Free Wringer by Jerry Spinelli Page B

must. As he opened the window and watched Nipper fly off, he knew something else: He could no longer bear this alone. It had to be shared.
    Why are you doing this to me?
    He dashed down the stairs, out the door and across the street, coatless, not feeling the cold. He knocked on her door. He pressed the doorbell. Inside he heard her footsteps, her voice calling, “I’ll get it!”
    The door opened. Warmth and light washed over him. She smiled. She was glad to see him. He did not wait another moment. He said, “I have a pigeon.”

23
    Beans’s mother—Palmer had to fight the temptation to call her “Mrs. Beans”—was a perfectly normal-looking woman whose teeth were as white as the icing on her son’s tenth birthday cake. Waving her arms like a conductor, she led them in a raucous “Happy Birthday” and dished out generous gobs of ice cream.
    As soon as Beans tore open his presents—baseball from Palmer, pocketknife from Henry, Campbell’s baked beans from Mutto—Mutto called out, “Treatment! Treatment!” and dragged Beans outside. The gang headed up the street to Farquar’s house.
    Mutto banged on the front door. “Farquar! Farquar!”
    No one answered. They circled the entire house, Mutto rapping on every window and door he could reach. He threw out his arms. “Nobody home.”
    And then a strange thing happened.
    Beans, instead of being relieved that his arm was spared, said, “Let’s find him,” and trotted off after his own Treatment.
    â€œYou’re crazy,” said Henry, who, like any normal kid, hated The Treatment. Henry always had to be prodded to face Farquar. “Why do you want to go looking for it?”
    â€œâ€™Cause I ain’t ten till I get The Treatment,” said Beans.
    In a sense, this was true. Among the four friends, there was the feeling that neither calendar nor cake made a birthday, not officially. For it to be official, your arm had to feel the sting of Farquar’s knuckle. It was a dilemma: you wanted to be a year older, you did not want The Treatment, and you couldn’t have one without the other. At the very least, it slowed you down. For once in your life, you were not in a hurry.
    But Beans was in a hurry, trotting through town, checking out Farquar’s usual haunts, knocking on the doors of his friends, calling out his name. Beans seemed anxious at first, then frantic, as if not finding Farquar would condemnhim to being nine forever.
    They finally found Farquar kicking a ball on the soccer field. As Beans, then Mutto and Henry ran, Palmer lagged behind. The day could not have been more pleasant. The sky was blue, the air warm. The crack of baseball bats could be heard in the distance. Newborn leaf clusters on the surrounding trees had a look of pale green popcorn. Tufts of onion grass sprouted across the soccer field, releasing their sweet scent. But the scent that entered Palmer’s nose was the sour smell of gunsmoke. The soles of his feet tingled as he walked upon the ground that halted the fall of thousands.
    Beans’s eyes were shining, his face excited as he accepted The Treatment. When Farquar finished, he noted Beans’s face registered no pain. He frowned at his famous knuckle. He bent into Beans’s face for a better look. “You okay?” he said.
    Beans threw both arms into the air, as if one of them had not just been demolished. “I’m great!” he shouted. “I’m ten!” He backed off then, until he stood alone in the field. No bird sang in the trees, no wing flew overhead. Beans made a fist of both hands and held them out before him, end to end.The grin on his face tilted, his teeth appeared, a squitchy sound came from his throat, the two closed fists snapped in opposite directions. He crowed, “And I’m a wringer!”
    Palmer shivered. His own birthday was three months away.

24
    Palmer came home that day to