the box back. âTry again.â
Sighing, I plant my right foot squarely on the board and pump with my left. Surprisingly, skateboarding over level ground is easier than riding down the hill. I think it has something to do with control.
âDoing good!â Chase yells behind me.
This is all right. Better than walking, for two reasons: number one, itâs faster; number two, Iâm making my own breeze by sailing on the board.
When we get up to the intersection, I put my foot down to stop, but my flip-flop curls under and I scrape my toes on the concrete. I stumble and fall offâvisions of getting run over hit meâand the board skitters off the curb and gets stuck in a grate. Someone pounds their car horn at me while making the turn. It sounds like, Dummy! Youâre a dummy!
âIdiots,â Chase says as he catches up to me. âYou all right?â
My knee and ankle are scratched up, but thereâs only a little bit of blood. Now I can understand how he got hurt. âIâm kinda done with this,â I say. âBesides, Brimbleâs is right there.â
He glances across the street, and I grin, knowing Iâm saved.
A chain of bells tinkles as we open Brimbleâs door. Ah, air-conditioning. The bells are really Christmas décor; so are the white lights lining most roofs and porches downtown. Itâs part of what gives this place so much character.
âHello, Allie Jo.â Old Mrs. Brimble comes out from her sitting area. Sheâs got a TV back there and a couple of comfy chairs. âYou have something for me?â
âYes, maâam.â I hand her the box with stuff for the festival.
âI donât believe Iâve met you before, young man.â Her eyes twinkle at Chase.
He cocks a smile and looks at her through his hair, which he flips out of his eyes.
âIâm Chase,â he says, extending his hand across the counter.
âOh, wellââMrs. Brimble stretches her own hand and shakes hisââarenât you something?â
Chase laughs and looks down at his feet before looking up. âThank you,â he says.
I tell her we want two ice-cold lemonades, but before I can pay, Chase pulls some bills from his pocket and puts the change in the tip jar.
âWell!â Mrs. Brimble says; then, in a stage whisper, âI like your young man!â
âWhat? Heâs not myââ
âItâs okay, honey. You enjoy those lemonades!â Her eyes sparkle like she knows something.
I frown as I turn away from the counter, but Chase smirks.
âItâs not funny,â I say. âShe thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend.â
âThatâs why itâs funny,â Chase says.
He starts for a table, but I head for the door. âLetâs sit outside,â I say. I donât want any more of Mrs. Brimbleâs lovey-dovey talk. The bells tinkle after us.
We sit on white rockers and sip our lemonade. Fans spin lazily over our heads. One thing about Mrs. Brimbleâsheâs a hard worker. None of her tables or chairs are sticky, and thatâs a challenge when youâre running an ice-cream store.
A few cars pass through the light as it changes. People, mostly ladies, stroll along the sidewalk with fancy boutique bags.
âUh-oh.â I shrink into my rocker.
âWhat?â Chase leans forward. âWhat?â
âDonât look at them,â I say. âBut see those three girls coming? Theyâre from my school.â
Chase looks confused. âSo? Donât you want to say hi to them?â
Jennifer, Heather, and Loriâthe top girls in school. âI canât say hi to themâtheyâre the popular people.â
He shakes his head like Iâm the one confused. So I say, âThey kick my backpack and one of them slapped my shoulder because I sat in the bus seat she was saving. I didnât even know she was saving
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
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