“Why?”
“So you can call me, silly.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“You like me like me or just like me?”
“I like you.”
My chest tightened and I got out of the car, then turned back and leaned close.
“Listen, I get it. You’ve taken me on as a project. Poor, big, stupid Alfred Kropp. Well, I don’t need your pretty . . . I mean pity. Find some other loser to feel sorry for.”
I turned away before she could say anything, jogging across the yard to the front door. I missed seeing the gnarled old oak root sticking up in front of the sidewalk, tripped, and sprawled flat on my face in the cool dirt. Could it get any worse? I had been waiting for a sign and, as
I pushed my big slobbery bulk from the ground, I realized this was the sign I was waiting for.
It was time to leave.
7
Horace was standing in the entryway holding a gray suit on a hanger.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Your suit, Alfred.”
“I don’t own a suit.”
“You do now. You need to try it on to see if it fits. Tomorrow afternoon is the hearing. And you gotta look nice for the judge, Al,” he said.
I brushed past him, went into the bathroom, and proceeded to floss. After a second there was a soft knock and Horace whispered from the other side.
“Hey, Al, I think you forgot the suit. I’ll just hang it here on the knob. We’re having fried chicken for dinner. Isn’t that your favorite?”
I didn’t answer and Horace went away.
I went into the bedroom and pulled my old duffel bag from the closet. It took about five minutes to pack because I didn’t have much. The door opened and Kenny came in.
“What are you doing, Alfred Kropp?”
“Packing,” I said.
“You’re leaving!”
I looked up at him. He started to cry.
“Don’t do that, Kenny. I don’t want Horace and Betty to know.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
“Take me with you.”
“I can’t.”