Here by Mistake by David Ciferri Read Free Book Online Page A

Stephen?”
    Silence.
    “Stephen.”
    Stephen’s head jerked up from the newspaper. “What?”
    Sarah leaned over to see what he was reading. “What’s so interesting?” she asked.
    “Everything! It says here Charles De Gaulle’s running for president of France.”
    “So?” She smiled.
    “So, Charles De Gaulle died in 1970.”
    Brandon bunched up the papers from lunch and threw them in a trash barrel. “Well, Charles has his deal and we have ours. Tell me something about our deal. Why’s the Dr. Pepper taste better?
    “Probably because it’s made with sugar instead of corn syrup.”
    Brandon checked the ingredients on his bottle and looked at Stephen. “How do you know this stuff?” he asked, half-annoyed.
    Stephen grinned at him. He got up and slid the newspaper into his backpack. Brandon decided to let his question go. He unfolded the map and found their location. “This’ll be easy,” he said with confidence. “We go east on St. Charles, then south on Canal ’til we hit Decatur. Then we find 751.”
    They set out. The afternoon was bright and warm. Sarah pointed to an electric sign on the New Orleans Savings Bank that said seventy-two degrees.
    St. Charles Street was crowded with eating places. A sandwich-board sign in front of Café Creole said Try Our Alligator. Smaller signs in the windows said Try Our Crawfish and Try Our Frog Legs. Brandon stuck his head in the door, and a strong fishy smell drove him back. The three walked on, and soon they came to fancier places without the big signs.
    Brandon stopped outside the wood-paneled entrance to Etienne’s and peered at the menu in its glass case. “What’s ‘dirty rice’?” he asked, frowning. “It can’t be what it sounds like.”
    “Beats me.” Sarah smiled. “Why don’t you eat a big pot of it and let us know?”
    Brandon wasn’t listening. “What’s jambalaya? And what’s etouffée? Whatever they are, I think they have alligator in them.”
    Sarah started to say something, but Brandon cut in. “Turtle soup.” He pointed to it under appetizers. “They chop up turtles for soup. It says here it’s a specialty of the house.”
    Stephen ran his finger down the desserts column. “Beignets,” he pronounced with a perfect accent. Brandon gave him a blank look, and he explained: “French doughnuts. I never had them, but my mom and dad say they’re really good.”
    “Probably the only things here that are.” Brandon smirked. “I’m not into dirt and alligators. This place needs a McDonald’s.”
    They continued on their way, taking a right on Canal Street. Then they found Decatur, and Brandon started looking for 751. Six blocks on they came to a wide-open space with flower gardens, a church, and a river. “The Mississippi,” Stephen observed. A curving black-iron sign similar to the one at the cemetery called the place Jackson Square. Sarah spotted benches and pulled Brandon toward them.
    “Good idea,” Brandon said as he was tugged along. “We need to keep rested.”
    They sat down. Brandon had been grateful when lunch and the walk seemed to take Sarah’s mind off the mess they were in. Now he realized she was thinking about it again. She pressed herself against him and began to cry.
    What to do? Brandon put his arm stiffly around her. “Please don’t, Sarah,” he begged. “I’ll do anything . . . I know I messed up; I swear I’ll fix it. Please . . .”
    “I’m not mad at you, B,” she whispered. “I’m just so scared . . .”
    Stephen was sitting on a bench across the sidewalk from them. He nodded understandingly to Brandon and glanced around the square. Up near the church a brass band was playing a march for a few onlookers. Two flower beds to his left, an artist at an easel was sketching a blonde-haired lady in a formal pose. Down near the river an ice-cream vendor was selling pops out of a pushcart. Someone approached him from his right. He looked up.
    “How y’all doin’?” exclaimed the someone, who