My parents are not rich. I say this because people sometimes think that everyone who goes to private school is rich, but that isn’t true with us. Dad’s a teacher and Mom’s a social worker, which means they don’t have those kinds of jobs where people make gazillions of dollars. We used to have a car, but we sold it when Jamie started kindergarten at Beecher Prep. We don’t live in a big townhouse or in one of those doorman buildings along the park. We live on the top floor of a five-story walk-up we rent from an old lady named Doña Petra all the way on the “other” side of Broadway. That’s “code” for the section of North River Heights where people don’t want to park their cars. Me and Jamie share a room. I overhear my parents talk about things like “Can we do without an air conditioner one more year?” or “Maybe I can work two jobs this summer.”
So today at recess I was hanging out with Julian and Henry and
Miles. Julian, who everyone knows is rich, was like, “I hate that I have to go back to Paris this Christmas. It’s so boring!”
“Dude, but it’s, like, Paris,” I said like an idiot.
“Believe me, it’s so boring,” he said. “My grandmother lives in this house in the middle of nowhere. It’s like an hour away from Paris in this tiny, tiny, tiny village. I swear to God, nothing happens there! I mean, it’s like, oh wow, there’s another fly on the wall! Look, there’s a new dog sleeping on the sidewalk. Yippee.”
I laughed. Sometimes Julian could be very funny.
“Though my parents are talking about throwing a big party this year instead of going to Paris. I hope so. What are you doing over break?” said Julian.
“Just hanging out,” I said. “You’re so lucky,” he said.
“I hope it snows again,” I answered. “I got this new sled that is so amazing.” I was about to tell them about Lightning but Miles started talking first.
“I got a new sled, too!” he said. “My dad got it from Hammacher
Schlemmer. It’s so state of the art.”
“How could a sled be state of the art?” said Julian. “It was like eight hundred dollars or something.” “Whoa!”
“We should all go sledding and have a race down Skeleton Hill,” I said.
“That hill is so lame,” answered Julian.
“Are you kidding?” I said. “Some kid broke his neck there. That’s why it’s called Skeleton Hill.”
Julian narrowed his eyes and looked at me like I was the biggest moron in the world. “It’s called Skeleton Hill because it was an ancient Indian burial ground, duh,” he said. “Anyway, it should be called Garbage Hill now, it’s so freakin’ junky. Last time I was there it was so gross, like with soda cans and broken bottles and stuff.” He shook his head.
“I left my old sled there,” said Miles. “It was the crappiest piece of junk—and someone took it, too!”
“Maybe a hobo wanted to go sledding!” laughed Julian. “Where did you leave it?” I said.
“By the big rock at the bottom of the hill. And I went back the next day and it was gone. I couldn’t believe somebody actually took it!”
“Here’s what we can do,” said Julian. “Next time it snows, my dad could drive us all up to this golf course in Westchester that makes Skeleton Hill look like nothing. Hey, Jack, where are you going?”
I had started to walk away.
“I’ve got to get a book out of my locker,” I lied.
I just wanted to get away from them fast. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was the “hobo” who had taken the sled.
