Free Losing Joe's Place by Gordon Korman Page B

up anyway. It isn’t healthy.
    I walked up Bathurst in the direction of where Don said Jessica’s place was. If I could accidentally‑on-purpose run into her, I could strike up a conversation, and maybe work in there how Don had tried to take off after the Moontrix head bonk scene. I would portray myself as the strong, silent type — not
too
nice, but with a manly sense of responsibility. Of course, Don was my friend, and you weren’t supposed to screw up your friends. But he didn’t deserve Jessica anyway. He hadn’t even called her yet. And besides, if I somehow managed to steal her away from Mr. Wonderful, he’d have another girlfriend in nothing flat. On the other hand, waiting for someone to go for Cardone could take
years
!
    I looked from window to window, up and down the street, half believing it wasn’t a waste of time. Did I expect a golden aura to be emanating from the building that housed Jessica and her legs?
    Finally I returned to the stoop in front of 1 Pitt Street to wait for Ferguson and Don to get home from work. I was already sweating like crazy. The air was like vaporized oatmeal. I waved at God’s Grandmother as she jogged by, energetic, cool, and sweat-free.
    I saw the pink baskets first, piled high with bags of groceries, plodding their way through the heavy traffic. Between them pedaled a very hot and tired-looking Don Champion. Suddenly a long, silver, stretch limousine shot out of nowhere and passed Don too close. Mr. Wonderful swerved to avoid it, and put himself out of control. His front wheel touched the curb, and the bicycle dropped out of view. But I could see groceries flying in all directions. Bottles, cans, fruits, and vegetables bounced off the roofs and hoods of other cars. Oblivious to this havoc, the driver of the limo turned onto Pitt Street and pulled up right in front of me. The door opened, and out climbed the Peach.
    â€œThanks for the ride, Mr. Robb. See you tomorrow.”
    Don was on his feet by now, examining a carton of eggs. He saw who it was getting out of the limo just as twelve yolks spilled out of the package onto his shirt.
    â€œPEACHFUZZ!!!”
    * * *
    Repugnant as the thought of handing money over to Plotnick was, we decided to eat in the deli. There was just so much tuna fish and peanut butter a guy could stomach, and we had enough cash for two corned beef sandwiches between the three of us. The Peach and I waited out front for Don, who had to roll the mangled delivery bicycle back to the supermarket.
    â€œWell, write off one bike and one job,” he told us when he got home. “Guess who just got fired, thanks to the fuzzy skin of a certain fruit I could name? Not to mention that it could have been me bent into a pretzel along with the bike!”
    Ferguson shrugged. “It’s
your
uncle’s car. And besides, if that bicycle had been designed with the center of balance a little farther forward —”
    â€œDidn’t you explain that it wasn’t your fault?” I asked Don quickly.
    â€œThey didn’t believe me. They wouldn’t even pay me for today because of the bike. That’s the only part that bothers me. I was going to quit that bogus slavery anyway.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Don snorted. “Are you kidding? The pay stinks, and you have to ride around on that idiot bicycle, sweating your guts out while little kids follow you singing, ‘Hey, Mr. Grocery Man!’ And you’re a target for every dog and psychopath in the neighborhood. This one kid — five years old, tops! — yells, ‘Hey, Mr. Grocery Man, think fast,’ and hurls this huge dirt bomb at my face. But that’s not the real crusher. Check this out.” He paused for effect. “For lunch I grabbed some Doritos and hung out in the park. So I catch a rap with these two great-looking girls. Everything’s going terrific, and they’re complaining about how they’ve got