Chasing Redbird Read Online Free Page A

whole family was on the porch, even Uncle Nate, and with them was Jake Boone. Everybody was yapping at him a mile a minute, asking him so many questions you’d have thought he was Elvis Presley himself dropping in for a visit. May was sitting next to him on the porch swing, gazing at him dreamily and twirling her hair ribbon. They didn’t see me right away.
    â€œSo you’re working at Flint’s store?” Dad was asking.
    â€œYep, I am,” Jake said.
    â€œHow much they paying you?” Uncle Nate demanded. Since Aunt Jessie had died, he’d some-times act irritable and grumpy like this, as if people were annoying him by simply being alive.
    Jake told him his hourly wage.
    â€œHighway robbery!” Uncle Nate said.
    â€œIt’s the minimum wage,” Jake said.
    â€œHighway robbery. I never made that much in a whole dag-blasted week. Dag-blasted inflation. We oughta run them poll-u-ticians out of the country. We oughta—”
    â€œHey, Zinny!” Jake said. As he stood up, the swing bumped against the back of his legs. May gave me a sour look.
    â€œYou’re welcome to stay on for dinner,” Mom said.
    Jake thanked her, but he had to get to work.
    â€œThis time of day?” Uncle Nate said. “Stores oughta be closing at this time of day. Shouldn’t be open on a Saturday night. People oughta be at home doing their chores, being with their family. You tell that to Mrs. Flint, you hear?”
    Jake stepped off the porch and poked me in the side. “I can’t get over you, Zinny. You sure have changed.”
    May followed him as if she were attached to him with a string. “Do you think I’ve changed, Jake?” she asked.
    â€œNot a bit,” he said, and May blushed. “Want to see my truck, Zinny?”
    â€œYour Dad’s truck?” I said. “Seen it before.”
    â€œI want to show you something.”
    â€œI’ll come too,” May said.
    On the floor of the truck was a small cardboard box, which Jake handed to me.
    May reached for the box. “Here, I’ll open it.”
    Jake said, “It’s for Zinny.”
    â€œFor Zinny ?” May shrank back as if he had slapped her, and when I opened the box, she said, “Bottle caps?”
    â€œYou still collect those?” Jake asked me.
    â€œSure.” I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know what to think about Jake and his present.
    â€œBottle caps?” May said, stuck on those words.
    As Jake drove off, May waved delicately at the back end of the truck. “Honestly, Zinny, you’re too old to be collecting bottle caps. It’s so embarrassing. A person could die of embarrassment with you around.”
    Into my mind flew Tommy Salami. His real name was Tom Salome, but even he called himself Tommy Salami. Three years ago he was in May’s class at school, but whenever he saw me, he’d give me a present. They were bitty things: a plastic ring from a cereal box; an old bottle from his barn; and a rusty key he’d found along the road. To me, they were treasures, and I got the dizzies just thinking about him.
    He would say the most unusual things. He asked me if I’d ever seen trees walk, and if I’d ever wanted to be an aquarium.
    â€œAn aquarium ?” I said. “You mean something in it—a fish?”
    â€œNo, I mean the whole aquarium. Everything: the water, the plants, the fish, the snails—an aquarium.”
    I worshipped Tommy Salami. I thought of him day and night, I dreamed about him, and I wrote his name in all my school books. As far as I was concerned, Tommy Salami had hung the moon and stars; that’s how great I thought he was.
    Then one day, I saw him walking up our drive. I could barely breathe: Tommy Salami was coming to my house. Tommy Salami was coming to see me . Quick as a dog can lick a dish, I whipped a brush through my hair, changed my shirt and ran downstairs. I pushed