.” She squinted at me. “They’re not, are they?”
“No,” I said, “and she is a snoop.”
“I guess you’re right. Does that make me a snoop, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. I put the shoes back in the bag.
She didn’t go away. “So, is it a secret?”
I glared at her. Then I told her why I got them.
“So why are you keeping them?”
I told her that, too.
“Well, that’s very sweet of you. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you have to worry anymore about your grandfather making it. It’s just a question of how well he’s going to get.”
She was looking at me funny. “Let me see those again.” She pulled out one of the shoes. She studied it.
“What are you grinning at?” I said.
“Where did you get these?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice. I told you, I was in a hurry.”
“Shoes usually come in a box.”
“Not these. They were sitting on the counter.”
“How much did you pay for them.”
“Six dollars.”
She started to giggle and wag her head.
“What?” I said.
“You know where you got these?”
“At a store. I told you.”
“You did something you said you’d never do, Mister Price Tag.” She tried to squeeze my nose, but I pulled away. “You … went shopping at Second Time Around.”
When I woke up next morning, my first thought was:
I was in a thrift shop.
I hope it doesn’t show at school.
My mother was probably right about Scooter making it. Last time we visited him, we took him some snapper soup in a Thermos jug. It’s one of his all-time favorite things to eat.
My mother fed it to him. When he tasted the first spoonful, his eyes lit up—he was
Scooter
—and he went, “A-bye, a-bye!”
I told my sister, “The mouse is never gonna move into that house out there. It’ll come and take the food, but it’s never gonna live there.”
She scowled. She didn’t want to talk about it. She thinks she’s the only one in the house that knows anything about nature. “What do you care?” she said.
“I don’t,” I said. “I’m just saying.”
It was killing her to ask. Finally she snorted, “So, saying
Abby wouldn’t let it go. “What does it mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. I guess to him, it means everything.”
Abby grumped, “I wish he could say more. I hope he can tell us Ollie Octopus stories again.”
“Let’s try to concentrate on what he
can
do,” said my mom, “not on what he can’t.”
“Don’t get old, kids,” said my father.
It was quiet the rest of the way home. As we were pulling into the driveway, Abby piped up: “It must have been terrible not to have a single word. And now he has one. And he can use it for
anything
! I’m going to be happy about that.”
She bounced out of the car—and she did, she looked happy.
Tonight after dinner, I was taking the trash outside when I heard footsteps running up the street. It’s no big deal for somebody to go running past our house; half the people in town seemed to jog around. But these feet weren’t jogging, they were sprinting.
I looked. The sprinter went zipping past our house. It was too dark to tell much. But a couple houses up there’s a streetlight, and for just a second there he was, out of the dark and back in: a kid, skinny.
Webb.
The first thing I thought was: Somebody’s after him. I ran to the sidewalk, looked down the street, listened. Nothing.
After Deluca drenched him with the Uzi, Webb was out of school for two days. I heard he almost had pneumonia.
I looked in the other direction. The footstep sound got slower, then stopped. That meant he was walking, maybe coming back. I went in.
38
F EBRUARY 28
My mother turned the paper bag upside down. Two glittery red high-heeled shoes tumbled onto my study desk.
“Mrs. Linfont found them when she was dust-mopping under your bed today. She said she didn’t want to be snoopy, but she thought it was kind of unusual. And she couldn’t imagine they were a present for me.” She squinted at me. “They’re not, are they?”
“No,” I said, “and she is a snoop.”
“I guess you’re right. Does that make me a snoop, too?”
“Yeah,” I said. I put the shoes back in the bag.
She didn’t go away. “So, is it a secret?”
I glared at her. Then I told her why I got them.
“So why are you keeping them?”
I told her that, too.
“Well, that’s very sweet of you. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you have to worry anymore about your grandfather making it. It’s just a question of how well he’s going to get.”
She was looking at me funny. “Let me see those again.” She pulled out one of the shoes. She studied it.
“What are you grinning at?” I said.
“Where did you get these?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice. I told you, I was in a hurry.”
“Shoes usually come in a box.”
“Not these. They were sitting on the counter.”
“How much did you pay for them.”
“Six dollars.”
She started to giggle and wag her head.
“What?” I said.
“You know where you got these?”
“At a store. I told you.”
“You did something you said you’d never do, Mister Price Tag.” She tried to squeeze my nose, but I pulled away. “You … went shopping at Second Time Around.”
When I woke up next morning, my first thought was:
I was in a thrift shop.
I hope it doesn’t show at school.
My mother was probably right about Scooter making it. Last time we visited him, we took him some snapper soup in a Thermos jug. It’s one of his all-time favorite things to eat.
My mother fed it to him. When he tasted the first spoonful, his eyes lit up—he was
Scooter
—and he went, “A-bye, a-bye!”
I told my sister, “The mouse is never gonna move into that house out there. It’ll come and take the food, but it’s never gonna live there.”
She scowled. She didn’t want to talk about it. She thinks she’s the only one in the house that knows anything about nature. “What do you care?” she said.
“I don’t,” I said. “I’m just saying.”
It was killing her to ask. Finally she snorted, “So, saying
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