Read Online We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online Page B

Nintendos anymore?”she asked. Then, deciding to use a bit of flattery, “I thought you were an ace with the games.”
Ace,
one of his words.
    He shrugged again, looking away. “I kind of lost interest. It’s kid stuff, anyway.”
    “Kid stuff? I thought you had to be some kind of genius to play those games.”
    He looked directly at her, squinting: “How come you’re so interested, all of a sudden?”
    “It’s not the games I’m interested in, it’s you. And why you’re not playing them anymore.…”
    No answer but at least he wasn’t walking away from her. She took the big plunge. “Has it got something to do with what happened to Karen? The vandalism?”
    No answer again, still fiddling around with the bike.
    “I don’t like our house anymore,” he said, speaking so low that she barely heard the words. “I hate Burnside, too.”
    “I’m not crazy about it either,” she said. “But we’ve got to live here. We just can’t move.”
    “Why not? We moved here from Monument. Why can’t we move again?”
    “You heard what Dad said. That would be giving in, Artie.” She saw him suddenly not as a bratty kid but as a troubled boy for whom she had a lot of affection.
    “Giving in?” he asked, looking up at last. “To who?”
    “To whoever did that to us,” she said. “I think maybe they’d like us to move, to show that they changed our lives.” Discovering the thought for the first time as she spoke. “And damn it, Artie, we can’t let them do that.”
    He grimaced, eyes narrowing.
    “Can we?”
    “I guess not,” he said, looking directly at her.
    She felt that for the first time they had somehowtouched each other as human beings. She had to stifle a desire to embrace him, the way she would embrace a friend.
    “Think about it, okay?” she asked.
    He nodded, their eyes meeting again before he went back to working on his bike. We connected, she thought, pleased, as she went into the house.
    But Artie still did not play his video games.
    Three weeks after Vaughn Masterson’s funeral The Avenger’s grandfather had begun asking him questions about his stolen gun.
    “Know what’s funny about that gun?”
    “What’s funny, Gramps?” The Avenger asked, keeping his face blank.
    “Here’s what’s funny,” said Gramps, who always talked slow and easy, drawing out his words. “I wonder how anybody from outside could have stolen my piece.”
    He always called his gun his
piece
but the word that hung in the air now, menacing and threatening, was
outside.
    The Avenger did not say anything. His grandfather liked to talk. The Avenger always let him ramble on. Most times, he was a good talker and told stories about his days on the police force, especially the old days when he walked the beat in the toughest section of town, where the wise guys hung around.
    “I mean,” his grandfather went on as if answering a question The Avenger had asked, “I always keep the doors locked. How did the thief get into the place? No visible signs of entry.”
    The Avenger swallowed. “Maybe he had a key.”
    “A key?” His grandfather turned and fastened his dark brown eyes on him, his policeman’s eyes.
    “Maybe one of those skeleton keys you told me about, the kind that fits all doors?” The Avenger said, gulping.
    “Not this door, not this lock,” his grandfather said. “This is a special police bolt. Nope, we have to rule out a key. What does that leave?”
    His grandfather was still looking at him and The Avenger tried not to blink. “The windows?” he inquired. “You keep them open sometimes to catch a breeze.”
    “In two words: impossible,” his grandfather said. He was always quoting a man by the name of Sam Goldwyn, an old-time movie producer who said crazy things. Like: include me out. “How could anybody reach a fifth-floor window?”
    “A ladder?” The Avenger ventured.
    His grandfather did not bother to dignify the suggestion but snorted and looked out at the park, suddenly very