You Don't Even Know Me Read Online Free Page B

gave him when he was little. Those nickels were eighty-five years old. And he swore they were worth a thousand bucks each. That wasn’t true, my grandmother said the day of his funeral. But he told everybody that story. Someone believed him.
    Otherwise we would have buried him in those shoes.
    Llee sits on the floor, dumping candy between his legs, counting each piece twice. “I wasn’t listening, but I heard,” he says, chewing sticky candy, then scratching his front tooth like a lottery ticket, trying to get it off. “He said Pokei was mad at your grandfather because . . .”
    â€œWho said?”
    Llee’s sucking red Kool-Aid from a straw, pouring the rest in his hand, licking it until it’s gone. “Is my tongue red?”
    â€œ Who are you talking about, Llee?”
    â€œPokei.” He crosses his eyes and stares at his tongue.
    â€œWho’s Pokei?” I change my mind. “Forget it, don’t tell me.”
    â€œI don’t know. My uncle just said Pokei did it.”
    I live in the suburbs, sixty miles from here. I only know the kids on this block, and a few a couple of blocks away. The older ones won’t tell me anything. They say I’m lame. Soft. And they’re not getting killed for me. So I listen to Llee and Kareem, even though I should know better.
    Kareem wants to know what kind of gun killed my grandfather. I used to know, but I forget. “Nobody’s gonna shoot me,” he says, aiming his finger at me. “ ’Cause I’m gonna get ’em first.”
    â€œMe too,” Llee says. He points at me. “I want a rifle when I get your age. That’s a big gun.”
    I wanted a Game Boy when I was his age. Kareem walks over and stands beside me. “If you had a gun, would you shoot him?”
    â€œShoot who?”
    â€œHim.” He’s looking at my granddad’s empty chair. “The man that took his shoes.”
    â€œMy grandfather hated guns. He wouldn’t want me doing something like that.” That’s what I’m saying, but that’s not the whole truth. Lately I’ve been thinking if I got my hands on one . . . if I found out who did it . . . then they’d know how it felt. I don’t ever let Llee and Kareem know what I’m really thinking, though, or how much I want to get even. “Let’s talk about the Boy Scouts.” I pull out my old belt, the one with over a hundred badges on it. “What’s the first badge we’re gonna work on? Let’s see . . . there’s cooking, sewing, babysitting.” They both start talking at once, asking if I think they are girls or something. I ask them what Boy Scouts do.
    â€œHike.”
    â€œHelp people.”
    â€œCamp.”
    They remember what I taught them.
    â€œI been wanting to go camping since I was born,” Llee says.
    I sit down. Kareem is practically in my lap. “I went hiking once,” he says. “But next time I wanna make a fire by myself, and eat marshmallows off a stick and tell scary stories.” Then he asks if I’m sure the Scouts will give me a troop.
    â€œSure they will,” I say, reminding myself to call and find out.
    They chill out after a while, and help me pack bags. We even go outside and throw a few balls. But as soon as we get back inside, drinking orange soda and finishing off a bag of Hot Cheetos, Kareem whispers to Llee, “I know where Pokei lives.”
    My mouth is dry. My fingers won’t stay away from my head, scratching my scalp so much you’d think I had lice. “Just finish filling up the bags.”
    â€œDo you think he cried?”
    I look over at Llee.
    â€œDo you think Grandpop Jenson cried when he got shot?”
    I don’t want to talk about this, so I ask them to leave. Only inside, way deep down inside, I hear a voice say, If you don’t find ’em, who will? If you don’t handle your grandfather’s business,