Free Picture This by Norah McClintock Page A

foot—and made my choice.
    I lowered my hands slowly to my shoulders, watching the guy the whole time to make sure he understood that I was moving them toward the straps of my backpack. I saw the same satisfaction in his eyes that I had seen in the eyes of dozens of bullies over the years, the pure joy they always experience when they succeed in forcing someone to give them what they want.
    Then quickly, trying not to think about what I was doing, I kicked the stone as hard as I could. It ricocheted off a dumpster, startling the guy. When he turned his head to see what had happened, I swung my backpack hard at the hand holding the gun. The gun clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as hard as I could in the other direction. Then I sprinted down the alley. I was almost at the other end when I heard a shot. I felt sick inside. The gun was loaded after all.
    I powered on the speed. I never once looked behind me—it would only have slowed me down. I zigzagged through alleys and up and down streets. I ran until I was sure my lungs would explode.
    When I reached my street, I slowed down. No one was following me. I stopped, gasping and panting, and looked around again. Still I saw no one. My breathing returned to normal. I ran up the front walk, opened the door and was greeted by the smell of Mrs. Ashdale’s meat loaf. Home sweet home, I thought. I was safe. Nothing would happen to me here.

Chapter Two
    â€œPerfect timing,” Mrs. Ashdale said when she saw me. She pulled the meat loaf out of the oven. “Set the table, would you, Ethan? And then call the others.”
    The others were Alan, who was eleven and who had been seized by child welfare because his mother, a meth-head, had been neglecting him, and Tricia, nine, whose dad had abandoned her after her mother died. Alan had been with the Ashdales for nearly four years. He was okay. Tricia was new. She cried a lot and had major temper tantrums. I had been with the Ashdales for almost a year, ever since my last foster mother had a heart attack and couldn’t handle kids anymore. I mainly got along okay with Mrs. Ashdale, who stayed home, and Mr. Ashdale, who was in charge of a couple of recreation centers in the city. They didn’t have kids of their own. I’m not sure why.
    â€œBill won’t be home for supper,” Mrs. Ashdale said as I opened the drawer to get the cutlery. “It’s just the four of us.”
    I set the table and called Alan and Tricia. By the time they came downstairs, Mrs. Ashdale had set out the food. We all knew better than to dig in. We waited until Mrs. Ashdale said grace. Then we passed our plates so that she could serve out thick slabs of meat loaf, big scoops of fluffy mashed potatoes and fresh green peas. It sounds pretty ordinary, but it tasted great. Mrs. Ashdale was a good cook.
    â€œSo, how was everyone’s day?” she said when we all had full plates. “Alan?”
    Both Alan and Tricia were going to day camp for the month. Alan went to a sports camp at one of the rec centers. Tricia went to a nature camp on the island.
    â€œWe played soccer against another camp,” Alan said. “I scored three goals.” Alan was a soccer fanatic. He knew which teams and which players were the best in the world. He wanted to play professional soccer. He might even do it too. He was good for a little kid, and he practiced every chance he got. Sometimes Mr. Ashdale called him Beckham, and Alan looked like he would burst with pride.
    Mrs. Ashdale smiled at him. “That’s great, Alan,” she said. “How about you, Tricia?”
    â€œWe counted frogs,” Tricia said in a small, whispery voice. “I found some that no one else saw. My counselor said I have sharp eyes.” I thought that was kind of funny, because she didn’t look up from her plate even once. She was quiet when she wasn’t freaking out.
    â€œIt’s good to be observant,” Mrs. Ashdale said.