After that, I quit brooding about Father Mayhew and started paying more attention to what I was doing. And when this man comes through pushing a stroller with a blanket draped over it and whispers, “I’d like some food for my kid, too,” something about it didn’t seem quite right. And before I could stop myself, I reached over and pulled the blanket back. And what do I see? A jacket stuffed with clothes.
He yanks the blanket back and says, “Keep your hands off my stuff, you nosy brat!” Then he tries to cover up by saying, “I got a kid—he’s just asleep outside.”
I say, “Right,” and try to help the next person. But he doesn’t leave. He stands there and says, “Hand it over!”
Out of nowhere pops Sister Mary Margaret. She says, “Young man, the police station is two blocks away. If I hear another peep out of you, I’m going to pick up the phone and call. I suggest you take your sandwich and enjoy what’s left of the sunshine.”
He looks at her like a puppy that’s nipped his own tail, and then hurries out the door.
So there I am, passing out food, thinking about what’s just happened, when all of a sudden I’m standing face to face with this girl. She’s my size and her hair’s back in a ponytail, just like mine, and she’s not there with her mom or dad—she’s all by herself. And I’m standing there, holding out a plate to her, not quite wanting to let go of it when it hits me that she’s the girl I saw at St. Mary’s.
I look under the table and, sure enough, she’s wearing high-tops. I smile at her and say, “Hi!” but all she does is look at me kind of suspiciously. Then she takes the food and leaves.
Now you have to understand—it’s not every day I say hi to someone like I want to be friends with them. I mean, I’ve got Marissa and Dot, and other than that I don’t need any friends. People I know with lots of friends don’t seem to have any real friends. It’s like doubling the recipe when you’ve only got half the sugar—you wind up with a lot of cupcakes, but they’re not very sweet.
But there I was, being friendly to a perfect stranger, wishing she’d come back so I could talk to her and find out some important stuff—like her name and where she gets her high-tops.
And what in the world she’s doing, getting her dinner at the soup kitchen.
Don’t miss these other great books by
Wendelin Van Draanen:
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man Page 16