Free Stealing Home by Ellen Schwartz

blasted from the soap factory on the other side of the fence. Moments later, workers started pouring out of the gates in twos and threes, swinging lunch pails, pulling on caps, calling good-byes.
    Everyone froze. Eli darted a look over his shoulder and scowled. “Shoot,” he said to Tommy. “We’ll catch it if they see us fighting. Come on.” They scooped up their caps and gloves.
    Eli pointed at Joey. “This isn’t over. You’re gonna learn who calls the shots here.”
    “Never.”
    Eli sneered. “I’ll finish you off next time.” As the first wave of factory workers approached, he and Tommy took off down the street.
    Joey turned and surveyed his pals. They looked like they’d been in a prize fight.
    Bobbie swiped an arm across her face. “Boy, they were mean today.”
    “Didn’t like getting laughed at,” Grossie said. “That’s what set ’em off.”
    “You really had ’em going there, Joey,” Larry said.
    Joey rolled his eyes. “Fat lot of good it did. We still got pummeled.”
    “Slaughtered,” Bobbie said disgustedly.
    Joey turned to Vito. This was the second kid who’d stood up for him. “Thanks, buddy.”
    “Yeah, thanks, Vito,” Bobbie said.
    “That’s okay,” Vito said, shuffling his feet. “Just wish I could have made more of a difference.”
    “Hey, you were the only reason we didn’t get killed,” Joey said.
    There was a moment of silence.
    “Uh… sorry, you guys,” Louie said in a low voice. “You know… for not coming in.”
    “That’s all right,” Joey said.
    “No. We should’ve,” Larry said sheepishly.
    “We were chicken, just plain chicken,” Grossie admitted, turning red. “At least, I was.”
    Louie and Larry nodded, looking uncomfortable.
    “Don’t worry about it, fellas. It wasn’t your fight,” Joey said. He sighed. It was his fight, all right, and it looked like he’d have to keep on fighting it – and keep getting pounded – until Fishkin and Flanagan got it through their thick heads that he wasn’t going anywhere.
    They all retrieved their bats and gloves and said goodbye. Vito, Louie, and Larry went in one direction, Joey, Bobbie, and Grossie in the other.
    Bobbie sighed. “We’re in for it now,” she said.
    “I know,” Joey said.
    “What do you mean?” Grossie asked.
    “Zeyde’s gonna kill us.”
    “What for?”
    “Fighting,” Joey answered.
    “But they started it. Eli jumped on you!”
    “Doesn’t matter.”
    “But it wasn’t your fault! Tell your grandpa that.”
    “He won’t care. He’ll still think it’s my fault.”
    They trudged on. Suddenly Grossie stopped. “Wait – I know! Why don’t you guys come to my house first? You can wash up there. You get all cleaned up, I bet your grandpa’ll never know.”
    “But Grossie, your mama’ll see us, and she’ll tell my mama, and –”
    “No. She’s not home. She’s helping out in the store today. And my sister’s out, too. Went to see the new Fred Astaire movie with her girlfriends.”
    Bobbie turned to Joey. “Well? What do you think?”
    “He’ll know,” he said glumly.
    “Come on, you guys,” Grossie said. Then, earnestly, “It’s the least I can do.”
    Joey thought of Zeyde’s wrath. He shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”
    By the time Joey and Bobbie emerged from Grossie’s bathroom, two muddy-gray washcloths in hand, scabswere beginning to form on their scrapes and the bloodstains on their clothes were a dull brown.
    Grossie surveyed them critically. “Not bad. But you both have bruises on your faces.”
    Joey shrugged. “Oh, well, nice try.”
    “Wait!” Grossie cried. “I got another idea. Stay right there.” He ran down the hall and came back a moment later with a small compact in his hand.
    “What’s that?” Bobbie said.
    “My sister’s face powder.”
    “Her
what?
”
    “Face powder. It’ll cover up the marks.”
    “There’s no way you’re putting that stuff on me!” Bobbie cried, backing away.
    “Or me!” Joey