Нил Шустерман: Red Rider's Hood

"Marvin Flowers?" I said.

"In the flesh," he answered.

"But. . . but. . . what are you doing here?"

Marvin Flowers, or "Marvelous Marvin," as he was better known, was the best high school quarterback Madison-Manfred High had ever seen. He had left town a year before, with a col­lege scholarship and a winning gold-toothed smile, waving good-bye to all of his friends at Mad-Man. He said he was going places.

"What are you doing here washing windows for spare change?" I asked.

"Had to drop out of college," he told me. "Family prob­lems." The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting a shadow over Marvin's already dark expression.

"You know," he said, his voice making me feel cold in spite of the heat, "this city can get ahold of you and pull you back no matter how hard you try to climb out. Like a grave."

It was such a weird thing to say, I laughed nervously and looked to the traffic light, which was still stuck on red, almost as if it was was waiting for Marvin's signal.

What am I afraid of? I said to myself. This guy is just a street beggar now. Feel bad for him, sure, but don't fear him.

Then Marvin smiled again and the sun returned to its nor­mal glare. Maybe it was just to get rid of him, or maybe I really did fell sorry for him, but whatever the reason, I reached over to the little sack next to me on the seat and pulled out a bill from my grandma's stash of "bread." To my surprise, it was a fifty. I look in the sack and couldn't find anything smaller. There had to be thousands of dollars in there. I took a deep breath. I wasn't just bringing Grandma the bread, I was bringing her the butter, and a golden knife to spread it!

Marvin leaned into the window raised his eyebrows. He had seen what was in the bag, too. I wanted to peel away, but still the light stayed red.

"Just something for my grandma," I told him, tossing the bag to the floor of the car.

"Very nice."

"Here." I handed him the fifty. "Great job on the window."

"Thank you very much." He pocketed it. Then, I figured out of appreciation for the fifty, he said, "You know . . . my sister likes you."

This was news to me. Marissa Flowers was in my grade, but she never looked at me twice. I, on the other hand, had looked at her a lot more than twice.

"She's got a summer job over at Stiltskin's Antiques. In fact, she's there right now, bored out of her mind, I'll bet. A visit from you would brighten up her day, I think."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"My grandma is expecting me."

"Old people are patient," he said. "What difference is half an hour going to make? Or even an hour, for that matter?"

I guess he was right. After all, my father always said you gotta make time for the finer things in life, and Marissa Flow­ers was definitely one of those finer things.

"Maybe I will," I told him.

He smiled and nodded―and with his nod the light turned green. "See you around, Red."

Stiltskin's Antiques was a little hole-in-the-wall shop. My mother used to drag me there when I was little. It was where I got my old Radio Flyer wagon, so the place wasn't all bad. As I didn't have a cell-phone habit, I couldn't call Grandma from the car, and the pay phones I passed weren't about to take a fifty-dollar bill, so I figured Grandma wouldn't mind waiting just a little while longer. She was the one who was fond of say­ing "all good things come to those who wait," and the sack of money was certainly a good thing.

There was a space right out in front with half an hour still on the meter. I should have found this suspicious. I should have realized there were forces conspiring, but I just figured it was my lucky day. I locked the bag of cash in my trunk and went in.

"Well, if it isn't the Red Rider," Marissa Flowers said as she saw me step in.

The place smelled like wet wood and old folks, but everything in there was beautiful. Pink and blue crystal, delicate porcelain, and of course, Marissa. She was at the cash register, polishing a tea set to perfection.

"What brings you here?" she asked, batting her eyes and tossing her long hair, which was dark with blond highlights.

I felt myself going red and hoped she didn't notice. "I need a birthday present for my mother," I told her, which wasn't a complete lie. I eventually would need one.

"What kind of antiques does she like?" Marissa said.

"Beats me. I don't know anything about antiques."

"Neither do I," she admitted. "When I took the job, I couldn't tell brass from bronze, or crystal from Corning Ware. But I'm learning."

She put down the silver set so gently it didn't make a sound, and then began pulling out a whole bunch of bright colorful glass vases that weren't anywhere near my price range.

"How about one of these?" she asked. "Do you like any of them?"

"Yeah, I like them all," I told her. I couldn't look in her eyes. If her brother had made it seem like the sun had stopped shin­ing, she made it seem like the place had no roof and the sun was beating down.

Did you ever get the feeling that everything was too perfect? like the moment was so good that something had to be wrong? Kind of like the way a fish sees that bright, shiny lure just before it chomps down and gets hauled out of the water to become someone's lunch.

"Say, I was wondering what time you get off?" I asked.

"Why?"

I shrugged and looked away. "Oh, I thought you might like to go to the multiplex and see a movie."

"With you?"

"No, with Godzilla," I said. "So, you want to come?"

"That depends. Is Godzilla paying?"

"Well," I said, "since Godzilla asked, Godzilla will pay."

Marissa laughed. "Don't worry, Red. I'll pay for myself."

My jaw almost dropped clear to the musty floor. "So that means you're going?"

"I get off at six-thirty," she told me.

"All right. See you then." I'm not the kind of guy to skip, but I have to tell you, I practically skipped out of that antique shop and into my car. As I drove off, it was as if my wheels didn't even touch the ground.

Grandma lived in the oldest part of the city. On both sides of the street were rows of dark brick homes with tall stoops. Each had thirteen steps―"like gallows," Grandma was fond of saying.

The sidewalk was all broken up, like a fun-house floor, by die roots of the hundred-year-old sycamores that arched over Forest Boulevard. They made the sun play peekaboo, painting the streets in polka dots of light. It was a great street for Hal­loween, because by fall, the whole street was layered in golden leaves that crunched under your feet. But now, in July, the leaves made a big green canopy, like some sort of urban rain forest.

I pulled my car into the driveway, got the money sack from the trunk, and climbed the thirteen steps to Grandma's house, holding it tightly in my hand.

As I neared the front door, a hot breeze tore through the trees, making them quiver. Something tumbled down across my hair and over my shoulder. I brushed it off, thinking at first that it was a spider, but it was only a leaf. A big, summer-green sycamore leaf.

Why had the leaf fallen? I wondered. For the slightest instant, I had the strange feeling that the trees were trying to tell me something. "Sssssssstay outssssssssssside," their leaves rusded. "Don't sssssssstep in."

I shook off the feeling and rang the bell. No answer. I tried the bell again and still no answer.

Well, I am late, I thought. Maybe Grandma went out shopping. I tried the door. The knob turned, the door was unlocked. That was odd. Grandma was never one to leave her door unlocked. The neighborhood wasn't the safest. I pushed open the door and the old hinges creaked.