Crooked Read Online Free Page A

straining at his leash. “Sometimes he says hello when I bring the milk.”
    â€œYeah,” Clara said, “he likes to check everybody out.” She sniffled and brought her hand to the bridge of her nose at the same moment that Ham put his front feet on the van and began to pant in Amos’s face. “Oh, no!” Clara said. She pulled Ham down and rubbed the side of the car for scratches.
    Mr. MacKenzie laughed and in a half-comic voice said, “The value of this van, like all things important to me, goes way beyond surface beauty.” He nodded at Amos, who was blushing. “My son isn’t old enough to see things this way yet. Amos hopes this old boat goes to the junkyard before he gets his license.”
    â€œOh,” Clara said, and looked at Amos, who kept his eyes down. This didn’t subdue Ham in any way. He wagged his tail and then lunged for the van again, which caused Clara to drop the Princess-of-Monaco stationery. Several sheets slid out of the box into the dirty slush of the street.
    â€œHow are your parents?” Mr. MacKenzie asked while she was steadying herself.
    â€œOh, they’re fine,” she said.
    â€œI noticed people were up bright and early this morning,” he said.
    Clara wondered if Mr. MacKenzie had seen her standing at the window in her nightgown, and her face got hot. But Amos wasn’t looking at her. He was now leaning out and petting Ham. “Like your dog,” he said, glancing up at Clara. “What’s her name?”
    â€œHam. She’s a he.”
    â€œOh,” Amos said.
    A car was approaching, and Clara sniffled as quietly and discreetly as she could. If there was anything in the world worse than a runny nose, she thought, it was a crooked runny nose.
    â€œWell, Miss Wilson,” Mr. MacKenzie said in his easy, familiar way, “we better get moving or the neighbors will talk,” and then, with a saluting wave of the hand, which was accompanied by a stiff nod from Amos, he drove away.

2
    TUMS
    Amos MacKenzie slumped down in the car seat and tried to slow down his mind, which was bouncing around like a pinball. Ever since eighth grade, when she got pretty all of a sudden, Amos had sneakily paid attention to Clara Wilson. And just now, while they’d been talking, she had acted nervous. Did that mean she cared what he might think? And could that mean she might like him? A fine layer of sweat rose on the back of Amos’s neck. Could she think he might like her? And why did that make him feel so weirdly happy? Most of the things that made Amos happy worked from the outside in—receiving an A on a test, say, or getting tickets to a World Series game, or eating his favorite German chocolate cake. But what he was feeling now was the opposite. It seemed to come from within him. It worked from the inside out.
    Suddenly, without even meaning to, Amos found himself thinking of Clara Wilson’s hair. In his mind, it was brown, but in the sunlight, it had looked almost red. It was so clean and soft-looking that he imagined himself gathering it into a ponytail with his hand, something his mother always did with his sister’s hair when they were watching TV.
    â€œWhatcha thinking, slugger?” his father said.
    â€œNothing.”
    Amos pretended he didn’t notice his father smiling and glancing over at him. It was something his father did. Whenever Amos’s feelings went fluttering off in every direction, his father not only knew it but found it strangely entertaining. It was just one of about one million things annoying about his father.
    Amos stared out the window and tried to be perfectly still so his father would decide he was mistaken this time. A few blocks passed. Then, on the sidewalk up ahead, Amos spotted a long-legged girl walking alone in tights, fuzzy sweater, long open coat—and with a shock realized it was Anne Barrineau, the Elusive One. At school, she smiled at almost everyone