Wicked Cruel Read Online Free PDF Page A

few times, then lie on the bed and shut my eyes.
    There was another time.
    I’m walking up the dirt hill from the Little League field a couple of springs ago, carrying my glove and minding my own business. The game had gone well—I didn’t strike out andhad fielded the few balls hit my way in left field without any trouble. I had a couple of red Twizzlers that I’d tied into knots and was gnawing on them. This wasn’t exactly a shortcut, but I liked climbing the rocky path and cutting through Wheeler Park on my way home. This was wilderness compared to most of Cheshire Notch.
    And there’s Lorne, sitting on a boulder alongside the path. I look back and see that you can watch the baseball games from up here, although the view of the field isn’t great.
    He jumps off the rock, right into my path. “How ’bout a bite?” he asks.
    “Of what?” I know he means the Twizzlers, but no way he’s putting his mouth on them. I’ve got them balled up in my hand and was enjoying the rubbery texture as much as the flavor, so they’re all slimy from my spit. Why would anyone even want a bite of something like that unless it was your own?
    He doesn’t respond to that anyway. “I saw you ground out twice,” he says triumphantly, as if that’s such a big deal. Even the best baseball players only get hits about a third of the time. And Bainer isn’t even in the league.
    “Better than you,” I say.
    He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I play in a professional league for kids over in Boston on Saturdays. I’m leading the league in home runs.”
    “Sure you are.” This
was
a Saturday. And Bainer had never demonstrated any athletic skill. Like anybody would pay him to play baseball.
    He climbs back up on the boulder. “Let’s chuck rocks,” he says.
    “At what?”
    “Anything. Squirrels. Trees. Bet you can’t hit that window.”He points down the hill to a storage shed in the lot behind the baseball field. There’s one small window in the door.
    “That’d be stupid,” I say. “Why would you want to break a window?”
    He shrugs. “Just something to do.” He jumps down again and picks up a stone. “I could hit somebody in the outfield from here if I wanted to. Nobody would ever know where it came from.”
    I look down the hill. The players for the next game are on the field, but there’s no way he could throw it even half that far.
    I’ve had enough of him. “I’m leaving.”
    “Don’t be a baby. Stick around.”
    “Get lost.” I start walking.
    “Come on, Jordan,” he pleads. “Let’s hang out together.”
    I don’t even reply. When I’m about thirty yards away I hear a
thunk
and see a stone bounce into the woods. I doubt that he really tried to hit me with it, but he came close enough. I turn and call him a jerk.
    He picks up another stone, but I know he doesn’t have the guts to throw at me again.
    “Put it down,” I say.
    “Make me.”
    “You think I won’t?”
    “You’re chicken.” He starts making
buck-buck
sounds.
    No way I’m letting a guy like Lorne Bainer get away with that. I start running toward him. He holds his ground for a few seconds, then turns to get away. I catch him immediately and tackle him to the dirt.
    “Lay off!” he cries.
    I get to my knees and grab his shirt with both fists. “What’d you call me?”
    He turns his head, wincing. “I didn’t mean anything.”
    “You’ve got the nerve to call me a chicken?” I shake him a bit. He makes a very obvious sound in his throat as if he’s gathering saliva to spit at me.
    “I wouldn’t try that if I was you,” I say.
    He spits at me anyway. I let go with my right fist and bring it back. I hesitate, and he starts crying. “Lemme go,” he says.
    I push him into the ground and step off him. He scurries into a ball and covers his face. “Come on, Jordan,” he says. “I was fooling around.”
    “By throwing a rock at me?”
    “It didn’t hit you. I was just kidding.”
    “You’re an idiot, Bainer.