Read Online This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans - Free Book Online

until that oak falls, and by that time, a boy walking by the trunk won’t even know the bike is in there—the oak will have swallowed it up like a snake does a mouse.
    Sparrow answers, “Raul put it there.”
    Vincent laughs like it’s the coolest thing ever.
    My dad gave me that bike. It was way too big for me. He pushed me around on it a lot the Friday afternoonhe brought it up here. Put on a good show for the other parents. When he stopped coming, I decided to give the bike to the tree. It’s just as likely to learn to ride it as I am.
    We keep walking; we’re at the end of the path. The lake is in front of us. On the other side of the lake the trees are so close together and the blackberries scrape and the nettles sting so sharp that nobody has ever gone beyond them. Nobody but me, anyway.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Vincent asks in a whisper.
    Pin pricks in my fingers and on my head. For a second I wonder if I’m going to look where he’s pointing and see the secret that changed my life.
    I follow his finger with my eyes. He’s pointing to the straw man that I nailed to a huge cedar last year after Tuffman tackled Sparrow during touch football.
    We use it for target practice. It’s wearing Tuffman’s favorite sweatshirt that says 3X Olympian . I stole it from the laundry room. He turned the whole school upside down looking for that shirt. Not one of the Cubs ratted me out though, not even when Tuffman leaned in and hit them with his foul breath and a deadly speech about honesty and thieving and the awful punishment you get for stealing a man’s clothes.
    On the head of the straw man I nailed an old crow’s nest that looks like Tuffman’s toupee. Cracks me up every time I see it.
    I pull my sling out of my back pocket. It’s a little harder to use than a slingshot, but it’s my weapon of choice.
    I walk over to the straw man and point to the feet, the chest, and the shoulders.
    â€œFive points,” Sparrow yells out.
    Then I point to the knees, and Little John shouts, “Twenty points.” A runner’s knees are valuable. I can see by Vincent’s nod that he gets that.
    I point to you-know-where on the shorts.
    â€œFifty points.” I have to say it myself because all the kids are laughing to bust a gut.
    I walk back to Vincent. I reach down and scoop up a smooth stone, the perfect shape.
    A sling has two cords attached to a leather pouch in the middle. I set the stone in the center of the pouch. I hold the ends of the cords with the fingers and thumb of my right hand. I look at Vincent to make sure he’s watching.
    I start to spin it above my head. Vincent’s eyes follow it. The Cubs whoop as the sling arcs faster and faster. For a minute I just swing and stare at the straw man, finding my rhythm.
    I can’t help but show off. I close my eyes.
    I let the end of one cord go. The stone flies out of the pouch and makes a straight line toward the old cedar.
    Thwack . I hear the kids shout and I open my eyes. I look at Sparrow.
    â€œFifty points,” he informs me, and reaches out to shake my hand like a gentleman.
    Vincent shakes his head. The look in his eyes means more than any compliment.
    I’m about to hand him the sling, but then I think better of it. I want him to do something he can be good at right away. I pull the slingshot out of the knapsack.
    It’s a lot easier to learn how to use than the sling. And it’s a lot safer while you learn. You let go of that sling a little too soon and some kid has a rock between the eyes.
    I hand him the slingshot. I show him how to hold the Y-shaped piece of wood and where to put the rock, but I can tell he already kind of knows. I leave him alone to practice and go help the little kids bait their hooks. Whiz. I hear Vincent’s rock sail by the cedar tree. Thump. It falls on something soft, like a big mushroom. Whiz. Another one. Fwip. A leaf on a branch.