Free Lost Boy by Tim Green Page B

Ryder.
    â€œEasy, kid.” The man with the dirty leather jacket andbinder took another step back. “Get yourself a ticket and go inside. You might get him by the dugout. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the players will sign things there.”
    â€œI don’t have a ticket!” Ryder’s voice sounded hysterical.
    â€œScalp one. It’s the Braves, kid. You can probably get a nosebleed seat for twenty bucks.” The man tilted his head.
    â€œThey took my money!” Ryder screamed in frustration at the man, startling himself because he couldn’t remember ever just screaming at anyone.
    â€œHey. Kid.” The security guard barked at Ryder and kept coming his way. His unblinking eyes were locked on Ryder. It was trouble. Ryder backed up and turned and ran. When he looked back he saw the security guard talking into his radio. Ryder saw some police up ahead and—without thinking—he darted back across River Avenue. A car he didn’t see jammed on its brakes as he ran by, squealing sideways, its tires smoking and poisoning the air with burned rubber.
    Ryder bolted forward. Another car streaked past, blaring its horn. He made it to the far curb and shot right back down the street he’d been robbed on. Halfway down, he turned and saw no one was following him. There was a steady stream of fans now, but all going the other way, heading toward the stadium. Ryder leaned his back up against the concrete of the parking garage and felt everything crumple. His legs folded and he slumped down until he sat on the concrete with his back against the garage wall.
    He hung his head between his knees so no one could see him and began to sob, certain now that he had missed his chance to meet his father, but more important, the chance tosave his mother’s life. He was no quiet hero. He was a chicken and a flop. He sat for five or ten minutes and cried himself out, aware that people were passing him, and that no one stopped. When he felt a kick against his sneaker, he flinched and looked up through blurry eyes.
    It was Orange.
    â€œHey, you’re too old to be cryin’ about twenty dollars, boy. Twenty dollars is like three Happy Meals. Ain’t no big deal.” Orange grinned down at him like they were old friends.
    The rest of the gang circled around him.
    â€œBig baby,” Buddha muttered, and spit on the sidewalk.
    â€œTwenty bucks?” Ryder screamed up at them, possessed by hopelessness and despair. “I could’ve gotten a ticket for twenty bucks! You stole my money!”
    Ryder hopped to his feet and Attack Dog was on him, smothering his mouth with one hand and the other an iron lock on the back of his neck as the others crowded in, looking around and nervous, even though the stream of people going by all turned their heads the other way.
    â€œNo, you don’t do that.” Orange spoke soft and calm and shook his head. “You wanna get into the stadium? That’s what you want?”
    Ryder glared at him and nodded and grunted a yes through Attack Dog’s hand.
    â€œWell, just say so.” Orange smiled at him, talking low, with his freckles mashing together at the seams of his dimpled smile. “We can get you in and you don’t need twenty bucks.”
    Attack Dog removed his hand from Ryder’s mouth and loosened the hold on his neck.
    â€œOkay?” Orange spoke quietly.
    â€œYou got tickets?” Ryder asked.
    Orange snorted and smirked all around. “When you’re with us, you don’t need a ticket to get into Yankee Stadium. We got a VIP entrance.”
    The others laughed and exchanged knowing looks. “Yeah.”
    â€œVIP?” Ryder wrinkled his forehead.
    â€œNot really VIP. It’s more like a tunnel .” Orange turned and began to walk the other way, against the flow of the crowd. “Come on.”
    â€œC’mon, kid.” Buddha gave him a light shove. “We’ll get you