The Pricker Boy Read Online Free Page A

until his whole rear end is wobbling back and forth. He’s smiling—as close to smiling as a dog can get anyway. Smiling and drooling, drooling and smiling.
    “Hey, boy,” I say to him, and he starts walking toward me. He freezes, the wag stopping dead in the air. Boris’s whole body becomes as stiff as a dart, and he points his quivering nose directly at Morangie.
    I know exactly what he’s thinking. He won’t hurt Morangie, but he desperately wants to sniff her. He wants to inch closer and closer until he can stick his dribbling nose right up to her tail and suck in a good solid whiff. But I also know Morangie. Mrs. Milkes’s cat has paid her dues in life, and she doesn’t care how big the dog is. No one is going to stick their nose where no nose should be stuck.
    It’s over in about two seconds. Boris is too stupid to keep his distance, and Morangie catches him with every claw of her right front paw. Catches him a good one too, slicing hard enough to draw blood. Boris leaps back, tail between his legs, yelping in pain, and runs to my side. I pat the dog on his head. “It’s okay, boy,” I reassure him. “They say we learn something new every day.”
    Morangie could make a break for it, but she holds her ground, staring at Boris. She waits a second, then rushes forward, swiping again with her claws. Ronnie and I jumpout of the way, scrambling down toward the water and almost taking out the Cricket’s mud sculpture in the process. Boris runs for the road with his tail between his legs, Morangie screeching along after him.
    “Stucks!” a voice calls to me from the house.
    “What, Ma?”
    “Is the Cricket with you?”
    “Yeah, he’s—”
    I look around. He’s gone. The bucket of mud is still there, but the Cricket is gone. “He was right here,” I say to Ronnie. “Where could he have gone so fast?”
    “Stucks?”
    “Hold on, Ma! He was right here a minute ago.”
    Ronnie wipes his nose again, and I rip the handkerchief from him and chuck it into the water.
    “Put that down and help me find him,” I say.
    I check the shoreline, being careful not to let my feet touch the water. He didn’t go in the water, and if he had, it wouldn’t be a problem. The Cricket can swim better than I can. That’s how he got his nickname. He could kick so well in the water as a toddler that Dad said, “Boy, you swim just like a little cricket.” And from that day on he was the Cricket. Just like when I was potty training and jackknifed into the toilet and got stuck. Up until that day my name had been Davey, but I’ve been Stucks ever since. Thanks, Dad.
    “Cricket!” I yell again.
    Ronnie starts checking among the pine trees. “He’s just playing, right? Doesn’t he do this all the time?”
    Ronnie and I check around the house and then up the driveway. We enter the woods beyond the road and start walking the path.
    “Ooh,” Ronnie chuckles as we enter the woods. “A kid disappears. Just like Amanda Yearling.”
    I whirl on Ronnie and my hand comes up. He jumps back and covers himself. “Don’t you ever do that,” I say. “Don’t ever compare him to—just don’t.” My hand is open as if I’m going to slap him. I don’t want to hit him, but I don’t know that I won’t.
    “Okay, Stucks,” Ronnie says, stepping back. “I was just kidding. It’s just a story.”
    I feel my hand in the air and it embarrasses me. I pull it away. “Okay. But … don’t. Don’t you ever try and put him in one of your stories.”
    “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
    I nod, which is the closest thing to an apology that I can give him.
    We walk to the spot where the first paths split off. “Check out those and meet me at Whale’s Jaw. If you find him, shout to me.”
    “Isn’t he just playing?”
    “What’s your point, Ronnie?” I say.
    “Nothing. It’s just … you seem really mad.”
    “Are you telling me how to treat my brother?” I glare at him. He holds up his hands in defeat, then starts down one of