Slowly he walked through the narrow alleys until he reached his grandfather's apartment building. They stretched wide to swallow him.įinally he got more scared of the Chinatown streets than of his grandfather. All around him the doorways started to look like mouths. The Chinatown shadows were growing longer. He was still caught in the nightmare, and it was getting worse. He had never gotten an F before, and he had never thought he would get it in his best subject. Maybe this will teach you," she had said, and she wrote a big "F" on his picture. He was too ashamed to tell her that he could not afford a new one. How many times have I reminded you to get a new brush? " His third-grade teacher had criticized his painting. The tired hairs had refused to keep their point and had split into three parts. However, today at school the brush had worn out. He would have painted a great portrait of the new president, Kennedy. Steve had to make everything last: his clothes, his paper, his pens, and especially his paints and paintbrush.īack at home, he would have enjoyed today's assignment. Now, because his grandfather was poor, there was never money for watercolors or paper. The rest of their house had been decorated with them.Īll that was gone in one terrible, fiery night. His parents had hung his best paintings in their offices so their coworkers could admire them.
Steve had always tried to get good grades when his parents were alive, especially in art, his favorite class. And now Steve was sure his grandfather was going to blow his top. He never spoke to Steve except to scold him. his parents, his toys, his books, his clothes.Īnd everything Steve did just made his grandfather meaner. How do you put your whole life into just one box? Not that he had much left after the fire. Grandfather had told Steve he could bring only one box with him to Chinatown. After the fire he had to go live in Chinatown. Steve knew his grandfather didn't want him. And that was the same thing as being alone. He was all alone now-except for his grandfather. No matter how hard he struggled, they were always hidden by fire. He screwed his eyebrows together as he fought to recall them. He tried to remember what they looked like, but all he could see were flames. And his mother and father would be waiting in the doorway.
Maybe when he opened them, he'd be back home where there were regular houses and real lawns. Resting his head on his knees, he closed his eyes. What would his grandfather say when Steve went home? He preferred shivering outside to facing his grandfather.Īll around the school yard the buildings of Chinatown crowded shoulder to shoulder.
Steve sat in the school yard long after school was over.
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