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Authors: Gillian Cross
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Emma, too. He could hardly wait to tell her. The braid was just as ordinary as the little woods in the park. Once she knew thatâonce she could see that he knewâsheâd have to stop playing games with Robert. And start looking after him.
But the imaginary scene in his head started going wrong. Because he knew what Emma would say. He could almost hear her superior, sarcastic voice. So you found a twelve-strand braid, did you? Are you sure it wasnât nine? Or ten? Did you count the strands?
And, of course, he hadnât counted them. He couldnât be sure there really were twelve. And even if he was sure, that wouldnât be good enough once he was face-to-face with Emma. He had to double-check. To get a better look.
He stayed on the bench, waiting for the boy to come out of the sweet shop. Determined to track him all the way home if he had to.
But that wasnât necessary. Because when the boy came out of the shop, he headed straight back to the bench and sat down in exactly the same place as before. He had three more paper bags in his hand, and he put them down on the bench, on his left-hand side, exactly where the other bags had been.
Then he slipped the sports bag off his shoulder and turned to put it on the other side. But there wasnât room, because Tom was sitting there.
If their eyes had met, even for a second, things would have been different. Tom was ready to give him a smile. He was ready to slide to the end of the bench to make room for the bag. He would have done anything that gave him a chance to talk and ask a few questions about the braid.
But the boy glanced away, avoiding him. He just dropped his sports bag onto the ground, half of it in front of his own feet and half in front of Tomâs. Then he turned to the sweets and started stuffing them into his mouth.
The braid was there, right next to Tomâs feet, hanging down from the zipper toggle. He could hardly breathe. It was close enough to touch. Donât move too fast. Donât blow it. As casually as he could, he bent over and started retying one of his shoelaces.
As soon as he bent down, the boyâs head whipped around. The pale eyes peered suspiciously.
âHi.â Tom looked up, straight at him. âYou OK?â
He said it in the friendliest voice he could and grinned cheerfully. But the boy didnât respond. For a second he just stared, obviously startled at being spoken to. Then he glowered and turned his back ostentatiously, shielding the sweets with his body.
Right, Tom thought. If youâre going to be like that, Iâll do it another way. As the fat hand reached into the paper bags, Tom took his chance. His fingers flew to the zipper toggle, and he struggled with the knot, trying to untie the little braid.
But he couldnât. The knot was pulled tight, and the braiding made it almost impossible to pull it apart.
So he simply picked up the bag and walked off with it.
Heâd never stolen anything before. Even while his fingers were closing around the handles, he was telling himself that he wouldnât really do it. But his arm kept moving, and the boy didnât turn around, and suddenlyâthere Tom was, on the other side of the square, with the bag in his hand.
He slipped between two shops, into the parking lot, and then ran, as fast as he could, heading out of town toward the park and Robertâs house. There was one shout from behind him, and thenânothing. When he glanced over his shoulder, there was no one racing after him.
He slowed to a walk and started imagining what it would be like to wave the braid in Robertâs face. He wanted a really good punch line. Something smart and snappy that would really maximize the shockâwithout sounding as though he cared too much. He imagined himself lounging casually against the side of the doorway, saying something short and witty.
He hadnât counted on being angry.
When Robert opened the door, all the cool,
But the imaginary scene in his head started going wrong. Because he knew what Emma would say. He could almost hear her superior, sarcastic voice. So you found a twelve-strand braid, did you? Are you sure it wasnât nine? Or ten? Did you count the strands?
And, of course, he hadnât counted them. He couldnât be sure there really were twelve. And even if he was sure, that wouldnât be good enough once he was face-to-face with Emma. He had to double-check. To get a better look.
He stayed on the bench, waiting for the boy to come out of the sweet shop. Determined to track him all the way home if he had to.
But that wasnât necessary. Because when the boy came out of the shop, he headed straight back to the bench and sat down in exactly the same place as before. He had three more paper bags in his hand, and he put them down on the bench, on his left-hand side, exactly where the other bags had been.
Then he slipped the sports bag off his shoulder and turned to put it on the other side. But there wasnât room, because Tom was sitting there.
If their eyes had met, even for a second, things would have been different. Tom was ready to give him a smile. He was ready to slide to the end of the bench to make room for the bag. He would have done anything that gave him a chance to talk and ask a few questions about the braid.
But the boy glanced away, avoiding him. He just dropped his sports bag onto the ground, half of it in front of his own feet and half in front of Tomâs. Then he turned to the sweets and started stuffing them into his mouth.
The braid was there, right next to Tomâs feet, hanging down from the zipper toggle. He could hardly breathe. It was close enough to touch. Donât move too fast. Donât blow it. As casually as he could, he bent over and started retying one of his shoelaces.
As soon as he bent down, the boyâs head whipped around. The pale eyes peered suspiciously.
âHi.â Tom looked up, straight at him. âYou OK?â
He said it in the friendliest voice he could and grinned cheerfully. But the boy didnât respond. For a second he just stared, obviously startled at being spoken to. Then he glowered and turned his back ostentatiously, shielding the sweets with his body.
Right, Tom thought. If youâre going to be like that, Iâll do it another way. As the fat hand reached into the paper bags, Tom took his chance. His fingers flew to the zipper toggle, and he struggled with the knot, trying to untie the little braid.
But he couldnât. The knot was pulled tight, and the braiding made it almost impossible to pull it apart.
So he simply picked up the bag and walked off with it.
Heâd never stolen anything before. Even while his fingers were closing around the handles, he was telling himself that he wouldnât really do it. But his arm kept moving, and the boy didnât turn around, and suddenlyâthere Tom was, on the other side of the square, with the bag in his hand.
He slipped between two shops, into the parking lot, and then ran, as fast as he could, heading out of town toward the park and Robertâs house. There was one shout from behind him, and thenânothing. When he glanced over his shoulder, there was no one racing after him.
He slowed to a walk and started imagining what it would be like to wave the braid in Robertâs face. He wanted a really good punch line. Something smart and snappy that would really maximize the shockâwithout sounding as though he cared too much. He imagined himself lounging casually against the side of the doorway, saying something short and witty.
He hadnât counted on being angry.
When Robert opened the door, all the cool,
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