of his pals would share his lunch with him today.
Still hungry, I rode on. I went through several small towns, and stopped three times to drink some water and to let Foxey out for exercise. I felt hungrier when I stopped than when I was pushing the pedals so I only rested a few minutes each time.
I saw a lighted sign on a bank that gave the time as 3:45. I decided to call Mike again. School got out at 3:20. With luck, Mike would answer the phone.
I found another phone booth and placed a person-to-person collect call. Mike answered.
“I have a call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.
“This is Mike.” His voice sounded odd, as if he didn’t really want to talk to me.
“You have a collect call from Foxey,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes. But tell him my mother . . .”
“Go ahead, please,” said the operator.
“Hi, Mike. This is Spencer.”
“Spencer Atwood, where are you?” said Mrs. Pinkus.
Spencer realized that Mike’s mother had been on the line the whole time. That’s why Mike sounded strained.
“Your mother is worried sick,” Mrs. Pinkus said. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come to get you.”
I hung up. There was no point trying to call Mike. I would have to get some money another way.
I wasn’t sure what town I was in. I rode along with my stomach growling. The peanut butter sandwich and corn chips had been seven hours ago. I had to get food, or money to buy it, soon.
A few blocks from the phone booth, I spotted a large grocery store. I left my bike at the end of a row of shopping carts in front of the building. I took Foxey, in his box, with me.
Two teenage girls sat at a card table just outside the store, selling candy bars. Every time someone approached, one of the girls said, “Would you like to buy a chocolate bar to support the high school band? We’re raising money for new uniforms.”
Most people replied, “How much?” and when the girls said, “One dollar,” a lot of people handed over a dollar bill. One woman said, “I’ll buy one, but you girls can eat it. I’m on a diet.”
I wanted to say, “I’ll eat it for you,” but I knew that would seem weird and I probably looked weird enough already, carrying around a cardboard box with a cat in it.
I went into the store and asked the woman at the first check stand if I could talk to the manager.
“Upstairs,” she said, pointing to a stairway at the other side of the store.
I climbed the steps and knocked on a closed door.
“Come in.”
“Do you have any work I can do?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me.
I swallowed hard, aware that my shirt was none too clean and it was three days since I’d had a shower.
“How old are you?” the manager asked.
“Thirteen.” That was stretching it some, but thirteen sounds a lot older than twelve.
“I can’t hire anyone younger than sixteen.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me with money,” I said. “You could just give me some food.”
“Are you hungry, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
“I don’t remember the address,” I said. “I just moved.” That wasn’t really a lie, I decided.
“What do you have in that box?” he asked.
“Just something I don’t want to lose. My daddy gave it to me.” I hoped Foxey wouldn’t choose that particular moment to test his vocal cords. I was pretty sure animals are not allowed in grocery stores.
He looked at me for a long moment. “Did you run away from home?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir,” I said. “I live with my Mama and my Aunt May but times are hard just now and I eat an awful lot. I thought if I earned some food before I go home, I wouldn’t need so much dinner tonight.”
The manager nodded at me. “Pick up all the litter in the parking lot,” he said, “and put it in the trash bin behind the store.” As he talked, he scribbled something on a slip of paper. “When you’re finished, take this to the clerk in
Still hungry, I rode on. I went through several small towns, and stopped three times to drink some water and to let Foxey out for exercise. I felt hungrier when I stopped than when I was pushing the pedals so I only rested a few minutes each time.
I saw a lighted sign on a bank that gave the time as 3:45. I decided to call Mike again. School got out at 3:20. With luck, Mike would answer the phone.
I found another phone booth and placed a person-to-person collect call. Mike answered.
“I have a call for Mike Pinkus,” the operator said.
“This is Mike.” His voice sounded odd, as if he didn’t really want to talk to me.
“You have a collect call from Foxey,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes. But tell him my mother . . .”
“Go ahead, please,” said the operator.
“Hi, Mike. This is Spencer.”
“Spencer Atwood, where are you?” said Mrs. Pinkus.
Spencer realized that Mike’s mother had been on the line the whole time. That’s why Mike sounded strained.
“Your mother is worried sick,” Mrs. Pinkus said. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come to get you.”
I hung up. There was no point trying to call Mike. I would have to get some money another way.
I wasn’t sure what town I was in. I rode along with my stomach growling. The peanut butter sandwich and corn chips had been seven hours ago. I had to get food, or money to buy it, soon.
A few blocks from the phone booth, I spotted a large grocery store. I left my bike at the end of a row of shopping carts in front of the building. I took Foxey, in his box, with me.
Two teenage girls sat at a card table just outside the store, selling candy bars. Every time someone approached, one of the girls said, “Would you like to buy a chocolate bar to support the high school band? We’re raising money for new uniforms.”
Most people replied, “How much?” and when the girls said, “One dollar,” a lot of people handed over a dollar bill. One woman said, “I’ll buy one, but you girls can eat it. I’m on a diet.”
I wanted to say, “I’ll eat it for you,” but I knew that would seem weird and I probably looked weird enough already, carrying around a cardboard box with a cat in it.
I went into the store and asked the woman at the first check stand if I could talk to the manager.
“Upstairs,” she said, pointing to a stairway at the other side of the store.
I climbed the steps and knocked on a closed door.
“Come in.”
“Do you have any work I can do?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me.
I swallowed hard, aware that my shirt was none too clean and it was three days since I’d had a shower.
“How old are you?” the manager asked.
“Thirteen.” That was stretching it some, but thirteen sounds a lot older than twelve.
“I can’t hire anyone younger than sixteen.”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me with money,” I said. “You could just give me some food.”
“Are you hungry, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
“I don’t remember the address,” I said. “I just moved.” That wasn’t really a lie, I decided.
“What do you have in that box?” he asked.
“Just something I don’t want to lose. My daddy gave it to me.” I hoped Foxey wouldn’t choose that particular moment to test his vocal cords. I was pretty sure animals are not allowed in grocery stores.
He looked at me for a long moment. “Did you run away from home?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir,” I said. “I live with my Mama and my Aunt May but times are hard just now and I eat an awful lot. I thought if I earned some food before I go home, I wouldn’t need so much dinner tonight.”
The manager nodded at me. “Pick up all the litter in the parking lot,” he said, “and put it in the trash bin behind the store.” As he talked, he scribbled something on a slip of paper. “When you’re finished, take this to the clerk in
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