Free Mercy on These Teenage Chimps by Gary Soto Page A

you?"
    "Yeah, I will, but I gotta go now."
    Mrs. Fuller frowned. "You mean 'have to go.'" She proceeded to straighten my tie—I had the funny sensation she was going to close it like a noose.
    "Yes, I have to go," I exclaimed.
    "You are a growing boy."
    "Yes, but I have to go," I repeated, and got away when Mrs. Fuller snapped open her purse to look for a comb. She said that my hair was standing up wickedly as horns.
    I waved to Uncle Vic as I scampered from the church, breathing hard. I expected Cory to be waiting for me, or his half brother and his friend standing at their truck and calling me to get in for a one-way ride to the country. Instead, in the blinding light of a spring day, I found my bike leaning against the lower steps. I rocked on my heels. It was that Sunday I began to believe in miracles.
    "You're back," I greeted in song. I ran down to my bike. The chrome handlebars added shine to my miracle.

Chapter 9
    I sped away with a halo of sun beaming down on me. I was happy, even blessed, for I did shake the pastor's hand, avoid the warthog and his friend, and donate my trike to the church rummage sale. And I finally spoke face-to-face to Jessica. I'm sure she pondered my purpose between bites of birthday cake in the church basement.
    I figured that I had five hours before I would meet up with her. What should I do? I didn't want to see Joey because my mission wasn't accomplished yet. I worried that if I returned home, Mom would put me to work digging up weeds in the flower bed. Or she might assign me to wash the windows clean of winter's shadowy dirt. Or maybe take a broom and get the spiderwebs off our dead extra car in the driveway—Dad had sold the engine before he took off with that woman in a sports car.
    I rode aimlessly until my curiosity drew me to a yard sale. A man in overalls sat on an overturned bucket surrounded by stuff that he had dragged from his garage. He rose on his gimpy legs when he saw me coming. He ran a hand over his whiskery jaw. A transistor radio in the front pocket of his overalls was tuned to the Giants baseball game.
    Most of his merchandise was pots and pans, large print
Reader's Digests,
a coffeepot, a child's guitar with no strings, old sleeping bags, and dresses as spacious as tents. The dresses, I supposed, belonged to his wife.
    "Can you use a set of screwdrivers?" he asked.
    I told him no.
    "How 'bout a birdcage?" He informed me that his wife had been fond of canaries. He kicked the grass and stated, "She's gone."
    I guessed that his wife had passed away. I could have asked when or how, but it was none of my business. Her dresses were on the lawn and twelve or so pairs of shoes were parked in a line.
    "Nah, not really, sir."
    "Birds make nice pets. When you talk to them, they sing back. I'll throw in the birdseed."
    Still, I deflected his efforts to sell me a birdcage and his insistence that a pair of rusty roller skates would build up my legs and bring me hours of happiness. He tried to convince me that a cookie jar would be an ideal gift for Mother's Day and that a battery-operated handheld personal fan would be a dream come true for my father.
    "I'm just looking, sir," I confessed to the man, who then said, "Hey, then, how about if you help me." He pointed toward his roof. "I got to turn on the water valve on my cooler. Too old to get up there."
    My last trip up a roof had brought me bruises and dark memories of crushed daffodils. I shaded my eyes as I took a step back to view the roof's pitch. It didn't look so steep, and the old guy needed help.
    "You got a ladder, sir?"
    "No, but I can boost you up from the back of the house."
    "How will I get down?"
    The man posted his meaty hands on his hips. "Why, you jump. You're young. Like a kitty cat, you got nine lives in you."
    I was tempted to alert him that I had used up one of my lives yesterday at Coach Bear's house, and that at this rate I would be dead by the following weekend.
    "But I have my church clothes on," I