Free The Boy from Left Field by Tom Henighan

Mum?” Hawk asked. “We can’t go back to that wreck. And somebody must be after us.”
    Hawk was still wondering if the Rippers had tracked him home. If they knew that he and his friends were spying on them, had they smashed the window of the car to scare him off? He couldn’t tell his mother a thing, but needed to talk to Panny or Martin about it. What would happen if it was the gang? Would they come back that night?
    “We’ll figure out something,” his mother said, trying to reassure him, even though she only knew half the story. “I’m betting it was just some stupid kid throwing stones. Don’t worry about it right now — you should be thinking of school.”
    “Yeah, I am thinking about it,” Hawk said. He was trying his best to sound enthusiastic, although he felt a little anxious about what was coming. Would the kids make fun of him? Would they decide that he was ignorant or stupid? He swallowed his fears, and to placate his mother, he added, “Dad says you did a good job dealing with the School Board.”
    “Oh, he did, did he? Well, he’s right about that. I got you in there. Not many people in my position could have managed it. The rest is up to you.”
    “Don’t worry, Mum, I won’t disappoint you.”
    “I know you won’t. Now just sit in that chair over there while we finish setting up these tables.”
    Hawk spent the next forty-five minutes watching his mother and her friends trying to sell their wares to the passersby. A steady stream of people marched past, hardly any of them taking notice of the three women who stood by the tables attempting to catch their attention, discreetly announcing “nice bags,” “bottles,” “Native crafts,” and other things that drew hardly a look, but caused quite a few pedestrians to step ahead all the faster when they heard them.
    Among them were young, well-dressed women hurrying back from late lunches, housewives pushing strollers, delivery men in grey uniforms, a few old codgers stealing a smoke, teens texting and joking with one another as they marched past, and one policeman, who gave the sellers a quick glance before moving on. No one stopped except a couple of very old ladies wrapped in shabby shawls, who for a few minutes poked among the dolls and the placemats, the bottles and the toy drums, then shook their heads disapprovingly and trudged away.
    It was depressing, Hawk thought, like a garage sale on a dead-end street — why did his mother have to do this? This was the Danforth, where everyone seemed busy buying and selling, a street with coffee shops, restaurants, small stores, and endless traffic, a place where no one wanted what these ladies had to sell. After an hour they hadn’t got rid of a single item and Hawk was desperate to escape.
    He sat squirming in his seat, thinking about what it would be like to be rich — to live in a nice house, to own a store, to drive a car, to walk right past people selling stupid things. Not to feel scared or guilty about anything.
    Then, in the middle of his sad, confused thoughts, a bell tinkled cheerily, a familiar figure zoomed up the sidewalk on her bike, braked to a stop a few feet from where he sat, and greeted him. “Hey, Hawk-boy, what’s this street stuff? I’ve a got a few things to tell you.”
    “Panny! How did you know I was here?”
    The girl smiled, slipped from her bike, and, with a glance at the three women, quietly told him, “One of my friends spotted you and texted me. I’ve got news from Martin. He followed Elroy to a place that might be important — a warehouse south of Lakeshore. We need to know more about that, and I think we’ve got a plan.”
    “Great!” Hawk jumped up and down with excitement. Storm Cloud eyed them and started over. He whispered quickly to Panny, “Here’s my mum. Don’t mention this. We’re talking about school, understand? She got me in. I start tomorrow.”
    “Don’t worry about the teachers,” Panny told him, speaking in a loud, clear