Read Online My Brother's Keeper by Patricia McCormick - Free Book Online Page A

Gillis, but which is also sort of bad since there’s no one to ride home on the late bus with. Except that when I get on, I see Martha MacDowell sitting there in her baseball cap by herself.
    I decide to just sort of accidentally sit next to her like it’s no big deal, like it’s the kind of thing that can just happen without a person especially meaning for it to happen. Except that somehow when the moment comes to actually sit down, I end up walking right past her. The only other seat left is next to Chrissy Russo. Which is sort of a drag since I know from her being my partner last semester in Biology lab that all she likes to do is talk about Kurt Cobain, which means that as soon as the bus gets to the first stop, I decide to get off and go hang out with Mr. D instead.
    H e shuffles over to the counter and throws me a pack of WarHeads as soon as I walk in. “How’s the Stargell?” he says.
    We call the cards “the Clemente” or “the Parker,” like they’re things, which technically they are, but Mr. D and I also talk about them like they’re people, which, if you think about it, they are. The Stargell in particular.
    To tell you the truth, I love the Stargell, the way my dad used to love the guys at the mill and the long-lost Lucky, the wonder dog. But I’m not exactly the kind of person who says that kind of thing out loud to another person.
    “It’s awesome,” I say, which is lame, and doesn’t come anywhere close to saying how awesome it really is.
    Mr. D smiles in a way that you can tell he knows exactly what I mean, then he goes back to talking online to a guy in Arkansas who has a Dino Rostelli rookie card for sale.
    I wander over and stand behind him to see what the guy from Arkansas is asking for the Rostelli. I clear my throat.
    “Why are grown-ups always telling kids to keep their noses clean?”
    I figure Mr. D, who practically wrote the playbook on mysterious cornball sayings, will know what I’m talking about.
    And unlike typical grown-ups who say they’re busy or don’t even hear you when you ask them something personal, Mr. D stops what he’s doing and turns around and looks at me.
    “When someone says to keep your nose clean, they’re telling you to stay out of trouble,” he says, which is a surprisingly normal, non-Yodalike answer for him.
    “Mr. D?” I don’t exactly know what I’m going to say, but Mr. D looks at me like he thinks it might be something important “What do you do if you’re worried about someone doing something they shouldn’t be doing?”
    He doesn’t answer right away.
    “Something that if they get caught might make other people upset,” I say.
    He cocks his head to the side. “You’re worried about this person?”
    “I guess.”
    “Do you think that’ll help?” I don’t understand. “Worrying,” he says. “Does it help?”
    I think the answer is yes, but I can tell from the way he’s asking it, the answer’s supposed to be no. I shrug.
    “Toby,” he says, “worrying is a waste of time and energy. It doesn’t rob tomorrow of its sting. It only robs today of its strength.”
    This is probably his Zen-Yoda way of telling me to chill, but, even though he doesn’t mean to, it makes me feel sort of like an idiot. Which I am a lot of times, but not usually when I’m with Mr. D. Which makes me feel like an even bigger idiot.
    I also think, maybe for the first time in my life, that Mr. D might possibly be wrong. You’re supposed to worry about someone who’s doing something they’re not supposed to do. You’ve got to, otherwise something will happen and things won’t ever be the same. I don’t tell Mr. D this, though. I don’t say anything on account of feeling partly idiotic and partly bummed out about Mr. D not understanding about why a person needs to worry.
    At which point he tosses me another pack of WarHeads. Which is at least something.
    A t dinner that night, while our mom is in the kitchen getting out the food—Food King crab