Trout and Me by Susan Shreve Page A

know how to buy a ticket. So I went to the token booth and asked. I got four tokens and went through the turnstile and stood next to a pillar, waiting for the train.
    “It’d be easy to push someone onto the tracks,” Trout whispered. “I’ve read about it.”
    “What did you read?” I asked. I don’t read the newspaper and Trout probably doesn’t either. It’s hard enough to read large print.
    “I read that this guy pushed this girl in front of a train. She was just standing there drinking a Coke and he gave her a giant push and she flew right in front of the train and the Coke spilled all over and she was killed and he got away. So.”
    “Nothing’s going to happen, Trout.”
    I told him to stand by the pillar in case someone did decide to push him; he’d have something to hold on to.
    The number 2 express charged into the Thirty-fourth Street stop and we pushed our way into the train with about a hundred other people and had to stand forever until we finally got a seat, and then it was almost PelhamParkway. But we made it. We got off the train, asked directions, walked two blocks, and there we were at the entrance.
    I looked over at Trout. He had the funniest smile on his face like the “cat who swallowed the canary,” as my father would say. It was a great smile and I knew he was having a good time, and to tell you the truth, I was pretty proud of myself. For a kid with learning disabilities, I’d managed to find the Bronx Zoo without getting murdered or pushed onto the subway tracks or getting my money stolen. Not bad for eleven.
    By the time we got to the zoo, it was eleven and warm, so we stopped at the lunch place and got hot dogs and two Cokes to cool off and sat down at one of the tables looking at each other. We just couldn’t stop laughing.
    We were at the zoo until almost three and I’ve never had such an amazing time in my life, in my
whole
life, and that’s been a lot of time.
    We kept congratulating each other for being so smart and grown-up.
    “It’s amazing we’re here,” Trout said. “I mean, New York City, and we got here by subway, and now we’re walking around the zoo like we’re famous. My father would die if he knew.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Mine too.”
    We got some turquoise cotton candy and wandered around the open bird sanctuary, but I don’t love birds—I mean, they’re sort of pretty and boring—so we went to see the lions and then to see the monkeys. The monkeys I love, especially the spider monkey with his tiny fingers and toes, eating and spitting, throwing himself at the glass cage, turning upside down. And the baboons with their big pink behinds. From time to time, I’d throw my arm over Trout’s shoulder or he’d push into me, like my dog when she was a puppy and tripped me every time I got up from the couch.
    We almost forgot what time it was. Trout noticed it first—almost three by the clock over the lion house, so we were late. Not very late, but late enough that we had to hurry to get to the subway in time to be back at Penn Station by four o’clock for the 4:17 to Stockton. We ran to the Pelham Parkway subway stop, bumping up against each other. If we’d been girls, we’d have been holding hands. But since we’re boys, we pushed each other instead.
    The number 2 was just coming into the station when we arrived and it was practically empty, so we hopped in the third car, plopped down on a seat for two, put our heads against the back of the seat, and nearly fell asleep. Maybe I did fall asleep and maybe Trout did too, because someplace between the time we got on at Pelham Park-wayand got off at Penn Station, what was left of my hundred dollars, which happened to be $87.00, was stolen. I reached in my pocket and it was gone.
    At first, I didn’t tell Trout. I was embarrassed that I’d been so stupid and I was afraid that if he thought a robber was around, he’d be worried.
    We walked through the subway tunnel, through the turnstile, and up the