Crash by Jerry Spinelli

moving in. He’s not gonna leave. Ever. Is that it?”
    My dad nodded. “That’s it. If he can stand you two.”
    My mom turned to Scooter. “I waited till we got you here to tell you this: dear Abby is now a vegetarian.”
    Scooter winced and blessed himself. He’s not a Catholic, but he does it when he feels unsafe. “Since when?” he said, as if he were saying, “When did she die?”
    “Been going on several weeks now.”
    “Does she count fish as meat?”
    “She counts anything that has a face.”
    Scooter nodded slowly. “I guess that includes mice, then.”
    My mother stared at him. He was grinning and looking at her plate of stew. Her eyes bulged. She squawked. She jerked around to look into the kitchen. The trap was still there, a little glop of peanut butter as bait.
    Scooter chewed yummily on a forkful of stew. “I always like to make use of the local livestock.”
    My mother wagged her fork at him. “I wouldn’t put it past you. I really would not.”
    We all laughed.
    “Anyway,” my mom said, “it would take more than eating a mouse to spoil this day for me.”
    “How’s that?” I said.
    She sipped her coffee. “Well, you know about the new mall that’s coming. And you know my company is the real estate agent for it. But what you don’t know—and what I didn’t know until this afternoon—is that yours truly, the least senior member of the team, will be getting a piece of the action. I am going to handle three of the small stores.”
    She smiled from ear to ear. I couldn’t remember seeing her look so proud. We all clapped. She took a shy bow.
    “Does this mean we’ll be rich?” I said.
    She gave a grinny little snort. “Only thing it means for sure is that I’ll have more work.”
    I kept staring at her. She looked away. The silence got longer.
    “I was awesome today,” I said.
    My dad smacked the table. “I forgot. Your game. How’d it go? Who won? How’d you do?”
    Suddenly I didn’t feel like telling-them. I chewed some stew. I shrugged. “Scored six TDs.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw my father’s jaw drop. I looked at the ceiling. I had never noticed how pure white was the fluorescent light.
    “A school record,” said Scooter.
    My mother’s voice came cracking and low. “Crash, that’s wonderful. I’m really proud.”
    I took a deep breath. I wanted to leave.
    Abby came in. She screamed when she saw Scooter and ran to him. It was complicated hugging him, because she carried a big white cardboard sign tacked onto a three-foot stick.
    “What’s this?” said Scooter, drawing back and almost getting clobbered.
    Abby turned the sign around so we all could see. It was painted in big red letters. It said:
    THE MALL
MUST FALL
    She wore a button that said the same thing.
    My mother cleared her throat. “What’s this about?”
    Abby marched around the dining room table. “We’re gonna demonstrate against the new mall. We’re not gonna let them build it.”

20
    Abby and I fought over who got to carry Scooter’s suitcase up to his room. I won.
    As usual, when he came to his picture in the hallway gallery, he had to stop and say, “Now there’s a handsome young man. I wonder who that is.”
    The painting shows this sailor with his white hat cocked down to one eyebrow and his mouth open like he’s saying something. If it wasn’t hanging in our hallway, I never would have guessed it was my grandfather, the sailor is so young. My mother told us it was the first portrait she ever did. She was still in high school.
    He knocked on the wall. “Nice bulkhead too.”
    We groaned, which was what he wanted. It’s Navy talk. A bulkhead is a wall, a door is a hatch, the kitchen is the galley, the dining room is the mess, a stairway is a ladder.
    We dragged him away from the bulkhead to his room. It was the guest room, actually, but when we turned on the light and walked in, I had the warmest feeling, knowing he’d be there for good.
    I put his suitcase on the bed.