Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street Read Free

homework at Thatcher, lots—but I turned left at the next corner and took the detour anyway. Not that I liked going by Joe Louis, exactly; it was more a matter of just being drawn to it.
    It was past dismissal by the time I reached my old school, a brick and glass building of no distinction, very different from Thatcher, which was a grand nineteenth-century affair on the outside, bright and modern on the inside, thanks to the work of a famous architect who was also an alum; there were lots of famous alums from Thatcher.
    Some of the kids from my neighborhood got sent to private school right from kindergarten; others made the switch later—third grade, maybe, or fifth. But the plan had always been for me to be a public school kid from start to finish; my parents believed in public schools. “Just wait,” some of their friends had said. I’d heard that plenty of times. My parents had waited and waited and then been in the very last group to cave. Nothing I said or did had budged them, and I’d thrown everything I’d had at them, emptied out the cupboard of bad behavior. “Your friends from Joe Louis will still be your friends,” they’d told me. Which had already turned out to be false. And “Don’t worry—you’ll make new friendsat Thatcher.” Which hadn’t happened yet, most of the Thatcher kids having been there together for years. Didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen, I told myself, stopping by the chain-link fence and gazing through at the small, paved school yard with its single backboard, no net on the basket, windblown trash and broken glass heaped in the corners.
    No one was shooting hoops. There was only one person around, a kid I’d seen in the halls. What did they call him? Tut-Tut? Yes, that was it, on account of his stutter. He’d arrived from—Where was it? Haiti?—two or three years before, a scrawny kid with modified dreads and a sweet face. Right now he was squatting down on the pavement just a few feet from the fence, drawing with chalk. Tut-Tut didn’t seem to notice me at all; I could feel his concentration. He shifted around a little, and I saw what he was drawing.
    Hey! It was beautiful: a red bird, maybe a parrot, with a green head and yellow eyes, so lifelike that it looked as though it could actually fly off the pavement at any moment.
    “It’s great,” I said.
    Tut-Tut glanced up, startled. He almost tipped over backward.
    “Is it based on a real bird?” I said.
    Tut-Tut’s mouth opened, and his lips moved a bit, like he was forming a word, but no sound came out.
    “Or did you just make it up?” I said.
    “N-n-n-n-,” said Tut-Tut. “T-t-t-th-th-th-th…” He went silent.
    “It’s real?” I said.
    “T-t-t-t-th-th-th-th-the b-b-b-bb-bb-bbb-bbbb-bbbbb-bbbbbb…” He went silent again, took a deep breath, and nodded yes.
    A real parrot, meaning it had a name, maybe a parrot he’d seen in Haiti, or even kept in a cage. I had lots of follow-up questions, but I didn’t have the heart to watch Tut-Tut trying to answer them. Plus, that strange pressure ball thing in my head was back, not electrical and powerful like on the basketball court, more just letting me know it was there.
    Tut-Tut licked his lips. “W-,” he began. “W-w-w-w-w-
w-w-wh-wh-wh—”
    The pressure thing grew. And the more Tut-Tut tried to say whatever it was he wanted to say, the stronger it got. “W-wh-wh-wha-wha-wha-wha-wha—” Now I felt the electrical component, and my vision started going funny. My imagination playing tricks? I took off my glasses, watched the world grow clearer.
    “Wh-wha-wha-wh-wh-wh-w-w-w-w…” Tut-Tut gave up.
    And the moment he gave up, my vision began deteriorating back to normal. The pressure in my head vanished. I put on my glasses. If this was my imagination,it was suddenly getting good at tricks. The streetlights went on.
    “I better get going,” I said.
    Was I coming down with something? I took off my glove and touched my forehead; it felt cool. And in fact I