Things Hoped For by Andrew Clements Read Free Book Online Page A

pretty empty, even on Friday or Saturday night. New York’s a whole different thing.” When we’re across, he stops to look at the statues lit up by the votive candles that flicker in the window of a bodega. And then he’s got his nose against the glass door of the Italian bakery three doors farther south, and he makes me promise we can come again when it’s open.
    And I’m having fun, just being with someone who’s seeing my neighborhood for the first time. Because the variety is wonderful, and I shouldn’t take it for granted. I shouldn’t take anything for granted.
    Once we get to 109th Street, it’s a short walk to Grampa’s house. And when I’ve got the gate and the ground floor door open, and the house feels dark and silent, I say, “Why don’t you come in? I’ll play you some Paganini if you’ll play me some Haydn.”
    “It’s pretty late—think it’s okay with your grandfather?”
    “It’s fine. Really.”
    I lock the iron gate, and when he’s inside, I flip on the hallway lights, lock the door, and set the steel rod back in place.
    He nods at the door brace. “We’ve got an electronic alarm system at my house.”
    “My grampa says he prefers iron bars and bricks, especially if the power’s out.”
    “Can’t argue with that.”
    When we’re upstairs, I can see my daffodils there on the dining table, bright as sunlight. I say, “Want a sandwich, or something to drink?”
    He nods. “Both. Please.” He’s apparently one of those people who can eat a meal once an hour.
    I’m in the kitchen and Robert’s walking around the parlor, looking at books, looking at Grampa’s war medals, taking in the family photos. “This is you, right? The skinny girl in the middle?”
    “Aha—he plays the trumpet, and he’s also an expert at flattery.”
    He grins. “I meant to say, are you the slender brunette with the dimples and the smoky eyes?”
    I nod my approval. “Yes, and that’s my family. They live in West Virginia, near Charleston.”
    “Which explains your accent—not what I think of when someone says she lives in New York.”
    “Accent? What accent?” I say, drawing out the vowels for him.
    Maybe it’s because I know he has a girlfriend. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel like I can flirt a little. Because that’s not like me. But he doesn’t know that. At this moment, I think I know more about him than he knows about me.
    He flips a thumb toward Grampa’s door. “Your grand-dad’s room?” I nod, and he points at the case where Grampa’s Purple Heart medal is on display. “He’s not going to come charging out here with a bayonet, is he?”
    “No chance.”
    The phone rings on Grampa’s desk in the study. It’s too late for my mom to call, and I don’t want to talk to anyone else. I keep making the sandwich, and Robert says, “You want me to answer that?”
    “The machine’ll get it.” Then I remember again: Every phone call could also be Grampa. And I hold my breath, hoping.
    But after the beep it’s Uncle Hank, and he’s talking so loud, I can hear him from the kitchen.
    “Lawrence? . . . Pick up. . . . Blast you, Lawrence! . . . Pick up your phone. . . . Okay, so it’s late. But you call me tomorrow at home. I’ll be out in the morning, so call me at noon. I tried to call today, and then I come all the way there, and I let myself in to wait, and then Gwen shows up and breathes some fire, and she boots me out—said she’d call your lawyer if I didn’t leave. That girl’s got some spunk—wonder where she gets that from, huh? Anyway, you call me tomorrow about the house deal, or else I’m gonna have to show up there with the cops . . . so I can check up on my eighty-five-year-old brother who’s not answering his phone. This is the wrong time to try to ignore me. And please, tell little Gwennie to stay out of my way, okay? I need that money, Lawrence, do you hear me? I need it. So you call me.”
    Uncle Hank slams down his phone, there’s a dial tone,