Then again, there
was
one thing he could do … write a letter to the editor of the
Springton Herald! That
might get somebody to start thinking.
Vowing to give it a try, Brett got back on his skateboard and headed toward home. He suddenly felt energized, and he couldn’t wait to get his thoughts down on paper.
As Brett wheeled past Mrs. Weatherspoon’s house, he noticed that she wasn’t in her usual spot.
Guess she finally got tired of staring into space,
he thought, relieved that he didn’t have to feel her ugly glare on him.
Brett’s mother greeted him with an ugly glare of her own as soon as he walked in the door. Just looking at her flushed, unhappy face made him wish he had stayed out longer. Now what was wrong?
“I was wondering when you were coming home, young man,” she said angrily. “I got a call from a woman up the street.”
“Mrs. Weatherspoon?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t tell me her name. But she said that you and another boy were skateboarding in front of her house and that you almost ran into a dog with your skateboard.”
It
had
to he that nosy old Mrs. Weatherspoon,
Brett thought. That explained why she wasn’t on her front porch — she was inside, phoning his mom.
“Look, Brett.” His mother lifted a finger and shook it in front of his nose as if it were a weapon. “I’m not going to stand for any trouble from you because of your skateboarding. It seems to me that ever since that skateboard was dug up you haven’t been off it for more than a minute. This is my last warning to you. One more incident like this — just one more, mind you — and that skateboard goes to the junkyard. Period!”
F
or the next two days Brett didn’t look at The Lizard even once, let alone skate on it. He was afraid that he might do something accidentally to give his mother an excuse to cart The Lizard to the junkyard.
One thing he couldn’t get off his mind was Mrs. Weatherspoon. He knew she had squealed on him. But why? What had he ever done to her?
She’s just an old busybody,
he thought angrily.
Since he wasn’t out skateboarding, Brett had plenty of time to compose his letter to the editor of the
Herald
. As his family watched the evening news, Brett looked at the TV screen without seeing it. He was deep in thought.
“Well, no comment?”
He glanced at his father. “Sorry, Dad. What …?”
“Didn’t you hear that? Your Blue Jays just blew another one.”
“Oh, they did?”
“That’s what the man said. Weren’t you listening?”
Brett shrugged, and shifted his position slightly on the lounge chair. “I guess I wasn’t,” he admitted.
“What have you got on your mind?” his father asked. “Let me guess. That skateboard. The Lizard.”
Brett shrugged again. “Partly,” he answered.
“Partly?”
“I’ve been thinking about writing a letter to the newspaper,” he said.
“Oh? About what?”
“About somebody building a skateboarding rink in town.”
“A skateboarding rink?” his father echoed. “Hey! I think that’s a terrific idea! Why not?” His voice quickly dropped. “But I doubt it’ll work.”
“You don’t think I should write a letter?” Brett asked, disappointed.
“They might not even print it,” his father said. “This town seems to frown on skateboarding.”
“But that’s because we skateboarders have no special place,” Brett said, giving voice to all the arguments brewing in his head. “If we had a place to skateboard, we’d be off the streets. We wouldn’t be a danger to other people, even though I don’t think we’re any more of a danger than kids who ride bikes, or motorbikes, or roller skates.”
“I agree with your father,” his mother cut in from her chair near the picture window. “It could be a waste of time.”
Thanks, Mom,
he wanted to say.
I knew you’d he with me all the way
. How she had consented to let his father buy him his first skateboard he’d never know. He must have caught her at a weak moment.
“Go for it, Brett,” Shannon said. “If you don’t, you’ll never know.”
She shot a glance at her mother right after she said that, as if she expected her mother to make some kind of harsh remark. But Mrs. Thyson just pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the TV set.
“I second that,” Mr. Thyson said. “It’s worth a shot. And we’re proud of you for thinking of it, right, hon?” He looked at his wife, who acted as though she hadn’t heard him.
Brett smiled, and got up. He excused himself and headed for his bedroom, eager to get going on the letter. He couldn’t wait to tell the whole town — including his mother — that skateboarders could be responsible.
He cleared off a space on his small desk, got a pen and paper, thought for a bit, then began to write:
Dear Editor,
I’m one of the many kids in Springton who enjoy skateboarding, but there’s no place for us to skateboard except on the sidewalks. And nobody wants us to skateboard on them. They say we’re dangerous and cause a lot of trouble. So what can we do? Nothing!
But we’re not going to do just nothing. We’re going to keep skateboarding. Skateboarding has become a national sport. It’s even become an international one. A lot of cities and towns have built special rinks for skateboarders. Why can’t Springton do the same for its kids? If they did, then we would stay off the sidewalks. We wouldn’t be a menace, like some people say we are. And we’d be happy.
I hope that you will print this letter, and that it will get somebody to thinking about building us a rink. There are fields for baseball, football, and soccer. But there’s not a single place for skateboarding.
I hope that whoever reads this letter will think about that.
Sincerely yours,
Brett Thyson
He read the letter over and felt satisfied with it. Then he wrote the newspaper’s address on an envelope, put on a stamp, and went downstairs.
“It’s finished,” he told his parents.
“I guess you don’t want us to read it,” his father said.
“It’s not much,” Brett said with a shrug. “Anyway, if it’s printed, you can read it then.” He headed for the door. “I’m going to mail it now.” Before his mother could say anything, he added, “I’m going on my bike.”
There, Mom. Satisfied?
He stuck the letter inside his jacket pocket, opened the garage door, and got his bike. The Lizard was there on the bench, and he gave it a passing glance, as if he felt guilty for taking the bike instead of the skateboard. “Maybe tomorrow, Liz,” he said half aloud.
It was fourteen blocks to the post office. He took his time riding there, staying as close to the right-side curb as possible, swinging out into the street only when there was a parked car in front of him. He passed the tennis courts, and noticed the crowd, the cars in the parking lot.
See what I mean, Mr. Editor?
he thought.
Even tennis players have their place; we should have ours
.
He finally arrived at the post office, a sprawling brick building with half a dozen steps leading up to the double doors. He went in and dropped the letter into the slot marked
STAMPED LETTERS
.
There,
he told himself proudly,
I’ve done it. I’ve written and mailed the letter. Now I can only wait and see if it’ll be printed and if anybody will do anything about it.
He rode back the same way he had come, so he could stop and watch some of the tennis matches. His mother and father used to play tennis, he remembered, then quit because his mother started to get bothered by arthritis. Brett had played some tennis himself before he got into skateboarding. Once he switched, he was hooked.
He watched for a while, then got back on his bike and headed for home.
When he reached his block, something caught his attention. Shannon was whizzing around the corner on a skateboard. He watched in disbelief — and then horror — as she bumped into another kid riding his skateboard just as a blue truck blazed around the corner.
S
hannon!” Brett screamed. “Oh, no!”
Shannon fell off her board as it hit the other kid’s. The truck nearly hit them both, then swerved at the last minute and continued on, its horn blaring.
Brett’s heart plunged to the bottom of his feet as he ran over to Shannon. The kid who had collided with her was none other than Kyle Robinson.
Figures,
Brett thought.
where there’s trouble, there’s kyle.
Brett noticed that Kyle hadn’t even lost his balance during the incident, and now he just stood there, looking helplessly at Shannon.
Brett raced up to her side, laid his bike on the curb, and knelt down beside her. “Shannon! You hurt?”
“No, I’m … I’m all right,” she said, gingerly lifting herself to her feet.
“She ran into me,” Kyle broke in before Brett could say anything. “She was coming around the corner. I saw her, but not in time. And that truck …”
Brett glanced down the street in the direction Kyle was pointing, but the truck was already out of sight.
Once Brett realized that Shannon wasn’t hurt, he took a closer look at the board she had been riding. The Lizard! “Who told you you could borrow The Lizard?” he yelled at Shannon.
“Nobody
borrows The Lizard! Do you understand that? Nobody!”
She shrank back from him as if afraid he was going to strike her. And he felt like striking her, too. She had no business …
From the corner of his eye he saw Kyle skate off down the street, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
Chicken,
Brett thought.
“I’m sorry,” Shannon apologized. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Well, I do mind,” Brett said. “I don’t want anybody to ride The Lizard but me! Understand?”
He picked up the bike. “Here. You take the bike,” he said. “I’ll take The Lizard.”
She looked so apologetic that Brett almost felt sorry for her. But he couldn’t let her know that. He wanted to make sure she would never borrow The Lizard again.
She took the bike and got on it.
Then her eyes darted past his shoulders, and at the same time Brett heard someone behind him.
He whirled, and saw Johnee and W.E. running toward them.
“You okay, Shan?” Johnee asked.
“I’m fine,” Shannon said.
“We saw the accident,” W.E. said.
Brett frowned. “So?”
“Shannon ran into Kyle, but it wasn’t her fault,” W.E. said.
“Look,” Brett said, “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m going to say it anyway, Brett, because it’s true. It’s the skateboard. It’s The Lizard.”
“No, it isn’t! You’re crazy! The Lizard has nothing to do with it!”
“What are you guys talking about?” Shannon asked.
“Oh,” Brett said impatiently, “W.E. seems to think that this board is haunted.”
Brett expected his sister to laugh at the idea, but she just stared at the board as though it were the first time she had ever laid eyes on it.
“
You
don’t believe him, do you, Johnee?” Brett cried, anger reddening his cheeks and neck. “You don’t believe that crock, do you?”
Johnee met his eyes, but he said nothing. He seemed puzzled, uncertain.
“Okay! Okay!” Brett yelled hotly, skating away. “The heck with you guys! Believe what you want! It’s not The Lizard! That’s dumb!
Dumb!
Come on, Shan! Let’s get out of here!”
He headed for home on The Lizard and Shannon followed him on the bike.
I can’t believe those guys,
Brett thought bitterly.
Especially W.E., spreading crazy stories about me. Why can’t he just face facts? The Lizard isn’t hexed, it’s just a fantastic board. After all, it
did
belong to a champion …
The thought of Lance Hawker — and how he died — sent chills up Brett’s spine despite himself. What if the same thing had happened to Shannon?
As if she read his mind, Shannon said, “Shall we tell Mom about the accident?”
“No,” Brett said quickly. She was the
last
person he wanted to tell. She’d throw The Lizard out for sure. “It would just worry her. Mom’s got enough worries to keep her busy for a month.”
Shannon nodded knowingly. “But what if she asks me about my knees? You’ve got to be blind not to see those scratches.”
“Just tell her you slipped on a banana peel,” he said, laughing.
“Oh, sure,” she said.
Brett stopped laughing when he remembered how mad he was about her taking The Lizard without permission.
“Why did you take The Lizard, anyway?” he asked her. “Why didn’t you take Cobra?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I … just wanted to try The Lizard out.”
“I guess you did,” Brett said.
He was glad to put The Lizard away in the garage when they reached home. Haunted or not, he’d had enough of it for one night.
On Friday, it looked as though Brett’s luck had changed — this time for the better. He got a phone call from a member of the
Springton Herald’s
staff. She informed him that his letter had been received and asked if he really was the one who had written it.
His heart almost leaped out of his chest. He had begun to think that the letter had been completely ignored or lost.
“Yes, I wrote it,” he said nervously.
“And you live at eleven thirty-nine Valley Hill Road?” the woman asked.
“That’s right,” Brett answered.
“Thank you,” replied the caller, and hung up.
She didn’t even give him a chance to ask if they were going to publish the letter!
Did that call mean that they
were
going to print it?
His question was answered the next morning, when he saw his letter in the paper.
How about that?
he thought, reading it again and again and feeling better each time.
“Mom! Shannon! Look!” he cried. “They printed my letter in the paper!”
They read it together.
“That sounds good,” said his mother, but she didn’t seem very enthusiastic. “I hope somebody reads it.”
You’re really encouraging, Mom, you know that?
Brett wanted to say to her. But he didn’t bother; it was pointless to argue. Instead he grabbed the newspaper and took off for Johnee’s house. If anyone would be impressed by his letter, Johnee would.