Free Bird by Crystal Chan Page A

dancing in front of the classroom, his students shooting their hands into the air, begging John to call on them. Too bad he was going into outer space.
    His eyes suddenly started sparkling. “The sun doesn’t just have lots of gravity; it has lots of pressure, too.” John walked to the sink to get another glass of water. I followed him.
    â€œPressure,” I repeated slowly. I usually think about rocks. Not about pressure and forces. But it gave me a giddy feeling, like my brain was growing and making these connections that I’d never noticed before.
    â€œEven this sink uses pressure,” he said. He lifted the metal arm. Cold water gushed out. “Your water tank sits above your house and uses gravity to drive the water out of this faucet.”
    â€œSo our water pipes have water sitting in them right now, just waiting to be let out,” I said slowly.
    John grinned. “Looks like you get . . .” Suddenly he snatched the sprayer and blasted it on me. Frigid water gushed all over my clothes.
    I screamed and lunged at John, half laughing, half shrieking. His grip on the sprayer was tight, but I angled the nozzle back at his face. John’s skin dripped with water, his mouth wide and open and howling with laughter.
    â€œYou get an A!” he cried.
    â€œAgh! You’re awful!” I shouted, but the words were hard to say because I was laughing so hard. He kept spraying water right at my face, his free arm holding my wrist so I couldn’t run away.
    â€œYou see? Water pressure!” he shouted.
    I managed to jerk my body to the side to avoid another cold stream, surprising John, who still held my wrist.
    The stream of water sailed past me and right onto Grandpa.
    I didn’t know where Grandpa had come from or how long he’d been there, but there he was. Right behind me.
    Dripping.
    I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream or run away, and I think that just got me confused inside because I didn’t do anything at all; I just stood there.
    Grandpa’s jaw clenched as he stared at us, his eyes sparkling with rage.
    But John sure wasn’t frozen. He looked at Grandpa and me and busted out laughing, holding his sides. The sprayer dangled in the sink, the faucet gushing out a stream of cold water.
    I didn’t know Grandpa could move so fast. He sidestepped me and lunged at John, whose lips were still in a smile from a sliver of a moment ago. Grandpa grabbed John by his T-shirt and started shaking him violently, his fists solid as rocks. John thrashed against Grandpa’s hands, and maybe he was stronger than Grandpa thought, because at one point when they were fighting, Grandpa lost his grip on John’s T-shirt and his fist crashed into John’s cheek. John cried out and staggered back into the kitchen counter. Grandpa followed after him and tried to wrestle him toward our front door.
    John’s cry jolted through my bones. I ran at Grandpa, pounding on him like an avalanche, beating on his back with my fists, and trying to pull him off John. Grandpa couldn’t get too far, though, because the kitchen screen door opened and Mom stepped in, her arms loaded with plastic grocery bags.
    She took one look at us, dropped her bags, and cried, “Jewel!” I let her pull me from Grandpa, and she stood between me and them, like a shield. “What is going on?” she cried.
    â€œWhat are you doing home so early?” I blurted out. I suppose that wasn’t the most intelligent thing to ask at a time like this, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.
    â€œStop this!” she yelled at Grandpa. Then she turned to John. “And who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice shrill and high. She looked back at Grandpa, who was still clutching John’s shirt.
    â€œI’m here,” John said tightly, “because Jewel invited me over. And her grandpa punched me in the face for no good reason.”