Dull Boy

Table of Contents

 

 

 

DUTTON BOOKS

 

Published by the Penguin Group

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Sarah Cross

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

 

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Published in the United States by Dutton Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA)

Inc. • 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
www.penguin.com/youngreaders

 

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-02480-5

 

For peter, Who ALWAYS SAVES the DAY
—S.C.

 

IT’S FRIDAY—ANOTHER AFTERNOON
spent pounding the pavement in search of crimes to stop and people to help. And, as usual, I’m coming up mostly empty.

School let out hours ago and it’s already getting dark. I cruise by the elementary school, scoping the playground for would-be vandals and thinking about everything I still need to do tonight. The place is empty, except for one little kid playing basketball by himself.

I stop to watch him.

The kid dribbles the ball against the pavement twice, then hurls it at the hoop, throwing his whole body forward. The ball sails wide. He chases after it, sniffles thanks to a monster runny nose, and wipes his face on his sleeve.

He’s totally oblivious, lost in what he’s doing.
Pound-pound. Huhn!
The ball hurtles toward the net, drops off before it even comes close.
Sniff!
He scrunches his face. Tries again.

I should get going—the closest I’ve come to doing anything useful was picking up and returning a dollar someone dropped, and I still have to buy something for Henry. But giving this kid a few pointers won’t take long. I’m no basketball star, but—

“Air ball!” A pack of rowdy fifth and sixth graders bound across the playground, laughing at triple volume like they’ve got someone to impress.

The kid tenses up, stops his basketball mid-bounce. Almost in sync, I rise from my stakeout spot. These guys are tiny to me, but they’re giants to the kid—I can tell by the way he shrinks back as they approach. I drift closer, hackles up like an angry guard dog.

Before I get there, my cell starts ringing, cranking out a tinny version of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man.”

Not now!

wat u doin?
It’s a text from Nate, my sort-of friend, the guy who weaseled his way into our group after he took my spot on the wrestling team—a spot he’d
never
have if I hadn’t voluntarily stepped down.

@libry talk ltr
, I tap back.

He
knows
I’m supposedly at the library, thoroughly engrossed in my extra-credit science project. What’s up with bothering me? Henry’s surprise party isn’t till eight.

I bump the volume down on my phone—no more interruptions!—and glance up just in time to see the kid’s knees hit the pavement. When he tries to get up, the older guys shove him down again.

I cross the remaining distance in like three strides, jaw tight with my best vigilante scowl. I’m wearing all black; I have a ski cap pulled down over my eyebrows. I’m channeling Batman, protector of the playground instead of Gotham.

One of the bullies is kicking the little dude’s basketball around like it’s a soccer ball. It rolls over to me and I stop it with my foot.

“Hey! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

I’m nowhere close to being their size, but whatever—it’s a classic line.

“Oooh, like you? I’m so scared.” The alpha bully rolls his eyes. He and his friends start snorting and flopping around, bumping into each other—I guess to, uh, insinuate that I’m retarded? They’re throwing out lines like, “You want me to leave him alone; come make me,” and “What are you, his girlfriend?”

Hilarious stuff.

“It’s cool,” I say, strolling closer. I toss the basketball into the air a few times—casually, like I’m messing around. But when it’s on its way down for the last time, I bring my hands together and pop it like a balloon.

Their tough, no-fear expressions crumble. “Oh, snap!”

All five take off across the playground. The alpha bully trips on his shoelaces and one of the other kids charges right over him; a third kid screams that his older brother’s gonna kick my ass—but he waits until he’s at least a hundred feet away from me to do it.

“You all right?” I say to the little kid. His head’s down, but he nods, sniffles; he’s busy examining the hole in his jeans. There’s blood on the frayed denim.

“You broke my basketball.”
Sniff!

Oh. Crap. Yeah, I did, didn’t I?

“Sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new one, okay?” I crouch down next to him, dig out my wallet, and offer him twenty bucks—more than half of my buy-Henry-a-last-minute-birthday-gift budget.

Sniff!
He smears his tears with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to play anymore. I’m too small.”

“Pff! Too small? You’re just getting started!” I ruffle his hair and he laughs, even though I’m pretty sure that’s an annoying gesture. “You might be eight feet tall one day!” He squints at me skeptically, and I grin. “Stranger things have happened.”

I extend a hand to help him up, and a sudden chill races down my spine, makes my body convulse.

It’s hitting me again.

I hunch my shoulders, tug my hat low so it covers my ears. The weather’s been almost “balmy” lately, according to my mom. But my body’s shaking like I got caught in a blizzard. My skin’s slicked with cold sweat.