Troublemaker by John Cho

Author:John Cho [Cho, John and Suk, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2022-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

I know it’s a bad idea to run away the second I do it. I count all the reasons why in my head.

Number one: Mike’s ankle is sprained. He was just able to walk and now I’m making him run. He can’t even use his branch cane, which he’s still holding in his hand, for support.

Number two: Sarah swears—it’s maybe the first time I’ve ever heard her swear in my life—and moves to get into her car. She’s on wheels. We’re on foot. Do I really think we can outrun her?

Number three: Where am I even going?

I don’t know. All I know is that I need to get to Appa, and Sarah’s in my way. That there’s something like fire in my veins, angry and hot, pushing me in the opposite direction from her. I duck down a side street, then another, cutting through alleyways to try to lose her. The gun in my backpack feels like it’s getting bigger by the minute, weighing me down, threatening to swallow me whole. I need to protect it because Appa needs it to protect him. But I can’t let Sarah see it. She won’t understand. I need to do this on my own.

“Jordan,” Mike pants. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

I’m still running, my hand tight around Mike’s arm. I slow down, let go. Mike bends over, hands against his legs, but he doesn’t throw up. He’s just breathing heavy. I can almost see his ankle throbbing from here.

We’re on a more residential street now. I keep one eye out for Sarah. We bought some time, but she saw which way we were going and she knows we won’t be able to move far. She’ll show up sooner rather than later. We’ve got to get out of here, fast.

My eyes fall on a man across the street, rearranging something in the back of his dark green pickup truck. He’s a big, stocky guy wearing a tan work shirt, painter’s pants, and a Lakers cap. He’s my only hope, I think. I turn to Mike.

“One last run,” I say. “I promise.”

Mike groans but straightens up anyway. This time I help him, putting his arm around my shoulders again. We race across the street.

“Sir!” I yell at the man.

He startles, looking up from his truck. The back is filled to the brim with gardening supplies: rakes, shovels, buckets, a long, tangled hose. It looks like he was right in the middle of flipping over a wheelbarrow from the way one of the wheels is slowly spinning in the air.

“Could we get a ride?” I ask, breathless. “My friend. He needs help.”

I know I’m using Mike as an excuse but it’s hard to say no to two kids when one of the kids is hurt.

The man’s face fills with worry. Seeing him up close, I’d guess he’s just a bit younger than Appa. “You two out here alone?” he asks, looking over our shoulders. He has a slight accent, maybe Mexican, and wrinkles that look like ocean waves across his forehead.

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