Read Online Spotted Dog Last Seen by Jessica Scott Kerrin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jessica Scott Kerrin
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does he. The ball is going everywhere. Itâs tricky.â
âWhere are your parents?â came a voice.
âDadâs cutting the lawn in the backyard. The mower is noisy. Mom is inside lying on the couch. Her head hurts because of the heat. She has a bag of ice cubes around her neck.
âBut I have my friend to play with. I like him. He has a big collection of trucks and tractors in his backyard sandbox. They can dig and scoop. Once he let me take his dump truck home to play with, and I filled it with my whole marble collection.
âRight now, we have the orange rubber ball. I miss again. It rolls under a bush by our front steps. When I crawl underneath to get it, I bump the scab on my knee and it starts bleeding. When I stand, bits of freshly cut grass are sticking to my legs. I pat down my pocket to make sure I still have the popsicle stick. I think about my plastic horses and the corral I am going to build.
ââYou missed!â my friend calls out between laughs. âYou missed! You missed!â
ââI canât see,â I yell back. âThe sunâs in the way.â
âIt is so hot out. There is no shade. The sun is coming down, and it is right in my face whenever I look over to where my friend is.
ââKick it,â he yells. âKick it. Itâs my turn.â
âI put the orange ball down in front of me. The grass smells sweet. I stand back. Then I take a run at the ball and kick it as hard as I can.
âBam! Perfect hit! It soars over my lawn and my friendâs lawn, too. It soars over the sidewalk. It soars onto the street.
ââIâll get it!â he yells. Heâs laughing.
âI look for him, but the sun is still in the way. He turns to chase the ball, and now the sun is in his way, too. And because of the lawnmower, he doesnât hear the car.
âMy friend runs.
âBrakes squeal.
âHe flies backwards into the air, his arms reaching out to the car that has just hit him, his legs dangling. He crumples to the ground.
âI hear sounds of a car door opening.
âCries for help.
âThe lawnmower stops.
âScreen doors creak open along both sides of my street.
âWhat is happening?
âI make myself walk toward the empty car. My legs do not work well. My friend is lying near the curb. His eyes are open, but he is not moving. His head is in a puddle of blood. The puddle spreads. So much blood.
âSomeone pushes me aside as she rushes by.
âHis mom.
âThen my dad.
âNow a crowd surrounds my friend.
âA man I do not know sits all alone on our lawn. He groans as he rocks back and forth, his head in his hands.
âI hear sirens.
ââDerek!â
âIt is my mom.
ââIâm here. Iâm here. Iâm here.â
âShe keeps saying this and she hugs me hard. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. She carries me inside.
âI throw up. My popsicle is all over my shirt. It sticks to me. She cleans me up, and I tell her that Iâm cold. She wraps me in a blanket and lays me down on the couch.
ââIâm here,â she tells me again and again, but she is crying.â
âTwo meat loaves,â our waitress chirped, sliding identical plates of meat with gravy, mashed potatoes and peas in front of Creelman and me.
My living room dissolved and I was back in the cafe.
Creelman and I ate in silence. When his plate was almost empty, he took a big gulp of coffee, then asked, âDid you go to the funeral?â
I nodded with my mouth full. I donât remember much about what happened in the days that followed the accident. But I can still smell the flowers, I can hear the choir music, and I can touch a lamb carved out of stone. In my mind, the stone is always cold, even in the summer.
I finished my meat loaf and set down my fork. I placed my hands on my lap and was surprised by how steady they were. Normally, I would be shaking
âWhere are your parents?â came a voice.
âDadâs cutting the lawn in the backyard. The mower is noisy. Mom is inside lying on the couch. Her head hurts because of the heat. She has a bag of ice cubes around her neck.
âBut I have my friend to play with. I like him. He has a big collection of trucks and tractors in his backyard sandbox. They can dig and scoop. Once he let me take his dump truck home to play with, and I filled it with my whole marble collection.
âRight now, we have the orange rubber ball. I miss again. It rolls under a bush by our front steps. When I crawl underneath to get it, I bump the scab on my knee and it starts bleeding. When I stand, bits of freshly cut grass are sticking to my legs. I pat down my pocket to make sure I still have the popsicle stick. I think about my plastic horses and the corral I am going to build.
ââYou missed!â my friend calls out between laughs. âYou missed! You missed!â
ââI canât see,â I yell back. âThe sunâs in the way.â
âIt is so hot out. There is no shade. The sun is coming down, and it is right in my face whenever I look over to where my friend is.
ââKick it,â he yells. âKick it. Itâs my turn.â
âI put the orange ball down in front of me. The grass smells sweet. I stand back. Then I take a run at the ball and kick it as hard as I can.
âBam! Perfect hit! It soars over my lawn and my friendâs lawn, too. It soars over the sidewalk. It soars onto the street.
ââIâll get it!â he yells. Heâs laughing.
âI look for him, but the sun is still in the way. He turns to chase the ball, and now the sun is in his way, too. And because of the lawnmower, he doesnât hear the car.
âMy friend runs.
âBrakes squeal.
âHe flies backwards into the air, his arms reaching out to the car that has just hit him, his legs dangling. He crumples to the ground.
âI hear sounds of a car door opening.
âCries for help.
âThe lawnmower stops.
âScreen doors creak open along both sides of my street.
âWhat is happening?
âI make myself walk toward the empty car. My legs do not work well. My friend is lying near the curb. His eyes are open, but he is not moving. His head is in a puddle of blood. The puddle spreads. So much blood.
âSomeone pushes me aside as she rushes by.
âHis mom.
âThen my dad.
âNow a crowd surrounds my friend.
âA man I do not know sits all alone on our lawn. He groans as he rocks back and forth, his head in his hands.
âI hear sirens.
ââDerek!â
âIt is my mom.
ââIâm here. Iâm here. Iâm here.â
âShe keeps saying this and she hugs me hard. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. She carries me inside.
âI throw up. My popsicle is all over my shirt. It sticks to me. She cleans me up, and I tell her that Iâm cold. She wraps me in a blanket and lays me down on the couch.
ââIâm here,â she tells me again and again, but she is crying.â
âTwo meat loaves,â our waitress chirped, sliding identical plates of meat with gravy, mashed potatoes and peas in front of Creelman and me.
My living room dissolved and I was back in the cafe.
Creelman and I ate in silence. When his plate was almost empty, he took a big gulp of coffee, then asked, âDid you go to the funeral?â
I nodded with my mouth full. I donât remember much about what happened in the days that followed the accident. But I can still smell the flowers, I can hear the choir music, and I can touch a lamb carved out of stone. In my mind, the stone is always cold, even in the summer.
I finished my meat loaf and set down my fork. I placed my hands on my lap and was surprised by how steady they were. Normally, I would be shaking
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