Searching for Candlestick Park Read Online Free PDF Page A

left arm across the top of my head, with my hand on my right ear. There’s a law in Washington State that you have to wear a protective helmet when you ride a bicycle, but the kid I stole the bike from still had the helmet on his own head so I had torely on my arm to save me from a fractured skull or a concussion or any of the other bad things that can happen to an unprotected head.
    It turned out it wasn’t my head that needed protection; it was my right leg. My shin, just above the ankle, smashed into the curb as I went down. Pain zapped up to my knee and down to my toes like bolts of electricity, bringing tears to my eyes.
    I was afraid I had broken my leg or, at the very least, chipped a bone.
    I reached for the box, which was still tied to the back of the bike, and stuck my finger in one of the air holes.
    “Are you okay, Foxey?” I asked.
    Foxey was quiet.
    I sat up, feeling woozy, and opened the box. Foxey was flattened in the bottom with his ears back. His eyes were huge. I ran my hands over him, digging my fingers into his fur. He didn’t yowl or hiss or try to get away, so I guessed he wasn’t hurt.
    A car stopped and a woman in a green jogging suit got out and hurried over to me. I clamped the top back on the box and slid the rubber bands in place.
    “Are you all right?” she asked. “Should I call 911?”
    “I’m scraped up, that’s all.” If I told her the truth, that my leg felt as if I’d just been whacked with a baseball bat, she would call 911 for sure, and they would call Mama, and instead of spending the night in Tacoma, as I planned, I’d be back on Aunt May’scouch. And Foxey would be in a cage at the pound, starting the countdown.
    “Can you stand up?”
    I clenched my teeth and struggled to my feet. When I stood, the blood rushed downward; my leg throbbed. I put all my weight on the other foot.
    “I’m just a little sore,” I said. “Nothing serious.”
    “What’s your name?” she asked. “I have a cellular phone in my car. If you give me your name and a phone number, I can call your family and have someone come to get you.”
    “Nobody’s home,” I said. “They’re at work.”
    “Give me your mother’s work number.”
    “You don’t need to call anybody,” I said. “I’m really okay. And I only live a couple of blocks from here. I’ll push my bike home and then I’ll rest until Mama gets there.”
    The lies rolled off my tongue so quickly that I wondered if lying is one of those skills where the more you do it, the better you get. Like practicing the trumpet.
    “You’re sure? You look pale. I’d be glad to drive you home. The bike won’t fit in my car, but someone could come and get it later.”
    “Thanks anyway,” I said. “I don’t want to leave my bike. Someone might steal it.” Silently I added: It’s already been stolen once today.
    She hesitated a moment and then started back to her car.
    “Thanks for stopping,” I said. “It was nice of you.”
    “You’re welcome.” She got in, and drove away. As I watched her leave, I wondered if I was making a big mistake by not accepting her help. What if I really did need a doctor?
    I pushed the bike a few feet, just in case she was watching me in her rearview mirror. When she turned at the next corner, I flopped down on the curb. I pulled my pants’ leg up and examined my shin. There was a lump the size of a lemon, just above my ankle. It was already turning black and blue, but it didn’t hurt quite as much as before.
    I squeezed the swollen area gently, the way Mama tests tomatoes at the supermarket, and then exhaled with relief. I was pretty sure nothing was broken.
    If I were home, Mama would put ice cubes in a plastic bag and set the bag on my leg. She’d have me lie down, with a pillow under my foot, and bring me a glass of orange juice. “Drink it all,” she would say. “Vitamin C helps a body heal.”
    I thought how wonderful it would feel to stretch out on Aunt May’s couch with my foot up,