Honey, Baby, Sweetheart Read Online Free PDF Page B

T-shirt between the deep green of the tree branches. It’s possible that Travis Becker was a little crazy.
I ran after him. “I see you!” I called. I hate P.E., as you know. I think it qualifies as one of those cruel and unusual punishments we are supposed to be protected from in our constitution. But I’m a good runner. I’m fast.
I darted around one tree, quick enough to see him take a fast turn down another row. I dashed after him.
“I see you again,” I called.
“Impossible,” he yelled and took off running.
“You’re wearing yellow, you idiot,” I said.
I wove my way to the row he was in. His back wasagainst a tree and he was huffing and puffing pretty hard. “I give up,” he said. He was bent over, his hands were on his knees. “What did you call me?” he panted.
“I called you an idiot, you idiot,” I said. I don’t know why I said it. For a minute, running between the trees in that yellow shirt, he made me think of my brother, making a snow fort and hiding behind it, not knowing that the round ball on top of his woolen hat was cruising along over the top, a perfect little moving target.
Travis Becker looked over at me and laughed. “You know what? I like you,” he said. “Come on. I got to get back.” He pretended to stagger forward from the exhaustion of his spree.
“Just another pathetic rich boy,” I said and sighed. I learned my role fast.
“Shit,” he smiled and laughed again. “Piranha. Man-eater.”
That was me, all right. Ruby McQueen, Man-Eater. I could have a T-shirt made.
We got back on his motorcycle. When I held on, I could feel that his shirt was damp and sweaty from running. We drove back at a normal-fast speed. There were no more tests—then at least.
He drove up his driveway and parked on the lawn. I got off, unstrapped my helmet again. I’m sure my hair looked just marvelous.
“Why do you park on the grass?” I asked. “You could fit six cars in that garage.”
“Because I can,” Travis Becker said. “And I like theway it looks there.” He held up his fingers as if to make a frame around what he was seeing, the way film directors do in the movies. “You know what we did today?”
“Is this a trick question?” I said.
“We did a ton. That’s what it’s called, doing a hundred on a bike.”
“What’s doing a hundred and twenty called?” I said. I didn’t know this person who was talking. I wasn’t even sure I liked her. Maybe I read about her in a book once or something. She was fearless, all right. But to tell you the truth, she was making me nervous.
“Man, you are something,” Travis Becker said. He took a bit of my hair, tucked it behind my ear. He looked at me for a while, as if, amazingly, he liked what he saw. “Wait. Wait here. I want to give you something.” He turned and jogged toward the house. I hoped he’d hurry. I kept worrying that Mrs. Becker would appear and think I was a trespasser or one of the help she didn’t recognize. Maybe she’d ask me to wash the windows.
Travis Becker trotted happily back out. From underneath his shirt he pulled out a black velvet box. He handed it to me. I thought it was a joke. I mean, I knew they were rich, but giving anything in a velvet box to some stranger who you just met a few hours ago seemed ridiculous. Most people wouldn’t even give their phone number.
I opened it. It was one of those soft black boxes with the springy lids that come down like the jaws of a snapping turtle. A gold necklace lay inside, held flat by twowhite elastic hooks. Travis Becker released the necklace, then took the box back from me and let it drop on the grass. “Lift up your hair so I can put it on,” he said.
“I can’t take this,” I said.
“Sure you can,” he said.
“This is nuts. I don’t even know your name. You don’t even know mine.”
“You don’t know who I am?” he laughed.
“Well, it says Becker on the mailbox.” Of course, there was no mailbox. They probably had their mail delivered to their