Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street Read Free Page A

felt fine all over, head to toe, the way you do after running around for a while. There were also growing pains to factor in: lots of possible explanations for something that would probably never happen again. “Anyway, cool bird,” I said.
    Tut-Tut grunted.
    I walked off. A block away, waiting for the light to change, I felt the silver heart. It had heated up again, but now cooled quickly under my touch. The light changed. I glanced back. The school yard was empty.

I t was almost fully dark when I turned onto my street, climbed for a couple of blocks, and reached the top of the slope. The western view opened up: the river, which still somehow had a glow to it, like it was clinging to daytime; the Brooklyn Bridge, looking like it was built of lights alone; Manhattan. A million-dollar view, which was probably an underestimate. People said a million dollars weren’t what they used to be; maybe it would be better to go back to when they were. But that was off topic, the kind of mind wandering that kept me from being a straight-A student, according to my first-term report card, or getting any A’s at all, the grading at Thatcher turning out to be much stricter than at Joe Louis.
    The best part of the view, in my opinion and maybe mine alone, was how it disappeared behind the nearby buildings slice by slice and piece by piece on the waydown the other side. Hard to explain why, and also off topic. I headed down the street, passing Local, the new cool neighborhood bar, and Zimmy’s, the used-to-be-cool neighborhood bar, then Au Boulot, the bistro that had been cheap until it got a great review, I couldn’t remember where, and Monsieur Señor’s, the coffee place where my dad sometimes worked when he got sick of being alone at home. And there he was at one of the window tables, espresso cup in front of him and laptop open—although he didn’t seem to be working, instead was talking to a guy at the next table, also with espresso and laptop. He saw me, smiled, and waved me inside. I went in—the air always so different from ordinary air, like landing on planet Coffee—and walked over to Dad’s table.
    “Hey, there,” he said. “How was your day?”
    “Good.”
    “Shep,” he said, turning to the other guy, “this is my daughter, Robyn. Robyn, meet Shep van Slyke.”
    I shook hands with Shep van Slyke, remembering too late that maybe you were supposed to take off your glove first.
    “Shep wrote that book you loved so much when you were little,” Dad said.
    “
One Snake, Two Snakes
?” I asked. An important book for me: it had taught me how to count, for one thing, and not to fear snakes, for another.
    “No, no, no,” Dad said. “The one where everybody’s a baker.”
    “
Too Many Pies
?” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    I turned to Shep van Slyke. He was watching me kind of intently, like… like, was he waiting for me to say something about
Too Many Pies,
some kind of compliment?
    “Um,” I said, no compliments coming in time.
    Shep van Slyke blinked. “I’m a fan of
One Snake, Two Snakes,
too, Robyn,” he said. “And—”
    “Robbie.”
    “I’d be interested in what you liked most about it.”
    “The pictures, I guess,” I said. “I really liked your pictures, too,” I added, which was true, although for some reason the story in
Too Many Pies
hadn’t grabbed me. Not even the story, so much, but the… what was the word? Started with
C.
I couldn’t come up with it.
    “My pictures?” said Shep van Slyke.
    “In
Too Many Pies.
”
    “I didn’t do the pictures.”
    “Oh.”
    “Just the text,” he said. “And the concept, too, of course.”
    Concept
: that was the
C
word I’d been searching for.
    Shep van Slyke glanced at clock on the wall. “Look at the time.” He folded his laptop and rose. “Keep in touch, Chas,” he said, and to me, “Nice meeting you.”
    “Bye,” I said. Shep van Slyke wrapped his scarf around his neck and left. I sat down next to my dad.
    Hugh, the barista who was in