The Outlaws of Sherwood Street: Giving to the Poor Read Online Free

friends.”
    â€œTut-Tut ain’t got no friends.”
    â€œYou’re wrong about that.”
    â€œYeah? If you’re such a good friend, how come you don’t know he’s gone?”
    â€œGone? What do you mean—gone?”
    â€œINS got him,” the mustached kid said. “Swept him right up.”
    â€œG-g-g-g-gone,” said the mimicker, getting an even bigger laugh this time.

3
    O ther than Ashanti, I hadn’t made many friends at Thatcher. Yet. I had to keep that
yet
in mind. But there were lots of good things about the school, including the beauty of the building itself—a grand nineteenth-century affair on the outside, light and modern on the inside, with all the best of everything. Another good thing, maybe the best, was the fact that there weren’t nearly as many actual school days as in public school. Today, for example, and a half day at that, was the end of the semester, and at Joe Louis, they still had almost a week to go.
    Half day meant my last class was history with Mr. Stinecki. The male teachers at Thatcher always wore ties. Mr. Stinecki was wearing a tie decorated with martini glasses, one of his favorites. He was in his second year at Thatcher, and the word was it would be his last.
    â€œHere are the robber baron essays,” he said, passing them out. The topic:
Robber Barons or Captains of Industry? Discuss with reference to a least three people from the following list. . . .
And then had come all those names, lots of which you still saw on buildings, even though the men themselves were long dead. Rockefeller, Morgan, Carnegie, Flagler. Signe Stone, who sat next to me, was a Flagler on her mother’s side; at the moment, she had her head down, busy texting someone. I couldn’t help but notice her grade: A big red A. I myself got a big red B minus.
You’ve drawn interesting parallels to contemporary circumstances, Robbie, but that wasn’t the topic. Also you referenced only two names from the list. Other than that, nice job.
At Joe Louis I’d never had a grade less than A; at Thatcher I still didn’t have even one. Three names from the list! How had I slipped up on that?
    â€œMerry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Killer Kwanzaa,” Mr. Stinecki said, as we all filed out at the end of class. “Anybody know of a vacant ski house, by the way?”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The eighth-graders had their lockers outside the music room, which was where I found Ashanti. “Hey,” she said. “Didn’t get back to you last night.”
    â€œI noticed.”
    She shot me a quick look. “Don’t need any attitude right now.”
    Ashanti could be very intimidating. She was tall and beautiful, but not at all cute or even pretty. What else? There was how she carried herself, for one thing, head up and confident. Plus her coffee-crème skin, always clear and unblemished, even though the rest of us were living through the age of sneak-attack blemishes that could strike at any time.
    â€œI was just saying I noticed is all,” I said. “What am I supposed to do—not notice things I notice?”
    Ashanti glared down at me, like some biting remark was on the way, and then came a big surprise: her eyes misted up and she turned quickly away and started rummaging around inside her locker, rummaging like she was annoyed at the things in there.
    â€œWhat?” I said. “What’s going on?”
    â€œNot now.”
    â€œBut we need to talk.”
    Now she turned on me, her voice rising. “What the hell about?”
    My voice rose, too. “Dina DeNunzio, for one thing,” I said. “She—” At that moment, I grew aware of someone passing behind us in the hall and possibly slowing down. I whipped around and there was Mr. Stinecki. He looked away, not meeting my gaze, and sped up.
    â€œWhat about her?” Ashanti said, taking a book out of her locker and slamming it