By Caro Peacock
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I didn’t care if I banged my shins. The houses were packed pretty tightly. It was second nature for me to learn the dips and ledges in sidewalks, the location of a tree trunk or a bush near a friend’s yard, the contours and length of his driveway, and whether it was two or three steps up to the door. I knew all that before I knew anything about sweeping with a cane. ” Dad would call out. The cowboy with the hockey stick, that was me. When I started school, a year late because of the accident, Dad wanted me to go to Cameron Elementary like other kids; he didn’t want me surrounded by blind children in a special school.
Ray sat as still as stone on my left. “You think I’m an idiot doesn’t know you and him sat up all last night figuring out how to download between that thing and his laptop? ” My jaw clenched. My breathing stopped. ” I wanted to touch and go 43 say. I wanted to reach over the seat and grip him by the throat. But I suppressed all that. I kept my vow; I remained quiet. I would not let him get to me. Not already. “You listen good, Devon,” Patrick said. “Not everything’s on the up-and-up. Somebody with your record ought to know not to write stuff down.
We sat silent for a moment, startled. I knew these clashes would come, but already? An hour from Burbank? “It’s not anything real,” Isa said. “He’s just writing stories about himself. ” Patrick sputtered. ” For an assignment at school, Devon had wanted to write about teacher-student relations, so I’d let him borrow my digital recorder to record what teachers said in class. He got outrageous quotes: put-downs and name-callings to get kids to behave. Instead of just handing in a paper, he turned it into a newsletter for everybody to read.