Into the Firestorm Read Free

Sprinting quickly across the wooden floor, he entered a small storeroom in the back. He crouched behind some barrels full of peanuts and held his breath. He didn’t think he’d been spotted.
    Nick heard voices—a customer must have come in. But Nick couldn’t understand a word of the language that was spoken.
    Maybe I should run for it,
Nick thought. On the other hand, what was the chance of Bushy Brows finding him? Better to stay put.
    From his hiding place, Nick peered out at the tiny storeroom, packed with bulky, strange-shaped packages. It was odd—here he was in something that must be a sort of grocery store, yet he had no idea what most of the foods were. Back home they’d always eaten what Gran called the “three M’s”—meat, molasses, and meal (short for cornmeal) along with beans and rice. But Nick had no way of knowing what was inside these packages—or how to cook whatever it was.
    The sounds stopped. The store grew quiet. Nick rested his head against a barrel. If he hadn’t been so nervous, he could almost have fallen asleep.
    Crack!
    “Ouch. Ow!” Nick yelled, holding his hands over his head. “Stop. Stop hitting me!”
    “What are you doing here? Thief!” spat a tall, slim boy.
    Nick looked up at a teenage boy, maybe four or five years older than he was. The boy wore a blue, loose-fitting top and pants. Like the men on the street, he had coal black hair gathered tightly into a long braid. With a stern, hard look, he raised the broom handle again.
    “Get up.” He spat at Nick. “Thief!”
    “I…I didn’t take anything,” sputtered Nick, stumbling to his feet. He raised his hands into the air to show they were empty and then quickly put them back to keep the boy from hitting him on the head again.
    “Why are you hiding in my store, then?” asked the boy in a cold voice. “You were planning to hit me and rob me. I know your kind.”
    “No, no, I wasn’t,” Nick protested.
Think of something to say,
he told himself.
Defend yourself.
But he couldn’t. He glanced beyond the boy, measuring the distance to the back door. Maybe he could run for it.
    The boy saw his look. He stepped closer, holding the broom against Nick’s chest. “You’re not running away. I’m going to turn you in to the police.”
    Nick drew a sharp breath. “No, please. I’ll do anything—sweep the store, stock your shelves. The policeman thought I stole something. But I didn’t, I swear.”
    The older boy said nothing. His dark eyes seemed angry.
    “I can prove it.” Nick reached into his pocket. “If I wanted to buy something, I could. See, I have fifty cents.”
    Nick held his quarters. They were shiny. And no wonder. Nick polished them on his shirt every night. Nick thought about offering the coins to the boy in exchange for safety. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t give them up. They were almost all he had to remind him of Gran.
    “Just let me stay a little while,” Nick added, quickly slipping the coins back into his pocket.
    Suddenly Nick wanted to sit down more than anything. His knees felt weak. He licked his dry lips. “Please.”
    The boy was silent for a long moment, his eyes flicking over Nick’s face. Then, to Nick’s surprise, he lowered the broom.
    “You are new here,” he said flatly. “I can tell. The way you talk…”
    “I come from Texas. I really would work for you. I’m looking for a job,” Nick said quickly, hoping the boy wouldn’t change his mind and yell for the police. “I…I’d take food for pay.”
    To Nick’s surprise, the boy laughed and stood the broom in the corner. “You
are
new. American white boys don’t work in Chinatown. They’re too busy teasing and tormenting Chinese people.”
    “Oh.” Nick’s voice fell. No job, no food.
    “I’ve been teased,” Nick offered, trying to think of something to say. “On the county poor farm—an orphanage, really, where I lived this winter. Whenever they took us into town, the kids laughed at us.”
    The boy