Read Online The Middle of Somewhere by J.B. Cheaney - Free Book Online Page B

Here's one that'll fit you.” I took a black hat with a snakeskin band from the display and plopped it on his head: too big, but that just made him look cute.
    He pouted under the wide brim. “I want a golden helmet. Like Cannonball Paul.”
    “For you, that might be more useful,” I agreed.
    “Why can't we go out on Front Street?”
    “You know why. We don't have tickets. How about a vest? Look—real leather, with fringe and silver studs. I'll bet all the cool kids at school will be wearing these next fall.”
    No use—he wasn't interested in clothes, unless they made him look like a gorilla or a superhero. For a while he amused himself by pressing his nose and lips against theglass door and blowing his cheeks out until one of the store clerks said, “Little boy, please stop that.”
    Meanwhile, some of those hats were starting to grow on me. I'm kind of an ordinary-looking person, with straight yellowish-brownish hair and blue eyes and “her father's nose,” as Mama says—which meant I could do with a little less nose. But a soft beige hat with a band of silver-and-turquoise medallions kind of puts a nose in perspective.
    Kent Clark says to choose clothes that build your confidence. Much as I wanted a car, it would almost be worth buying a horse to go with a hat like that. Besides, you didn't need a license for a horse, right?
    Suddenly, it occurred to me that I hadn't heard any of the store clerks say “Little boy please stop that” lately. I listened for falling merchandise or thumps on the floor, but what I heard, over the background of some guy singing “O bury me not on the lone pray-ree,” was Pop in conversation about the power source of the future.
    He was in the book section, discussing his new business with a man holding a book about windmills—the old-fashioned kind of windmill that used to pump water on the lone prairie. The fellow Pop was talking to seemed interested—at least he wasn't making excuses to get away. When I ran over, both men looked up. “Where's Gee?” I asked.
    My mother and I have this radar when we're all together: if either of us senses danger, we lift our heads like grazing deer and say together, “Where's Gee?” It's not areal question—it's a signal. Pop hadn't learned that yet, so he answered, “How should I know?”
    I started a quick search of the store, and after giving the other man his business card, Pop joined me. “I don't think he's in here,” I said.
    “Not out there, either.” We paused beside the glass door leading to Historic Front Street. In the dusty road outside the livery stable, a couple of dudes in Old West outfits were shouting at each other as a crowd of spectators gathered. Evidently they were gearing up for a gunfight, just like on the billboards.
    “He couldn't get out through this door,” Pop said. “It has an automatic lock.”
    Back to the parking lot, then. I wasn't in full panic mode yet. Gee had the sense by now not to run out into traffic, or any of the usual little-kid tricks. The problem was with
un
usual kid tricks. We searched the parking area and the RV while people lined up on the sidewalk to watch the shoot-out. I was starting to feel just a little edgy when—
    Pow! Pow!
    The gunfire was so loud it made me jump. But what followed was a shriek, all too familiar: “You got me! I'm a goner!”
    I ran to the fence, and sure enough Gee was staggering around, clutching his stomach and throwing in a few moves he'd picked up from the whirligigs. The gunman who was still standing looked clueless for a minute, then put one hand on his hip and shook his head. The dead man rolled over to find out who was stealing his scene. Then he sat up and said something that made the spectators laugh.
    Unfortunately, Gee doesn't know when to quit. He flopped on his back in the dust and jerked his legs like a frog, then rolled on his stomach and gouged the dirt with his toes. Finally, the dead guy stood and hauled him up by the