Blackbird Read Online Free PDF

skateboard asks, nudging you to cross the street.
    “Yeah, I’m listening.” You move deeper inside the crowd as you cross, but it’s hard to pretend you were paying attention. You look over your shoulder, waiting for the car to reappear.
    The boy drops his skateboard on the ground, pushes off and away. After a beat he pauses on the sidewalk just ahead of you. He holds up a hand, gesturing for the others to stay quiet. “You’re not with the cops?”
    “I told you. No.”
    He points over your shoulder. You turn, looking where he looks. The man is there. He’s parked the car out of sight. He turns the corner, his steps fast as he approaches.
    “So that guy’s not with you?”
    You push ahead of him, trying to steady your voice. “No, he’s not.”
    “How long has he been there?” the boy asks.
    “He followed me out of Winchell’s.” You squeeze past, knocking into the skateboard tucked under his arm. “I have to go. Please don’t let him see me.”
    The boy steps between you and the man, blocking his view. You don’t run, instead doubling your pace, trying not to draw too much attention as you move ahead. You’re at the opposite corner when you hear the boy yell. “What are you doing, creep? Stop following her.”
    You turn, watching the girl with the purple streak grab his arm. The boy pushes his shoulder. The man shakes them off, jerks his fist back like he’s going to hit them. He steps to the side, then slinks away. He’s muttering something, but you can’t hear what.
    You’re grateful for even that little bit of time. You can hear them arguing somewhere behind you, their voices mixed with the sounds of traffic, of cars picking up speed as thelight turns green. There’s a massive store just half a block ahead. You check behind you, watching a boy with a nose piercing yell at the man. Then you duck inside.
    The place is cavernous. Records and CDs are crammed into bins, album covers plastered on every wall. A man in an Amoeba Music T-shirt stacks boxes on a metal cart. You slow your steps, pretending to be any other customer, but your pulse is so fast you can feel it in your fingers.
    There’s only one choice when you’re inside. Go to a narrow back room or up the metal staircase to your right. The rest of the store is open space, row upon row of plastic shelving. You go straight, taking a right as you enter. Two store clerks are so busy restocking DVDs that they don’t look up as you pass.
    A rack of T-shirts runs along the far wall. There are hundreds of them. When you reach the corner, out of sight from most of the customers, you duck down. You part the wire hangers then sit back against the wall, pulling some of the shirts to cover you. A Nirvana sweatshirt has fallen by your feet and you use it to hide your sneakers.
    You part the shirts just enough to see out. From where you sit you have a view of the first aisle and the space by the doorway. Two girls breeze past. One yanks a DVD from the rack and studies it, then puts it back.
    The radio is playing a familiar song. You don’t know the words but you recognize the melody, and that alone is comforting. You are bent over, your chin resting on your knees, arms hugging your legs, when he crosses into the back room. He circles around to the second aisle. You catch glimpses of his shirt, his shoulder, the side of his face. You quiet your breaths when he turns down the aisle.
    For a moment he is only a few feet away. You can see him from the chest down. He pushes his hand deep into his pocket. He pauses there, his breaths barely audible, and you stay as still as you can. He withdraws a phone and begins dialing. Then he turns, scanning the room one last time before he leaves.
    You rest your head on your knees, finally releasing your breath. You dig your fingernails into your palm until it hurts, angry you went into that diner right then. Angry you’re here, in Los Angeles, still. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted you. The real