Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle Read Online Free PDF Page B

who’s sitting alone in a corner, wrestling with a giant piece of Mrs. Rattle’s Fourth of July pie. “Hi, Mrs. Murphy. How are your roses growing? Did you get rid of those mealy worms?”
    Mrs. Murphy, a cranky old lady who hasn’t cracked a smile since November of 1963, giggles. “The roses are doing well. The worms are gone. How nice of you to ask about them.”
    â€œDid I ever tell you about the mealy worms in my old garden?” begins Muscle Man, but I won’t let him finish his tale.
    â€œWhat happened with the letter?” I interrupt. “Can your caseworker get it to Kebsie? Will she write back?”
    Before he can answer, a cheer goes through the crowd.
    â€œWe want Pizza! We want Pizza! We want Pizzarelli to sing!”
    Mr. Pizzarelli, who always takes this day off from his job as a police officer, pretends to be surprised. To get the crowd going, Mr. Rattle plays the accordion in time with the chants. “Peet-zah! Peet-zah!”
    â€œWhat’s happening?” asks Muscle Man.
    â€œNever mind what’s happening. What about the letter?” I yell, but my words are drowned out by the noise.
    Mr. Pizzarelli jumps up after the crowd is worked into a frenzy. He holds up his hands, and the crowd goes quiet.
    I lean toward Muscle Man. “The letter?” I whisper. But before I can say anything else, a dozen people shush me at once. I turn around and see Mrs. Murphy, her lips pursed in shushing position, waiting for me to speak again.
    I sit down on the grass next to Muscle Man and listen to Mr. Pizzarelli sing. After he does a few solo numbers, a few of the neighbors join him. By the time Mr. Pizzarelli gets to “This Land Is Your Land” and “God Bless America,” most everyone on Ramble Street is singing.
    But the last song belongs to Mr. Pizzarelli. He always ends with his favorite, “If I Were a Rich Man.” It brings the house down. This year, he gives his best performance.
    As soon as he finishes crooning his last “bid de bid de bum” and before the neighbors can call out for an encore, Muscle Man is at his side.
    â€œHey, Mr. Pizza. Great voice. You really know how to work a crowd. Did I ever tell you about the time I sang on Broadway? Let me know if you ever need some pointers on how to hit those high notes.”
    For a moment, I think that Muscle Man is finally going to get his due. You’d think that a cop would be able to spot a fib and that there’d be a special penalty for lying to a police officer (maybe one that involves handcuffs). But Mr. Pizzarelli only smiles at him and heads over to the line of people who are getting ready to dance the Alley Cat.
    Muscle Man tugs at my arm. “Come on, Tammy. Let’s dance.”
    I plant my feet firmly into the ground. “Forget about it.”
    Muscle Man races toward the Alley Cat line, and I race after him. He’s not getting away this easy.
    When we reach the group, Mr. Rattle is instructing the dancers. “Hop. Skip. Turn. And then you all shout, ‘Meow.’” He plays a few notes on his accordion and the dance begins.
    Muscle Man is three steps behind the others, twisting and hopping like no alley cat I ever saw. I wave my hands in front of his face, but he turns and dances in a new direction.
    The music stops, and suddenly I’m shouting, “What about Kebsie?”
    Muscle Man, whose hands are held up like paws in alley cat position, struggles to catch his breath.
    I move in front of him. This time he’s not getting away. “Did you give the caseworker the letter?”
    Finally, he nods. “Yup, you should be hearing from Kebsie soon.”

Chapter Nine
When You Can’t Eat Ice Cream, Eat Your Words
    â€œD ON’T DRIP ON me,” Billy Rattle warns Big Danny. It’s Big Danny’s and my first day back after being banned, and Billy Rattle is still grinning from his victory about the fifty