Crooked by Laura McNeal Read Free Book Online Page B

okay?”

6
    A FRIEND LIKE CROOKSHANK
    Amos, slumped down in the back of Crook’s brother’s Pontiac Bonneville, wanted to turn around to see Clara’s face but didn’t want Crook to know he cared that much.
    Outside, all the tree limbs and fences and TV antennas were thick with snow. There were four of them in the car—Amos and Bruce in the back; Zeke, Bruce’s older brother, at the wheel; and Zeke’s friend Big Dave Pearse riding shotgun. They were heading up to the high school gym, where Zeke and Big Dave, because of their varsity status, were allowed to shoot around on weekends. Amos and Bruce were along because they hoped to find some pickup games in the warm gym afterward.
    Before Bruce called, Amos was at church, the last place he wanted to be. His mother had bribed him and Liz with blueberry waffles, had ironed all their good clothes, and had, at the last moment, put on a hat. “It’s not Easter, Mom,” Liz had said. His mother, turning the rearview mirror toward herself, said, “When I was a little girl, women covered their heads in church.”
    During the hymns and the sermon, Amos wondered when his mother would get over this religion thing. He studied the backs of his hands, the leather of his shoes, the stained-glass windows, and the program. His mother had been religious before she got married, and she knew the words to all the songs without looking at the hymnal. She sang, she watched the reverend, she shut her eyes during the prayers, and—surprisingly—so did his father. He sang in a deep voice that sounded, Amos had to admit, pretty good. He also had to admit that his mother was the only woman in church wearing a hat.
    On the far side of the backseat of the Bonneville, Bruce was suddenly going through his pockets as if he’d lost something important.
    â€œWhat?” Amos said.
    But Bruce kept fumbling through pockets until at last he came up with a copy of Clara’s flyer. He tapped a telephone number on it and smirked.
    â€œI thought I owed it to you to verify that this was in fact the Brainette’s genuine number.”
    A bad feeling shot through Amos. “You called her up.”
    â€œThat’s correct. This very A.M.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œAnd not much, really,” Bruce said. “I say, ‘Is this Clara Wilson?’ and she goes, ‘This is she,’ like she’s the receptionist at some kind of snooty office or something, and I say, ‘Well, this is Amos MacKenzie, and I’m naked as a jaybird,’ and then she said I was disgusting and hung up.”
    Up front, Zeke and Big Dave Pearse let out appreciative hoots.
    Amos looked at his friend. “Swear, Crook?”
    â€œOn any book you like.”
    Amos stared out at the passing yards trying to decide whether Crook would’ve done something like that. The problem with a friend like Bruce was it was hard to imagine anything he
wouldn’t
do. Amos turned and looked at him seriously, drilling his eyes into him until Bruce had to turn and look back.
    â€œQuestion?” Bruce said.
    In a low voice he hoped couldn’t be heard up front, Amos said, “Did you really call her and say that?”
    Bruce tried to look as if he actually felt bad about it. “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
    â€œYou’re such a troglodyte, Crook,” Amos said in a tight, surprisingly high voice, and up front, Bruce’s brother hooted and Big Dave Pearse, who’d been twirling a basketball on his index finger, palmed the ball and turned around with an ear-to-ear grin. “A deep dent, Crook, my man. A very deep dent.”
    Bruce, grinning himself, said, “I wouldn’t know. So what does it mean, that I’m a troglodyte?”
    â€œIt means the things you do are troglodytic,” Big Dave said, “and there’s not much, if anything, lower. I’d make him take it back if I were