Read Online All the Way Home by Patricia Reilly Giff - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Reilly Giff
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you.”
She thought of everything.
“There’s a book of maps on the back table,” she said. “It’s like connecting the dots, going from one place to another, you know? That’s all it is.”
He felt a weight come off his chest.
“And if I get caught,” she said, limping along next to him again, her face turned up, “Ambrose will just walk me to school. I’ll skip out again at lunchtime.”
They crossed Washington Avenue, hurrying, as she glanced back and then went on again. He could see what an effort it was for her, the limp growing stronger, her face a little pale under her freckles.
He followed her, houses on one side, not as pretty as the ones on Midwood Street, the green trees of a park on the other. A few black cars were parked here and there; a few kids passed them on the way to school. Then in front of them were the gates to the park.
“Prospect Park,” Mariel told him. “An everything place, like the everything table in my bedroom. Woods and parade grounds and a lake with a house almost like a castle, even a merry-go-round.” She pointed. “And another kid playing hookey. See there. He doesn’t go to school some days either.”
Brick looked over at him. The boy was sitting on a bench, not paying attention to them, it seemed, not paying attention to anything, but then he raised his hand in a half wave.
Mariel kept going around the path, then leaning closer, almost whispering. “And there’s my place.” She gave his arm a little tug, leading him now, going as fast as she could.
A few minutes later she stopped. “Here.”
“But what is it?” he asked.
“A band shell. They play music here on Sundays,” she said. “It’s the best hiding place.” She held up one hand. “I think I felt a drop of rain.”
How could he hide without someone seeing him?
he wondered.
It was as if she knew what he was thinking. “Once Ambrose walked around it looking for me,” she said. “I just kept going ahead of him, crouching down, just as if I were a merry-go-round.” She fanned her face with one hand. “Hot, isn’t it? Someday when I’m grown up, I’m going to tell him.”
Brick shook his head. “Won’t he be angry?”
“I’ll be grown up then,” Mariel said, sinking down on the grass. “But I don’t think so. I think he’ll laugh.” She bit her lip. “Ambrose is”—she raised her shoulders—“there when you need him.”
He sank down next to her, looking up at the gray sky through the leaves of a bushy little tree, putting Claude’s book inside his bag of lunch, out of the rain.
He ran his hands through the grass, feeling the spikiness of it, the damp earth underneath. He told her about the river in Windy Hill on a day like this, the trees leaning over to dip their branches into the warm shallow water, the gurgling sound of the river as it ran across the rocks, the pattering of the rain on the leaves.
He was hit with a wave of homesickness, remembering his bedroom window, the apple trees outside in neat paths, Mom downstairs in the kitchen, laughing with Pop.
Home.
“Listen, Billy Nightingale. Brick?” She turned her head. “For your hair?”
He raised one shoulder. “It’s the color of the bricks in our icehouse.”
For a moment they sat there, the rain pattering against the side of the band shell. He watched her fingers tap on her dress and then she clasped her hands together. He wondered what she was thinking.
“I’ll go to the library now,” she said. “When I come back you’ll know the way to Windy Hill.”
15
Mariel
M ariel passed the candy man on the way to Grand Army Plaza. He was bent over, the weight of his square pack on his back, an umbrella over his head. He tossed Mariel a peppermint and she managed to catch it with one hand. A little kid, too young for school, stood under an awning on one of the stoops. He held out his hands. “Hey, girlie,” he said. “How about sharing?”
She looped the peppermint toward him, watched him scramble for
She thought of everything.
“There’s a book of maps on the back table,” she said. “It’s like connecting the dots, going from one place to another, you know? That’s all it is.”
He felt a weight come off his chest.
“And if I get caught,” she said, limping along next to him again, her face turned up, “Ambrose will just walk me to school. I’ll skip out again at lunchtime.”
They crossed Washington Avenue, hurrying, as she glanced back and then went on again. He could see what an effort it was for her, the limp growing stronger, her face a little pale under her freckles.
He followed her, houses on one side, not as pretty as the ones on Midwood Street, the green trees of a park on the other. A few black cars were parked here and there; a few kids passed them on the way to school. Then in front of them were the gates to the park.
“Prospect Park,” Mariel told him. “An everything place, like the everything table in my bedroom. Woods and parade grounds and a lake with a house almost like a castle, even a merry-go-round.” She pointed. “And another kid playing hookey. See there. He doesn’t go to school some days either.”
Brick looked over at him. The boy was sitting on a bench, not paying attention to them, it seemed, not paying attention to anything, but then he raised his hand in a half wave.
Mariel kept going around the path, then leaning closer, almost whispering. “And there’s my place.” She gave his arm a little tug, leading him now, going as fast as she could.
A few minutes later she stopped. “Here.”
“But what is it?” he asked.
“A band shell. They play music here on Sundays,” she said. “It’s the best hiding place.” She held up one hand. “I think I felt a drop of rain.”
How could he hide without someone seeing him?
he wondered.
It was as if she knew what he was thinking. “Once Ambrose walked around it looking for me,” she said. “I just kept going ahead of him, crouching down, just as if I were a merry-go-round.” She fanned her face with one hand. “Hot, isn’t it? Someday when I’m grown up, I’m going to tell him.”
Brick shook his head. “Won’t he be angry?”
“I’ll be grown up then,” Mariel said, sinking down on the grass. “But I don’t think so. I think he’ll laugh.” She bit her lip. “Ambrose is”—she raised her shoulders—“there when you need him.”
He sank down next to her, looking up at the gray sky through the leaves of a bushy little tree, putting Claude’s book inside his bag of lunch, out of the rain.
He ran his hands through the grass, feeling the spikiness of it, the damp earth underneath. He told her about the river in Windy Hill on a day like this, the trees leaning over to dip their branches into the warm shallow water, the gurgling sound of the river as it ran across the rocks, the pattering of the rain on the leaves.
He was hit with a wave of homesickness, remembering his bedroom window, the apple trees outside in neat paths, Mom downstairs in the kitchen, laughing with Pop.
Home.
“Listen, Billy Nightingale. Brick?” She turned her head. “For your hair?”
He raised one shoulder. “It’s the color of the bricks in our icehouse.”
For a moment they sat there, the rain pattering against the side of the band shell. He watched her fingers tap on her dress and then she clasped her hands together. He wondered what she was thinking.
“I’ll go to the library now,” she said. “When I come back you’ll know the way to Windy Hill.”
15
Mariel
M ariel passed the candy man on the way to Grand Army Plaza. He was bent over, the weight of his square pack on his back, an umbrella over his head. He tossed Mariel a peppermint and she managed to catch it with one hand. A little kid, too young for school, stood under an awning on one of the stoops. He held out his hands. “Hey, girlie,” he said. “How about sharing?”
She looped the peppermint toward him, watched him scramble for
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