Free A Question of Manhood by Robin Reardon Page B

over, but he also knew his life was going to be hell from now on. I didn’t know what to say, so I just worked at the knots, cursing Marty for disappearing with the knife. And the car. How the hell were we going to get back? And Anthony’s books were in the back of Marty’s car. Come to that, so were mine.
    When he was free of the ropes Anthony glared at me, still crying, and ran off down the road. I guess I didn’t blame him, but I’d been thinking we ought to work together to figure out the best way to get home. On the other hand, I sure as hell didn’t know what to say to him.
    I picked up the ropes, my math book, the pen, and the pad of paper we’d been using, and walked down the road until I found enough scrub along the side to shove all but my book into a spot where they’d be hard to see. A lot of the plants were the kind with dark, dusky green, flat leaves that smell sort of sweet and sort of sour when you touch them. I think it’s called sweet fern, but I’ve never liked it, and now I stunk of it all up my arms.
    Five minutes later I heard an engine coming up behind me. I turned and saw a light blue pickup, some guy who looked like a farmer behind the wheel. He slowed down when he came alongside me. There was a dog in the truck bed.
    â€œNeed a ride, kid?”
    Hadn’t I just offered a ride to Anthony? I almost said no, but I really didn’t want to walk all the way home. Plus, the guy looked harmless. “Thanks,” I said as I slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut.
    â€œWhat’re you doin’ out this way, and on foot?” he asked.
    I shrugged. “Horsing around with a friend. Wheelies, you know. But he got pissed about something and took off.”
    The guy nodded, like he’d probably done stuff like that himself. Then he jerked his chin toward the road ahead and said, “That your friend, by any chance?”
    I looked up the road, and there was Anthony, shuffling along, head hanging down. Christ, I was thinking; don’t stop! Please don’t stop! All I said was, “My friend drove off in his car.”
    â€œHis shirt’s ripped.” The driver pulled a little ahead of Anthony, who didn’t even look up. The farmer stopped the truck, got out, and went over to him. “You okay, kid? Need a lift?”
    Anthony’s head came up to look at the driver, then he turned to look at the truck and saw me. He shook his head violently and shoved past the guy.
    â€œHey! Kid!”
    Anthony started running, but he stayed on the road. The guy got back in the truck, pulled forward so he was a ways ahead of Anthony, and got out again. I turned to watch as he took Anthony’s shoulders in his hands, shook him a little, and finally threw an arm around his shoulders, propelling him toward the truck. Anthony looked as though he was trying like hell not to cry.
    I was sure neither of us wanted to sit on this seat, thighs touching, after what had happened. After what I’d done. I got out. “I’ll ride in the back,” I said, knowing that there was a distinct possibility that Anthony would spill his guts to the farmer. I hopped into the bed and got as comfortable as I could on a burlap bag full of something, across from the dog, a Border collie, who was tied to a heavy piece of equipment.
    The guy shut the passenger side door after Anthony climbed in, and then he leaned his arms on the side of the truck bed next to the dog, staring at me. “What’s going on?”
    It was Marty who got me into this mess. This isn’t really my problem . “The kid’s a jerk,” I said, wondering even as I said it where I thought this was going to get me. “We were just teaching him a lesson. We didn’t hurt him. He’s fine.” The guy stared at me until I had to drop my gaze. I felt heat flowing up my neck and into my face.
    â€œWhere do you live?” After I told him he said,