Read Online Keeping Holiday by Starr Meade - Free Book Online Page A

that guy!” Clare said. “He was insulting you!” Dylan didn’t answer. He was too unhappy. He had been thinking the very things Mr. Smith had implied—if, in order to be authorized for Holiday a person had to fit the requirements on the flyer in his pocket, it did not look like he, Dylan, would qualify. Would it be possible to convince the Founder—if he ever met him—that Dylan could see now how ugly some of his past actions and attitudes had been and that he was truly sorry? Would the Founder believe him if he promised he would never be like that again and would prove to be a credit to Holiday? Dylan hoped so with all his heart and moved on, Clare following, in the same direction the little man had gone.
    Mr. Smith had moved quickly and was already far ahead, near one of the groups loitering on the sidewalk. He seemed to pause near the group; maybe he even spoke to its members. Then he turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
    The group, comprising half a dozen boys near their own age, watched Dylan and Clare approach. The boys in the group said nothing, only smiled those little smiles that made Clare nervous. They had passed the group and Clare was slowly exhaling a sigh of relief when she heard Dylan cry, “Hey!” Turning to him, she saw that he held his hand to the back of his head, and a small dirt clod, exploded now into fragments, lay at his feet. Clare followed the direction of Dylan’s eyes as he stared back at the group of boys, who laughed quietly together and watched him.
    Before she could say anything to stop him, Dylan had called out, “Who threw that?”
    One boy slouched forward. “Threw what?” he asked, holding out a dirt clod in one hand. “One of these? Oh. Guess it must have been me.”
    “Well, knock it off and leave me alone!” Dylan ordered. He paused, then turned to go on.
    “Sure, I’ll let you alone,” the boy replied. “As soon I do this.” Dylan and Clare heard the dirt clod whistle through the air, and Dylan felt as well as heard the thud when it hit his shoulder.
    Every thing in Dylan’s mind evaporated except rage. He turned back and charged the boy, grabbing him by the jacket and shoving him to the ground. The boy bounced back to his feet instantly. The other boys closed in around them in a circle, blocking Clare’s vision so she could hardly see Dylan at all. In her anxiety for her cousin, Clare hopped back and forth from one foot to the other without noticing it. She looked up and could have cried for joy when she saw a police car coming around the corner. It pulled up with a squeal next to the boys, and a policeman jumped out, brandishing a stick. “All right, all right, break it up,” he called out in a bored voice, hitting boys with his stick.
    The boys scattered, trying to get out of reach of the flailing stick. One blow struck Dylan on the back and he cried out, “Ow,” then said, “But, Officer, it wasn’t my fault. They were throwing things at us.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” the policeman said, already getting back in his car, “but you stopped to make something of it, right? You should just be glad I came along when I did; those guys would have had you for lunch,” and he closed his car door and drove away.
    “Come on, Dylan, hurry,” Clare said, not wanting to be anywhere in sight when the gang of boys reconvened. Dylan saw the wisdom of this and hurried away with her, around the corner where the wide path led. Then Clare squealed with delight and relief. “Look, Dylan,” she cried, “it’s right there! The park the tree told us about!” Just ahead a small grassy park invited them to come in and stroll under its graceful trees and relax on its wrought iron benches. A tall white fence, also of wrought iron, encircled the park. The gate was closed. A banner hung on the fence, with the words, “First-time visitors enter here.” In smaller letters were the words, “Visitor’s pass required.”
    Dylan approached the gate, Clare right behind him. On