Free Chasing Redbird by Sharon Creech

lurched up behind me and snagged my arm.
    â€œLet go of me, Jake Boone, or I’ll—”
    â€œPunch my brains in?” He looked as solemn as a drowned man.
    I pulled my arm free. “What are you doing up here? How’d you know where I was?”
    â€œHeck, Zinny, there’s a dad-burn trail leading right to you—”
    â€œBut it’s my trail. You get off it.”
    He looked down at his feet. We were standing in a patch of dead leaves and weeds, a good distance from the cleared section of the trail. “This?” he said. “This doesn’t look like a trail to me—”
    â€œYou know what I mean. Get out of here. This is mine—”
    â€œYou own all this? You, Zinny Taylor—?”
    â€œGo away.”
    He blushed and swung his stick and jabbed his foot at the leaves. “Zinny, I’m sorry about the dog—”
    â€œYou oughta be. Stealing an old lady’s innocent puppy—”
    â€œI didn’t actually steal it. It followed me—the first time, anyway. After I’d made a delivery up there. It chased my truck, so I stopped and picked it up, and—I don’t know—I just wanted you to have it.”
    I stood there, trying to keep the steam from coming out of my ears. “And the second time?”
    He stared at the ground. “I saw your sign and I went back and snuck him into my truck. I couldn’t help it.”
    â€œOf course you could help it,” I said. “Did someone hold a knife to your throat and say, ‘Take this dog or else?’” I started walking back the way I’d come.
    â€œYou’re enough to make the parson swear, Zinny, and I mean it.” He took ahold of my arm again. “Didn’t anyone ever like you before?”
    â€œLet go—of course people have liked me—they like me all the time—lots and lots of—” I was stunned. What did he mean, “before”?
    â€œName one—”
    â€œAre you crazy? I have friends—”
    â€œNot like that. I mean has anyone ever been sweet on you?”
    Oh sure , I wanted to say. Tommy Salami and Jerry Abbott and Mickey Torke—all those lying, phony boys. I don’t know what came over me. With my free hand I punched him in the chest and called him a stupid worm . Not exactly the height of sophistication, I suppose.
    I guess I caught him off guard. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a little box, forced it into my hand, and stomped off. I threw the box after him. “I don’t want it. Take it back—”
    He marched through the woods until he came to the clearing, where he turned down the trail toward our farm.
    I swore every cuss word in the book and some new ones I made up. Then I went looking for the box. It seemed a shame not to at least see what was in it.

CHAPTER 18

P ROOF
    I ’d no sooner walked in the house than Uncle Nate stumbled in behind me. His hair was all mussed up, and briars stuck to his shirt and pants. In one hand was his stick, and in the other hand he waved his camera. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” he shouted.
    â€œGot what?” I asked.
    â€œThe proof!” He gently set the camera on the table. “Right in there,” he said, tapping the camera. “Can’t get away.”
    By this time, everyone else had crowded around. “What’s in there?” Ben asked. “What sort of proof?”
    â€œIs it a picture, you mean?” Bonnie said.
    â€œOf course it’s a picture,” May said. “You don’t think he’s gone and stuck a sack of potatoes in there, do you?”
    Ben placed his hand on Uncle Nate’s shoulder. “Why is it proof, Uncle Nate? What’s it a picture of?”
    Uncle Nate glanced at each of us before whispering, “My Redbird.”
    Ben’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Aunt Jessie? You’ve taken a picture of her?”
    Uncle Nate tapped the