Gifted by Beth Evangelista Page B

too.
    But since beggars can’t be choosers and the temptation was too hard to resist, I saw my chance and I took it.
    â€œHey!” I cried. “What’s that over there? Could those be nudie magazines?”
    â€œWhere?” they both cried.
    â€œAll the way in the back!” I pointed into the gloom. “The very back!”
    It worked like a charm. They buzzed inside, knocking each other out of the way, while I, quicker than quick-silver,hurled myself against the door and slammed it shut. My faithful walking stick I jammed sideways through the handle, jiggling it a bit to test its durability. It would hold.
    I let out a triumphant “Ha-ha!” as a muscular arm swung out of the window and made a grab for my hair. But thanks to my reduced stature and expert ducking reflexes, I managed to escape unscathed. Then an evil voice growled, “You’re dead, Worm,” which sent a chill down my spine and me sprinting up the side of the dune. I retraced my steps through the forest at a brisk canter to where I’d left the wheelbarrow, and that’s where it hit me. Reality, I mean.
    What have I done? When They get out, They’re going to kill me!
    I steered the wheelbarrow back into camp like a lunatic gardener, and in no time flat, I made it all the way to Mr. Zimmerman’s construction site. My chest was heaving. I leaned against the building, trying to catch my breath.
    The whole time I’d thought of nothing but sweet revenge, and I cursed myself now for forgetting that after revenge comes
retaliation
. When Sam and Jason got out, my life would be worth less than a plug nickel. I swore under my breath. Then I sensed a couple of bulging eyes on me. I turned around.
    â€œWhere’s the wood, George?” Mr. Zimmerman had appeared out of nowhere wearing a tool belt of all things. A rather big tool belt. He led me to where a slab of particleboard lay balanced atop two rusty, yellow garbage cans.
    â€œI got lost,” I told him, hoping he wouldn’t send me back out to have another go at it. There could be no more venturing around camp for me. Not without a great big bodyguard in attendance. I held my breath.
    â€œYou were gone so long I thought you’d decided tochop down a tree or something. Well, we’ll let it go for now. It’s close to lunchtime.”
    I released my breath and felt my heart rate return to normal. I would at least have a last meal before being cut down in my prime.
    â€œTake a look at this, George!” Mr. Zimmerman slid the board off the cans. “Can you tell what this is?”
    The wood had been cut, and pretty accurately to-scale from what I could tell, in the shape of a World War II submarine. Mr. Z was looking at me brightly, waiting for my answer, altogether too pleased with himself. I studied the thing from all angles, then shook my head slowly.
    â€œIs it a tank?” The fear of death had taken all the sunshine out of my disposition, and I was in no mood to make anyone happy.
    â€œNo, no!” he bleated. “It’s a submarine!” He came over to join me in my scrutiny of the war vessel. “See the outline of the hull? And the periscope here?”
    â€œOh,
now
I see,” I said in an unconvinced way. “That’s a periscope there!” You could almost hear the steam fizzle out of his engine.
    â€œA tank? Does it really look like a tank?” He held his head to one side, doubting his own craftsmanship. Then he shook it. “Well, perhaps the paint will make a difference.”
    He tossed a package of sandpaper at me, which landed on my toe. “Let’s give the edges a good sanding before we break for lunch. We can’t have the stage crew getting splinters from it this afternoon.”
    I took a square out of the package and started doing what he’d started doing, that is rubbing it back and forth along the rough lines of the wood. But not as deliberately as he or as