Crash Read Free Page B

what’s that?”
    The mother chirped, “Oatburger,” all cheery.
    “Look,” said Webb. He poured pancake syrup over his. “They’re great this way.”
    The father chuckled. “I’ll relieve the boy’s misery.” He left the table and came back with a trash basket. He held it at my side. “Drop ’er in here, Crash.”
    I leaned over, opened my mouth, and let the oatburger blob, fall into the basket. He took it away.
    The other stuff on my plate was candied sweet potatoes, string beans, and something I didn’t recognize, little brown clumps. Mrs. Webb saw me looking. “They’re breaded mushrooms. Try one.”
    I tried one. It was delicious.
    “What do you think?” she said.
    I shrugged. “It’s okay,”
    Webb piped: “John has a great-great-grandfather, and he’s a hundred and fifteen years old!”
    Four grown-up eyeballs landed on me. I had to think quick. “And I do dive-bombing too!” I said. “Wanna see me?”
    I didn’t wait for an answer. I jumped from the table and went behind their sofa. I dived over the back of it, landed on my head and hands on the cushion, pushed off, swung my feet around, and landed on the floor. I threw out my arms. “Toldja.”
    They clapped.
    We went back to eating. I stuck with the sweet potatoes and mushrooms. Webb kept pushing the syrup over and telling me what I was missing by giving up oatburgers. To shut him up, I said, “Did you know your son is a Quaker?”
    The parents looked at each other, at the kid, at me, and broke out laughing. “Yes,” said the father, “we do know that. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Webb and I happen to be Quakers, too.”
    I said, “Oh, does that mean you don’t believe in war, either?”
    “I’m afraid so,” he said.
    “That’s too bad,” I told them. “Your kid is missing out on a lot of great stuff. Especially at Christmas. About half my presents are usually war things. Last year I got a G.I. Joe action figure and—oh man!”—I was getting into it now—“I just remembered my Mazooka. It’s a combination machine gun and bazooka. First you wipe out all the infantry with the machine gun, then you go after the tanks. It has an armor-piercing shell.Sets the tank on fire. Roasts the guys inside like they’re marsh-mallows.”
    I sat back and let all that sink in, let them see what they were missing. After a while the father smiled and said, “I see.”
    Everybody just chewed for a minute. “I have a grandfather named Scooter,” I said.
    “Now that is something,” said the mother.
    “Yeah.” I popped another mushroom. “So,” I said, “are you poor?”
    The parents started laughing again. I never knew I was so funny.
    “I’m beginning to see why they call you Crash,” said the father, whatever
that
meant. He went on, “To answer your question, no, I wouldn’t say we’re poor. Would you?”
    “Looks like it to me,” I said. “Your kid hardly has any toys, and you only have one floor on your house.” I decided to be nice and not tell them it looked like a garage.
    More smiles. “No,” said the father, “we’re not poor at all. In fact, I would say in a lot of ways we’re rich.”
    Could’ve fooled me. Maybe they have a limo out back, I thought.
    I ate a few more breaded mushrooms. I looked around the room. I got up. Something had been bugging me from the start, and now I knew what it was. I checked out the kitchen. I took another look at the kid’s room. I checked every room in the place. I came back to the table. They were all staring at me. I stared back. “Where’s the TV?”
    “We don’t have TV.”
    The words came from the kid. I stared at him. “Huh?”
    He said it again. “We don’t have TV.”
    “You’re tricking me.”
    He wagged his head, eyes all wide. “No, really.”
    “What do you
do
on Saturday morning?”
    “I play. Read.”
    “And we go places,” the father chimed in.
    “We’re looking forward to visiting places around here,” said the mother. “This is all new to us