stay clear of me, now that they had what they wanted.
When it grew dark, I kicked some dead leaves into a pile, for my bed. I thought it would be softer than the ground. It was, a little, but every time I moved, the leaves crackled. Foxey didn’t like that, and I didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, so I ended up on the ground again, just like the first night. My leg ached; I wished I had packed some aspirin.
I was exhausted, and fell asleep quickly despite listening for dog tags or voices. I awoke three times during the night: once with a cramp in my foot, and twice because Foxey was sleeping on top of my legs and I couldn’t move. Each time, I lay wondering what to do next. I would have to abandon Plan A. Without money for food, I would never make it to Candlestick Park on a bike.
Splashes of pink colored the clouds the next time I awoke. I shifted a little without dumping Foxey off. He purred and dug his claws in and out of my jeans.
A new day and some sleep brought fresh determination. My injured leg felt better, too. Plan B, I decided, would be to call Dad and ask him to send memoney for bus fare. Why hadn’t I thought of that in the first place? For all I knew Dad had a great job with the Giants and made plenty of money. He might even send me enough for plane fare. Wouldn’t that be something?
I walked Foxey around a little and then rode on, watching for a telephone booth. I wanted to make my call as soon as possible, before Dad left for work.
I spotted a phone booth near a gas station. I took my debt journal and pencil out of my backpack, so I could write down Dad’s number. Then I stepped inside the phone booth, deposited my quarter, and pressed O.
“I want to make a collect call to San Francisco,” I said, when the operator answered, “but I don’t know the number.”
“What’s your party’s name?” she asked.
“Atwood,” I said, and spelled it for her. “His first name is Jerome.”
“One moment, please.”
I held the receiver with my left hand, and the pencil in my right hand.
“I’m sorry. There is no listing in San Francisco for a Jerome Atwood.”
“Is there some other town that’s close to Candlestick Park?” I asked.
“There are several,” she replied. “Would you like me to check San Bruno?”
“Yes, please.”
I was getting nervous. What if she couldn’t find Dad’s number?
“I’m sorry,” the voice said again. “I don’t find a listing for a Jerome Atwood anywhere in San Mateo County.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks anyway.”
I hung up, hoping I would get my quarter back. It didn’t come. I was down to twenty-six cents. I stood in the phone booth, looking out at the traffic whizzing past. Although the phone booth smelled as if someone had used it for a bathroom, I was not in a hurry to leave.
Who could I call that would help me? Other than Mama or Aunt May, that is. The only other phone number I knew by heart was Mike’s, my friend from the school I went to before we moved.
Mike! As soon as I thought about him, I knew it was a good idea. Maybe Mike could loan me some money. He could send it in care of General Delivery at the next town on my map.
I got out the map and studied it. I figured it would take a day or two for Mike’s letter to arrive. I decided to ask Mike to send as much money as he could to General Delivery in Salem, Oregon. Even if I didn’t eat for two days, I would still be able to make it that far.
I deposited my last quarter, relieved when a different operator answered. I didn’t want the telephone company getting suspicious.
This time I said, “I want to place a collect call.” I gave Mike’s number. I even knew the area code, since it was the same as mine used to be.
I heard the phone ring, and I heard Mike’s mother say, “Hello?”
The operator said, “One moment, please,” and then asked me, “What is your name?”
I thought fast. I couldn’t give my real name. I was positive Mama would have called
When it grew dark, I kicked some dead leaves into a pile, for my bed. I thought it would be softer than the ground. It was, a little, but every time I moved, the leaves crackled. Foxey didn’t like that, and I didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, so I ended up on the ground again, just like the first night. My leg ached; I wished I had packed some aspirin.
I was exhausted, and fell asleep quickly despite listening for dog tags or voices. I awoke three times during the night: once with a cramp in my foot, and twice because Foxey was sleeping on top of my legs and I couldn’t move. Each time, I lay wondering what to do next. I would have to abandon Plan A. Without money for food, I would never make it to Candlestick Park on a bike.
Splashes of pink colored the clouds the next time I awoke. I shifted a little without dumping Foxey off. He purred and dug his claws in and out of my jeans.
A new day and some sleep brought fresh determination. My injured leg felt better, too. Plan B, I decided, would be to call Dad and ask him to send memoney for bus fare. Why hadn’t I thought of that in the first place? For all I knew Dad had a great job with the Giants and made plenty of money. He might even send me enough for plane fare. Wouldn’t that be something?
I walked Foxey around a little and then rode on, watching for a telephone booth. I wanted to make my call as soon as possible, before Dad left for work.
I spotted a phone booth near a gas station. I took my debt journal and pencil out of my backpack, so I could write down Dad’s number. Then I stepped inside the phone booth, deposited my quarter, and pressed O.
“I want to make a collect call to San Francisco,” I said, when the operator answered, “but I don’t know the number.”
“What’s your party’s name?” she asked.
“Atwood,” I said, and spelled it for her. “His first name is Jerome.”
“One moment, please.”
I held the receiver with my left hand, and the pencil in my right hand.
“I’m sorry. There is no listing in San Francisco for a Jerome Atwood.”
“Is there some other town that’s close to Candlestick Park?” I asked.
“There are several,” she replied. “Would you like me to check San Bruno?”
“Yes, please.”
I was getting nervous. What if she couldn’t find Dad’s number?
“I’m sorry,” the voice said again. “I don’t find a listing for a Jerome Atwood anywhere in San Mateo County.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks anyway.”
I hung up, hoping I would get my quarter back. It didn’t come. I was down to twenty-six cents. I stood in the phone booth, looking out at the traffic whizzing past. Although the phone booth smelled as if someone had used it for a bathroom, I was not in a hurry to leave.
Who could I call that would help me? Other than Mama or Aunt May, that is. The only other phone number I knew by heart was Mike’s, my friend from the school I went to before we moved.
Mike! As soon as I thought about him, I knew it was a good idea. Maybe Mike could loan me some money. He could send it in care of General Delivery at the next town on my map.
I got out the map and studied it. I figured it would take a day or two for Mike’s letter to arrive. I decided to ask Mike to send as much money as he could to General Delivery in Salem, Oregon. Even if I didn’t eat for two days, I would still be able to make it that far.
I deposited my last quarter, relieved when a different operator answered. I didn’t want the telephone company getting suspicious.
This time I said, “I want to place a collect call.” I gave Mike’s number. I even knew the area code, since it was the same as mine used to be.
I heard the phone ring, and I heard Mike’s mother say, “Hello?”
The operator said, “One moment, please,” and then asked me, “What is your name?”
I thought fast. I couldn’t give my real name. I was positive Mama would have called
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