Free The Kingdom of Kevin Malone by Suzy McKee Charnas Page A

us out of here.”
    He chewed his lip. “It works both ways.”
    So they couldn’t just drop him down a hole and forget about him. But where did it say anything in Kevin’s world about what they could or could not do with me ? I’d have bet that no instructions existed on that point.
    Smoke wafted in. I coughed.
    Kevin said hoarsely, “The air’s better down lower.”
    I crouched down. The ground felt warm. “What if the fire—” My jaw locked with terror.
    Kevin shook his head. “He wouldn’t leave us in the path of the fire,” he said, sounding so sure that I was certain he was just as petrified as I was. “The Branglemen know fire, and the green and the dry parts of the Brangle—where it won’t burn and where it will—and they know how the air currents move in here.”
    â€œAnd they don’t eat roast Champion,” I said.
    â€œDon’t be a smart-mouth,” he warned. I could see his eyes gleam angrily. “I may be just a street kid to you, but I am someone in the Fayre Farre.”
    â€œWhich is nothing but a figment of your imagination, Kevin,” I snapped back. I was not in a friendly mood.
    â€œIt’s my country,” he said. “And it’s real; real enough to stick you with its thorns.”
    â€œYou too,” I said. “You’re stuck here in more ways than one.”
    â€œHa ha,” he said. “Same old Amy, too smart for her own good. Are you in college yet?”
    Well, I was annoyed and silly enough to answer, maybe because of the fight I’d had with Dad about that very subject that morning—was it only a few hours ago? Kevin and I were down there a long time, and after a while I knew pretty much what I had at the beginning.
    What Kevin knew was lots more: that my mom was running a design studio for a big textile company now instead of free-lancing, and that my dad was writing for Hollywood, and all about Cousin Shelly.
    Dad’s new career really got Kevin interested. He asked a ton of questions about screenplays—how long did it take Dad to write one, did he have an agent, how did a script get produced, a whole lot of stuff I mostly didn’t know the answers to.
    Feeling cornered and ignorant about matters that I was sensitive about to begin with, I finally went on the attack. “What happened after you left home? I know you got into trouble.”
    â€œSome,” he said cautiously.
    â€œEnough?” I asked. That sounded a lot more sarcastic than I’d meant it to sound. “I mean, enough so you can do what you’ve signed up for in the Fayre Farre? From what I’ve seen, they play rough here, Kevin. They kill each other. Can you do that if you have to? Have you ever killed anybody yourself? For real, I mean, in the real world.”
    Silence.
    â€œCome on, tell me.”
    â€œYou don’t want to know that,” he said gruffly. “People getting killed, real trouble—what could that have to do with you anyhow, with your big apartment and your rich pals?”
    I stared at him. “Kevin, I didn’t pick where I lived.”
    â€œWell, neither did I,” he said. He had detached a huge thorn from his sleeve and began cleaning his fingernails with it. “But I lived there anyways, didn’t I? Long as I could stand it, I did. And I bet I stood it a lot longer than you or any of those jerks in your building would have. Bunch of wimps.”
    â€œAt least none of us grew up to think we were princes and princesses,” I said. Not nice, but he’d started it.
    He snorted. “No point in it, for you. You were already the royalty of the street, weren’t you? Whining brats with your pockets full of money—”
    â€œUntil you came along and stole it,” I retorted. “Don’t feel so sorry for yourself. You don’t know anything about any of us. Remember Sylvia Sorensen from the sixth floor?