Read Online Mitch and Amy by Beverly Cleary - Free Book Online Page B

Mitchell to himself. What were a few eucalyptus buds anyway? A eucalyptus bud never hurt anyone. “Pow-pow-pow!”

    Feeling more cheerful than he had for some time, Mitchell rode to the corner where the newspaper carriers gathered to fold their papers across the street from the real-estate office, but no one was there yet. He waited a few minutes, watching some old newspapers blow against the fence, before he rode on, ringing the bell of his bicycle from time to time just for the satisfaction of making a noise. He cut through the parking lot of a church and headed toward home on a pleasant level street lined with hedges and pine trees. There was no traffic and the street was in bad repair so Mitchell amused himself by weaving in and out among the gravelly patches that showed through thebroken asphalt. He was pretending his bicycle was a destroyer working its way around icebergs when he became aware of someone approaching on a bicycle.
    It was Alan Hibbler. Uh-oh, thought Mitchell. Here we go again. If there had been a cross street, he would have turned off, but the block was long and there was no way to avoid meeting Alan face-to-face. Since Mitchell could not ignore him this time, he pedaled along, trying to look unconcerned. Maybe, if he was lucky, Alan would be in a hurry. Maybe he was on his way to substitute for one of the paper boys.
    â€œHi,” said Alan, as he stopped his bicycle about twenty feet in front of Mitchell.
    â€œHi,” answered Mitchell, braking his bicycle and putting one foot on the ground. Now what? A showdown like the end of a Western movie? Mitchell squinted at Alan even though he was not staring into the sun.
    â€œWhatcha doing?” Alan seemed friendly enough.
    â€œRiding around.” Mitchell was wary, wondering if Alan had stopped bullying after all. Maybe bullying was something he had outgrown like playing with Tinker Toys or kicking lunch boxes on the school grounds. Or maybe he did not feel so much like a bully when he was alone and face-to-face with Mitchell. Mitchell hooked one thumb in the top of his jeans and waited to see what happened. It just might be that ignoring Alan had worked after all.
    â€œPlay you a game of chicken,” said Alan.
    â€œHow do you play chicken?” asked Mitchell.
    Alan explained. “We ride our bikes straight at one another as hard as we can, and the first one to turn aside is chicken.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?” asked Mitchell.
    â€œTo find out who gets scared and chickensout.” Alan was beginning to sound as if he thought Mitchell was not very bright.
    â€œBut that’s a stupid game,” said Mitchell logically. “If nobody turns aside, you’ve got a couple of wrecked-up bikes and maybe a few broken legs. I don’t get it.”
    â€œI thought you’d be chicken,” scoffed Alan. “The way I chase you to school practically every day.”
    â€œYou don’t chase me,” said Mitchell, trying not to show that he was beginning to get angry. “I don’t pay any attention, is all.” He took his thumb out of his belt and grasped his handlebars until his knuckles were white.
    â€œNot much you don’t,” jeered Alan. “Not much you don’t pay attention.”
    â€œI do not!” Now Mitchell really was angry, and the thing that made him angriest of all was the unfairness of the situation. He knew he was right and Alan was wrong, just as hehad been right and Alan had been wrong when he smashed the skateboard. Chicken was a stupid game and smashing other people’s skateboards was wrong. Alan was the one who should be unhappy, not Mitchell, but there sat Alan cocky as anything while Mitchell felt confused, not knowing what to do next.
    â€œWell, why don’t you say something?” Alan demanded.
    â€œWhat do you expect me to say?” Mitchell did not know what else to answer. He couldn’t sit there on his bicycle telling Alan he was