Read Online Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
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fighting."
Mrs. Hurd sighed a mighty sigh. "Don't be such a Christian. You got whipped because you got only the first part right—when you're fighting someone bigger than you are, you've got to break his nose first, and you did that just fine. But then there's the second part. You have to figure he's going to be mad, and so you have to hit him in the right eye to shut it. After that you're even."
Turner stood, stunned. Mrs. Hurd went back to her sweeping. "Don't you know about these things, Turner III?"
"I'm sort of surprised that you do, Mrs. Hurd."
She smiled, a smile as beautiful as the yellow day, and came down the steps, leaving her broom against a post. "What a lovely thing to say," she told him, and she reached up and kissed him lightly on his cheek. "But remember"—she balled her right hand into a fist—"first to the nose, like this, and then a left up to the eye, like that."
"First to the nose, then to the eye." Turner was smiling, too.
"Now go on your way. The day's too bright to spend it fighting with an old lady."
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
"And it won't do to go courting an old lady, either."
"I'm not courting you,"Turner said. "I just figure it would be smart to stay on your good side if I don't want to get my nose broken and my right eye shut."
"You learn quickly, Turner III. Go on now."
He went on now.
It had been dry too long for even an all-night rain to leave the dirt of Parker Head muddy, and Turner ran down the road and up into the woods. By the time he began to clamber down the ledges, he was wet through with the rain the branches had swiped at him, and he did not care, not wearing a shirt a minister's boy would have to be particular about. The day was bright and the sea blue and the salt air clear. It was all so perfect that Turner was hardly surprised when he reached the shore and found Lizzie was waiting for him, her dory pulled up by the chin onto the rocks and bucking a bit with the tide.
He tossed her the ball, and she caught it with one hand. "No more rocks!" he called.
"I don't know," Lizzie said. "You were getting on with rocks. You think you can hit something like this?"
"I think I can hit something like that." He tossed her his glove. She caught it and held it like a dream that had dropped right out of the bright blue sky into her outstretched hand. She tossed the ball back to him and then, slowly, as if it were a ceremony, she put the glove over her hand. She flexed it, held it up over her face and smelled it, then held it out again. She punched her right hand into it.
"Throw me the ball," she said. And he did. "Harder," she said, throwing it back. "Harder still," she called. At first she caught the ball down in the palm, but soon she had the trick of catching it up in the webbing, and she began to giggle with the pleasure of it, catching the ball and then whipping around and throwing it back to Turner. "You know," she said, "I never caught with one of these before." And Turner, watching the smooth flow of her arms and hands, the fine long fingers that twirled the ball just before they released it, the eyes that in the clear air shone with all the brightness of the day, thought that maybe he wouldn't need to light out for the Territories after all.
They never did use the bat. All Lizzie wanted to do was to catch the ball, for him to throw it harder, or higher, or off to her left, or off to her right, and she would snatch it out of the air, sometimes even leaning out over the water, and she would look as happy as the yellow-robed day, and she'd toss the ball back and flex the glove.
When they had thrown the ball back and forth about a million times, they sat down together on the stones, the glove between them, watching the ripples the tide was sending closer and closer in, watching it slurp up the seaweed beds and start to cover...
"The mudflats," Lizzie said. "I promised my granddaddy I'd dig up clams enough."
They threw the bat and ball and glove up
Mrs. Hurd sighed a mighty sigh. "Don't be such a Christian. You got whipped because you got only the first part right—when you're fighting someone bigger than you are, you've got to break his nose first, and you did that just fine. But then there's the second part. You have to figure he's going to be mad, and so you have to hit him in the right eye to shut it. After that you're even."
Turner stood, stunned. Mrs. Hurd went back to her sweeping. "Don't you know about these things, Turner III?"
"I'm sort of surprised that you do, Mrs. Hurd."
She smiled, a smile as beautiful as the yellow day, and came down the steps, leaving her broom against a post. "What a lovely thing to say," she told him, and she reached up and kissed him lightly on his cheek. "But remember"—she balled her right hand into a fist—"first to the nose, like this, and then a left up to the eye, like that."
"First to the nose, then to the eye." Turner was smiling, too.
"Now go on your way. The day's too bright to spend it fighting with an old lady."
He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
"And it won't do to go courting an old lady, either."
"I'm not courting you,"Turner said. "I just figure it would be smart to stay on your good side if I don't want to get my nose broken and my right eye shut."
"You learn quickly, Turner III. Go on now."
He went on now.
It had been dry too long for even an all-night rain to leave the dirt of Parker Head muddy, and Turner ran down the road and up into the woods. By the time he began to clamber down the ledges, he was wet through with the rain the branches had swiped at him, and he did not care, not wearing a shirt a minister's boy would have to be particular about. The day was bright and the sea blue and the salt air clear. It was all so perfect that Turner was hardly surprised when he reached the shore and found Lizzie was waiting for him, her dory pulled up by the chin onto the rocks and bucking a bit with the tide.
He tossed her the ball, and she caught it with one hand. "No more rocks!" he called.
"I don't know," Lizzie said. "You were getting on with rocks. You think you can hit something like this?"
"I think I can hit something like that." He tossed her his glove. She caught it and held it like a dream that had dropped right out of the bright blue sky into her outstretched hand. She tossed the ball back to him and then, slowly, as if it were a ceremony, she put the glove over her hand. She flexed it, held it up over her face and smelled it, then held it out again. She punched her right hand into it.
"Throw me the ball," she said. And he did. "Harder," she said, throwing it back. "Harder still," she called. At first she caught the ball down in the palm, but soon she had the trick of catching it up in the webbing, and she began to giggle with the pleasure of it, catching the ball and then whipping around and throwing it back to Turner. "You know," she said, "I never caught with one of these before." And Turner, watching the smooth flow of her arms and hands, the fine long fingers that twirled the ball just before they released it, the eyes that in the clear air shone with all the brightness of the day, thought that maybe he wouldn't need to light out for the Territories after all.
They never did use the bat. All Lizzie wanted to do was to catch the ball, for him to throw it harder, or higher, or off to her left, or off to her right, and she would snatch it out of the air, sometimes even leaning out over the water, and she would look as happy as the yellow-robed day, and she'd toss the ball back and flex the glove.
When they had thrown the ball back and forth about a million times, they sat down together on the stones, the glove between them, watching the ripples the tide was sending closer and closer in, watching it slurp up the seaweed beds and start to cover...
"The mudflats," Lizzie said. "I promised my granddaddy I'd dig up clams enough."
They threw the bat and ball and glove up
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