Me Three by Susan Juby

Author:Susan Juby [Juby, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PRH Canada Young Readers
Published: 2022-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

15

Hey, Lar,

I’m back. Now where was I? Oh, right. The Ranch.

It looked like nothing because it looked the same as everything else.

Fisherman stopped his bike, which was almost twice the size of the mountain bikes Ben and I rode and still looked like he’d stolen it from a four-year-old.

“Here it is,” he said.

I looked around for a log house, horses and cowboys and cows, but there was only a double-wide trailer, empty pens, and one longer fenced area that ran behind three old barns and alongside the road for a little way.

“Cool,” said Ben, and I think he was actually serious. Rancho Socorro wasn’t that cool.

“Where is everything?” I asked.

Fisherman didn’t answer. He just sniffed and wiped his nose on the bottom of his shirt. I thought wiping your nose on your sleeve was extremely outlaw. I never even knew that the bottom of the shirt was an option.

“My uncle lets me use his gun sometimes. We do target practice over there,” he said and pointed off behind the barn.

I felt my eyes bulge. Guns? Remember how I said when I first saw him that he might have weapons? I was right! Can you imagine what our teachers at Circle Square would say to hear we were near actual weapons? Or our parents? Your mom especially! So much for Disarm and Live Day, where we wrote letters to members of Congress.

I cleared my throat.

“Don’t worry, I won’t shoot you if you’re against the Second Amendment,” said Fisherman.

It was the first sign that Fisherman knew at least part of the Constitution. I was impressed, even though at Circle Square we learned it at the beginning of fourth grade.

“Anything to eat here?” asked Ben.

“That sounds great!” I said, sounding all high-pitched due to being afraid of guns and hoping Fisherman wouldn’t be bringing one out. I was so nervous I almost wished I was in school getting called a predator instead of at Rancho Scare-o with no adult supervision. “I could go for a snack.” It wasn’t true. The gun talk ruined my appetite.

“I’m not supposed to go inside when my aunt and uncle aren’t here,” said Fisherman. “And I’m not allowed to touch the guns.”

We were standing in a wide dirt area between the trailer and the barn. There was an old truck with a flat tire parked against the barn, and I could see a shiny orange tractor parked inside a shed.

“Your aunt and uncle live here?” I asked.

“Yeah. They manage the ranch. The owner is some rich guy from L.A. who never even visits. My uncle says the guy just likes telling people he has a ranch.”

Just then a black-and-white dog that looked as old as rocks came out from behind the barn. Its knees didn’t really bend, so it tilted from side to side with every step when it walked.

“Willy!” said Fisherman, sounding happier than I’d ever heard him sound before. “Hey, buddy.”

He got down on one knee and scratched the old dog behind its ears. Its eyes

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