Kelly held his hand even after Timmy tried to pull it back. “I saw you in math today,” she said. “You sit near the front.”
Again Timmy nodded.
“Don’t say much, do you Timmy? Well, that’s okay,” she said, releasing his hand. “My dad says I talk too much anyway.”
Her grasp had been warm and a bit damp, but for some reason he couldn’t understand, Timmy hadn’t minded her holding his hand.
She stared at him some more and Timmy looked up into her suntanned face and those sparkling green eyes. She said, “I bet your dad doesn’t say that to you. You know, that you talk too much.”
Timmy’s entire body quaked and—he couldn’t help himself—the tears started again. “My dad’s dead,” he blubbered.
Kelly gasped and brought her hands to her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t know.”
Timmy sniffled. “It’s okay,” he said. “I gotta get home.” And he started down the street.
He could sense her watching him as he moved away toward home. Once again he wiped his eyes and face with his sleeve.
“Hey!” Kelly called to him.
Timmy kept walking, but glanced back at the girl. She was still shuffling on the hot pavement, right where he’d left her.
Without waiting for his reply, she shouted, “If you ever want to come over and bounce on my trampoline, you can if you want.” She paused. “We could talk.”
“Thanks,” Timmy mumbled, not caring if she heard him. He turned back in the direction of his house and slumped home.
Home was a single-story, five-room ranch house painted a light gray. Timmy breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that his mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Good; he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d been crying. Moms were good at detecting things like that. The bruise on the other hand . . . he would have to come up with a good explanation for that. Maybe she wouldn’t notice it, but Mr. Atkins and then that girl back there had certainly noticed.
From the top step, Timmy glanced around the neighborhood, checking to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied, he reached into the flower pot and snatched the door key that Mom always hid for him. He let himself in, placed the key on the counter, and then poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink.
He went to his room where he closed the door behind him. He placed the glass of water on the bedside table, then removed his soiled shirt, socks, and pants and tossed them in the hamper. Checking himself in the mirror, Timmy realized that taking a shower might wash off the stench of the manure, but it wouldn’t wash the obvious bruises and scratches from his face or arms. And it wouldn’t make the bump on his head go away. Still, he didn’t want to get any horse or donkey poop all over his bed sheets, so he went to the hall bathroom where he used a washcloth to scrub his hair, face, and neck and then wiped his arms. He stumbled back to his room and collapsed on the mattress where he cried until his mother came home.
Chapter Four
Timmy heard the distant sound of the front door opening and closing, the jingle and clack of his mom’s car keys hitting the kitchen countertop, and then: “Timmy? You home?”
He buried his sore, tear-streaked face into his pillow and waited with dread.
His mother’s footsteps thumped down the short corridor, stopping just outside his bedroom door. A moment later he heard a hesitant knock. “Timmy? . . . Honey?”
Timmy let out a pillow-muffled reply. “Yeah?”
“Can I come in, sweetheart?”
Another garbled response. “Yes.”
The door opened, and Timmy sensed her standing just inside his room, staring at him as he lay on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow.
“You sick?” his mother asked.
Timmy shook his head from side to side on the pillow.
“Tired?”
“I guess,” he mumbled.
Ann Unterkanz walked to the bed and sat down on the mattress next to her son’s resting form. “Here, roll over so I can take your temperature,” she said.
“I’m okay Mom,” Timmy said, refusing to move.
She tugged on his arm. “Hon, look at me,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
Timmy remained motionless; silent.
Finally, Mom had had enough. She reached across and grabbed his right shoulder. Turning him over, she gasped when she saw his face.
Chapter Five
Cradling his lunch tray, Timmy scanned the huge, noisy cafeteria for an empty seat.
It was Thursday, the third day of the school year. On the first two days, he’d sat at the rich kids’ table. So far, those kids had been the only ones to tolerate him, even though they hadn’t actually talked with him. From what Timmy had overheard of their conversations, their parents all belonged to the Richfield Hills Country Club, and those boys and girls all knew each other. They swam and played golf and tennis together and just plain hung out. To them, Timmy was an outsider, the son of a struggling nurse. But at least they didn’t try to trip him, tease him or throw food at him, which was why Timmy so badly wanted to find this group of five or six smart kids in their nice, bright clothing. Those kids would just ignore him and Timmy was fine with that. It was better than getting beaten.
Sensing someone watching him, Timmy turned to his left. His eyes met the cold, collective glare of Eddie Batts’ gang staring at him from a nearby table, their trays heaped with food. Timmy shuddered.
The school year had started on Tuesday, and on the first two days the boys at Eddie’s table had welcomed Timmy to the cafeteria with grunts of “Shrimpo Underpants!” and attempts to trip him or pelt him with food as he’d walked past. Today, however, they were silent, smirking angrily at him. Timmy knew this was because his mom had called the Richfield Middle School main office to report the bullying.
In his bedroom yesterday, Timmy’s mom, before convincing him to tell her what had happened, had sworn to him that she would make whatever had left that ugly, painful bruise under his eye and whatever had caused that bump on his head go away.
“You’ll make it go away for good?” Timmy had whispered.
“For good,” his mom had promised.
So he’d told her about the four boys bullying him at school.
Now, under the hateful watch of Eddie, Joey, Ralph, and Stew, Timmy wondered if telling the truth had been the smartest thing to do.
Realizing it was hopeless to try to get past Eddie and his goons while balancing a tray of tacos, rice, and vegetables, Timmy cut back in the opposite direction, slipping past tables and outstretched legs. At least these legs weren’t intentionally trying to trip him.
He noticed a pair of older kids sitting at a table, sketching into their notebooks and chatting, and he placed his tray down on the opposite side of the table and pulled out a chair.
Both kids looked up; one of them—a boy with dark hair and a mean face—scowled and then shouted: “This table is reserved for seventh graders, sixth grader.” And then the mean seventh-grader blurted out laughing.
Timmy picked up his tray, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it, and walked slowly through the gaps between tables, cutting back through the center of the seating area. It seemed as if everyone in the crowded lunchroom was laughing at him now, the sound of their taunting getting louder. He took a deep breath; there had to be a place somewhere for him to sit and quickly eat his lunch without getting hit or teased—
“Timmy.”
Timmy spun at the sound of her voice, the plate of tacos nearly sliding off his tray. Balancing the tray and his feet, he stared straight ahead. At the corner table a suntanned girl with curly, brown hair and green eyes smiled at him.
Kelly.
He’d been so nervous he hadn’t noticed her sitting there by the soda machine. He’d been trying not to look around too much or draw attention to himself and his desperate search for a welcoming table. Head down, he approached Kelly’s table and with trembling hands he placed down his tray before pulling out a chair
and sitting.
“Hi Timmy,” Kelly welcomed him. “Don’t let this place get to you. I don’t, you see?” Kelly spread her arms wide, palms up, to show off her table. She was wearing a light, emerald-green sweater that matched her eyes. “Today this is my table, and I say that you get to sit with me.”
Timmy smiled briefly. “Thanks.”
“What’s wrong?” she said. “It’s not the percentages from math, is it? I know those like the back of my hand.” She held up her hand and rotated it, then giggled.
Again Timmy’s face formed a half-smile, but no more. She was kind of funny. It relaxed him.
“How’s it going?” he muttered, unable to think of anything else to say.
“It’s going great!” she said. “I have a horse show at Birchtown in just two more days.”
“Oh really? You ride horses?”
“I sure do,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Just about every day. What do you do Timmy? You know, when you’re not in school?”
Timmy frowned. “Well, I just moved here from Connecticut. I used to be a Cub Scout and my dad was the troop leader—” He stopped.
“That’s cool,” Kelly said. “Why don’t you join the Boy Scouts here? I know lots of kids here who do that.”
Timmy nodded weakly.
“Say,” she said, “why don’t you come watch me ride on Saturday? You could help me get my horse ready and root for me.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you sure you want me—”
“I sure do.” Kelly reached across the table and clenched Timmy’s hand. “Please?”
Timmy flushed as Kelly’s warm hand gently squeezed his own. She had a kind touch.
“So what do you say?” she prodded.
Timmy looked up from the girl’s hand covering his own and into her eyes. She smiled.
“Okay,” he said finally, “but I’ll need to ask my mom first.”
“Hooray!” Kelly said. “My own cheering section. So come by my house at five and you can ride to the show with my mom and me.”
Timmy blinked. “Five?”
Kelly laughed. “That’s right, five o’clock in the morning,” she said. “And don’t back out on me now,” she added sternly. “You promised.”
“Okay, I’ll be there,” Timmy said with a groan.
“Great,” Kelly said. “Now let’s eat our tacos before they get all slimy.”
They ate their lunches without talking, but not in silence. There was a crunching sound as Kelly’s teeth crushed the taco shells while Timmy’s heartbeat continued to pump in his own ears. They made eye contact and she smiled widely while Timmy smiled shyly. He gazed into his new friend’s eyes with affection. She had such colorful and friendly eyes, Timmy thought. He could stare into her eyes all—
Suddenly Kelly’s eyes shifted; her expression going cold. As Timmy turned his head to see what had disturbed her, a gruff, heckling voice came from behind him, making his heart sink.
“Hey Shrimpo Underpants.”
Timmy spun in his chair, but Eddie’s firm grip on the back of his neck stopped him in mid-turn.
“Don’t turn around Shrimpo,” Eddie said gruffly. “Just listen. After school, you’re dead meat. Got that?”
“Leave him alone,” Kelly cried.
“You keep out of this, Miss-I-Have-No-Friends,” Eddie said to Kelly as he tugged harder on the back of Timmy’s neck. “I’m talking to the new kid, so butt out.”
Kelly got up from the table and left. Timmy hoped she was going to bring Mr. Dunham, the teacher assigned to monitor the cafeteria today.
Eddie’s palm struck Timmy’s cheek lightly. “After school when there are no teachers . . . you’re mine.”
Chapter Six
Déjà vu, Timmy thought as he ran as fast as he could from Eddie and the others.
His mother used those same two words a lot and she’d once explained to him that déjà vu was French for a feeling of having been somewhere—or having done something—before. And right now, Timmy was being chased by Eddie, Joey, Ralph, and Stew just as he’d been chased yesterday. He’d even dropped his books on the school sidewalk again. He’d have to check the lost and found again tomorrow. A lot of good having his hands free was doing him; the other boys were catching up.
He reached the fence bordering Crabapple Farm and turned left and bolted down the sidewalk. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Joey Jergens racing across the street again, preparing to cut him off—only today, Joey’s grunts were angrier as he reached the sidewalk and dove for Timmy.
This time Joey led with his head, drilling Timmy in the shoulder and sending him crashing into the fence where he collapsed facedown onto the grass.
“Ha-ha! Great tackle Joey boy!” Eddie hollered.
Both of Timmy’s shoulders ached; his left one from Joey’s flying tackle and his right from the fence post. Choking with fear, Timmy lifted his head from the tall grass that Mr. Atkins’ horses couldn’t reach from the pasture and watched helplessly as Eddie, Ralph, and Stew crossed the street and joined Joey on the sidewalk.
Eddie, always the leader, shoved past the other boys and reached down and seized Timmy’s hair. Timmy felt his head being cocked back until it hurt.
“So you tattled on us?” Eddie hissed, and then forced Timmy’s head into a nodding gesture. “Uh-huh,” Eddie answered on Timmy’s behalf. Eddie scooped his other hand under Timmy’s chin. “Was that the right thing to do?” Eddie twisted Timmy’s neck from side to side. “Nah-ah.”
Timmy reached for Eddie’s hands, but the bigger boy only tightened his grip, preventing Timmy from prying the bully’s fingers from his hair and chin.
“You know how much trouble we all got in with our parents?” Eddie said. “Know what happens to tattletales at Richfield Middle School?”
Timmy swallowed. “Please . . . you’re hurting me,” he choked out.
The other boys all laughed. Ralph Bacchio’s squeaky voice the most haunting of all.
“Aw, is the little crybaby hurt?” Eddie taunted as he lifted Timmy to his feet by his head. “Well, you should have thought about that before you had your mommy call the principal on us.”
Timmy blinked. The other boys stood around him, all of them—even Ralph—towering over him, blocking all paths of escape.
Except one.
Timmy spun, squirting free of Eddie’s powerful grasp, then dropped to his hands and knees. With a desperate pant, he squeezed under the fence railing. He was nearly through when he heard one of the other boys shout, “Get him!” and then he felt Eddie’s hard kick on his behind, the force sending him through the fence and somersaulting down the slope of the pasture once again. He could hear Eddie and the others laughing at him as he tumbled.
“Ha-ha-ha,” Eddie roared with delight. “That was fun. We ought to do this every day.”
“Yeah, bowling with the Shrimpo is fun,” Stew said.
Timmy landed on his side, then his elbow, then his head and he almost lost consciousness, but he kept on rolling—
—until he reached the bottom of the slope, where, this time his momentum was not stopped by a soft, smelly pile of manure. This time his head collided with something hard and solid that produced a loud, metallic clang.
The bell-like sound rang in Timmy’s ears for a long moment before everything went black.
He awoke sometime later, a little at a time.
First, his eyes opened to a dizzying view of the dull green and yellow farm tractor parked in front of the manure pile.
So that’s what I crashed into, he thought with a wince.
Then, as he pressed himself to his knees, his world still spinning, Timmy noticed that it had gotten dark; not yet night but almost. His mom would be worried. He rose to his feet, anxious to get home, but as he tried to take a step a whole new wave of dizziness struck and he staggered and nearly fell.
A voice called out to him from the dusk-tinted pasture, causing him to come fully to his senses.
“Hello th
ere partner,” it said.
Startled, Timmy glanced around—to the door of the barn, toward the farmhouse, even up the slope behind him—but he couldn’t see anyone. “Mr. Atkins?” he said with fear in his voice. “Is that you?”
“Nope,” the dopey voice replied.
Timmy turned, trying to pinpoint the direction of the strange voice. He noticed the small, open stall. From inside of it a pair of large, glistening eyes beamed.
“That’s right. In here,” the mysterious speaker said. “You better come on in. It’s about to pour.”
“Huh?” Timmy said, blinking in confusion.
Suddenly, from the sky came the crack of loud thunder. A second later Timmy saw a lightning bolt streak across the sky.
“Better hurry,” the voice from the stall warned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
Timmy heard the hard patter of raindrops advancing across the pasture toward him. The drops reached him before he could retreat; pelting him, dousing his scalp, dampening his clothes, turning the dirt beneath his feet to mud.
“Well, what do you want? A written invitation?” the voice in the stall coaxed. “Come on in and wait out the storm.”
Despite the downpour, Timmy moved cautiously. The ground was getting slippery and he wasn’t sure of the intent of the stranger looming inside the shadowy stall. He crossed through the open doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dark, and then he stared in utter amazement at the thing standing inside.
The creature had tall, furry, pointed ears sticking straight up, a long snout, and a stocky body that was even furrier yet. Like a horse, but much smaller, it stood on four legs with a tail that swished through the air, striking its own rump impatiently.
“About time you knew enough to get out of the rain,” the donkey said.
“Puh-Puh-,” Timmy stammered. Then finally the word left his mouth. “Pedro?”
“That’s what they call me,” the donkey said.
Timmy reached up and pinched his own cheek.
Donkey Sense Page 2