Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

dreams,” I said.
    “I used to have them all the time—I forget what they’re supposed to mean,” Mom said. “Chas will know. Remind me to ask him when he wakes up.” She checked her watch. “Time to go if we’re going. But if you don’t feel up to it—”
    “I’m fine.”
    I got up, brushed my teeth, and splashed water on my face, the tiny silver heart flashing in the mirror. How quickly my wrist had adapted to the bracelet; I really didn’t even feel it. I threw on some clothes, put my hair in a ponytail, and five minutes later we were on the street, my mom, Pendleton, and I. Saturday mornings—if Mom wasn’t called in to work, in which case I went by myself—we volunteered at a soup kitchen called Bread not far from Joe Louis. Another sunny day, maybe colder than yesterday. I blew out a little puff of air, saw my breath. Mom held Pendleton’s leash, hooked her other arm through mine. She had her hair in a ponytail,too, and wore her Mets cap. I got in a very good mood.
    “We beat Welland yesterday.”
    “Did you? That’s great. How’s that coach, Ms.…”
    “Kleinberg. She’s got the sweetest shot you ever saw.”
    Mom glanced at me—we were almost eye-to-eye now, with the way I was growing—and laughed. “I’m guessing things are getting better at Thatcher?” she said. “You’re more comfortable now?”
    Not really, but I didn’t want to darken this nice morning in any way, so I said, “Yeah, some.”
    Mom gave my arm a squeeze. Pendleton raised his leg next to a parked motorcycle. Mom dragged him away. He looked kind of ridiculous—one leg up, trailing a yellow stream—but had a dignified expression on his face at the same time, and Mom and I both started laughing.
    “I’m loving this,” Mom said. “Out of the office! Yes!” She took a deep breath.
    “Did Nonna ever work, Mom?”
    Mom shook her head. “Things were different in those days,” she said. “My dad—your grandfather—did well. And then when he died, he left behind a very good insurance policy.”
    I’d never known my mom’s dad—he’d died years before I was born.
    We walked in silence for a while. Saturday morningsthere were always lots of people on the street. They say real New Yorkers never make eye contact, and maybe that’s true, but most all of them are real good at snatching quick glances at the faces going by, including me. That’s one of the very best things about the city: all those different faces.
    Mom said, “I know what you’re thinking: do Dad and I have insurance policies?”
    “Actually, not,” I said.
    “No?”
    “I was thinking, What did he die of, your father?”
    “I’m sure I’ve told you.”
    “You just said he got very sick. What kind of sick?”
    “He had a brain tumor,” my mom said.
    “Oh,” I said. I looked at Mom. Her eyes were a little misty. She smiled at me. “He’d have been so—” Whatever that thought was, Mom didn’t finish it, because at that moment Pendleton spotted a cat in a window and backed up abruptly, almost knocking us down.
    “As for insurance,” Mom said, after we’d gotten untangled from the leash and were on our way again, “the answer is no. It’s hard to get your dad to talk about that kind of thing.”
    “Because he’s an artist, right, Mom?”
    “I guess,” Mom said.
    “What’s this memoir all about, anyway?”
    “Hard to say. He’s still in the mulling-it-over stage.” She was a big believer in Dad’s talent.
    Bread was halfway down the next block—I could already see people outside. Mom and I had been volunteering there for a year or so. She worked in the kitchen, and I helped serve food to the people in the line. There was always hot soup—chicken noodle went over best—plus a pasta dish like spaghetti or linguini or sometimes lasagna, plus sandwiches, chips, cookies, soda, coffee, and tea. Lots of the same people turned up every Saturday. Sometimes after I’d filled their bowls or handed over a sandwich, they said