I walk the creek for stones.
I poke crayfish.
I hunt raspberries.
I still see the guys, but not as much. The name Death Rays is starting to sound a little dumb.
When we met today at the hideout—that word is starting to sound dumb too—Bump said, “I found another one!” He sucked on his licorice wad. “Let’s ride!” he goes.
Bump can be like a broom. He just sweeps you along. A minute later we were all heading for the playground at Hancock School. The goober was alone on the basketball court. He couldn’t bounce the ball twice in a row without losing it. Half of his shots didn’t just miss the basket—they missed the backboard. He wore black socks with green tennis shoes and…well, that was enough for me. “I gotta go home,” I said. “I forgot to take out the trash.” I took off before they could start asking questions. “Hey, Jake!” I heard Bump call.
I guess my bike did the thinking, because before I knew it I was cruising down Meeker Street. I stopped a block away. I parked behind a car. The rubble was gone. Ernie had the four corners staked and was starting to put up the first wall. I couldn’t help smiling—it was already crooked. I saw his hammer hit, then heard it a half second later. It seemed like each hammer hit was saying something. I didn’t know what. I think I stayed there a long time, watching. I think I was doing something else too. I think I was rooting.