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36 pages

English

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Themes: Middle School, Best Friends, Bullying, Bravery, Urban Fiction, Tween, Chapter Book, Hi-Lo, Hi-Lo Books, Hi-Lo Solutions, High-Low Books, Hi-Low Books, ELL, EL, ESL, Struggling Learner, Struggling Reader, Special Education, SPED, Newcomers, Reading, Learning, Education, Educational, Educational Books. High school freshman Robinson "Robin" Paige lives with his grandmother, Miz Paige, on the meanest street in the city. Miz Paige is his rock. Sly and Kaykay have been his buddies since forever. Smart, stoic, and loyal, Robin's life has been defined by loss. And he doesn't want another tragedy, so he lives afraid to stand or speak out. But then he gets pushed to the edge. Somehow, someway, he will get back at the Ninth Street Rangers...Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor takes on a whole new meaning--If Robin hadn't just paid off the Ninth Street Rangers, or if Tyrone and Dodo hadn't hit on him to do their schoolwork, he never would have done what he was about to do.

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Children's

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Publié par	Saddleback Educational Publishing
Date de parution	25 décembre 2012
Nombre de lectures	1
EAN13	9781630787660
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0688€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Jeff Gottesfeld
ROBINSON’S HOOD
THE BANK OF BADNESS
CHOPPED
Copyright ©2013 by Saddleback Educational Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher. SADDLEBACK EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING and any associated logos are trademarks and/ or registered trademarks of Saddleback Educational Publishing.
ISBN-13: 978-1-62250-000-0
ISBN-10: 1-62250-000-8
eBook: 978-1-61247-684-1
Printed in Guangzhou, China 0000/00-00-00
17 16 15 14 13 1 2 3 4 5
Chapter One
R obinson “Robin” Paige leaned his skinny self against the wall near the Barbara Jordan Community Center restrooms and rubbed his tired eyes. He was worn out, and not just from “Welcome Day” at Ironwood Central High School where he’d start ninth grade for real on Monday.
He was more than ready for school. He’d already done his summer reading, an amazing novel called Bud, Not Buddy about an orphan boy searching for family, and written a great five-paragraph essay too. Robin was whipped because he’d barely slept. There’d been a fist fight under his window at midnight that woke him the first time. An hour and a half later, there’d been another fight. This time it wasn’t just gang dudes throwing punches.
This time, there’d been gunfire.
Three gunshots at one thirty in the morning can mess up your shut-eye , Robin thought.
Robin was no stranger to gunfire. He and his grandmother lived on the toughest street in the toughest hood in the tough city of Ironwood. Miz Paige—that’s what everyone, except for Robin, called his grandmother—would have gotten them out of the Second Ward ages ago if she could afford it. She couldn’t. She ran a joint on Ninth Street called the Shrimp Shack that was barely making it. Unless they hit the Powerball, they were stuck with the Ninth Street Rangers gang, the blast of deuce-deuces at one thirty in the morning, the sirens. …
The men’s room door opened. Old Mr. Smith teetered out. The Center had two kinds of members. You had to be younger than sixteen or older than sixty-five to hang out there. Robin was fourteen, though some folks still took him for twelve. Barely five feet tall, he had coal-colored skin and a buzz cut.
Mr. Smith was way older than sixty-five. He’d lost part of one foot in the Vietnam War, wore a special shoe on that foot, and sometimes used a cane. He had thick round glasses and smelled of Old Spice. Robin loved him. He used to be a locksmith and could open any lock with just a hairpin. He was great at games. He had taught Robin and his friends pinochle, hearts, spades, rummy. … Robin had never beaten Mr. Smith at cards. Not once. And checkers? Maybe twice.
“Robin Paige, you waitin’ to walk me back to the rec room?”
Mr. Smith had on a baggy dress shirt tucked into pants, with his belt way too high. As for Robin, he wore the ICHS school uniform: dark blue pants and a matching short sleeve shirt. His new school had a strict dress code, mostly because so many kids got bussed there from different parts of the city. When the school first started, kids from the same hoods started dressing alike, and there were a lot of fights. That’s when the school board said all Ironwood kids had to wear blue and blue, even the girls. Even the teachers.
Not that it stopped the fighting , Robin thought. Kids know who’s from their hood. You don’t need a shirt to represent .
“You got it, Mr. Smith.” Then Robin noticed something. He winced. “Um … XYZ, Mr. Smith.”
“XY. ’Scuse me, what?”
“XYZ, Mr. Smith. X-Y-Z.”
Mr. Smith stared blankly. “Huh? Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Robin?”
Robin grinned and pointed. “X-Y-Z means examine your zipper.”
Mr. Smith laughed. “Oh! Sorry. Don’t want to be showin’ the colors in the rec hall. Too many old ladies askin’ me to marry them already.” He zipped his fly. “Easy to fo’git when you my age.”
Easy to forget , Robin corrected mentally. His gramma was always on his case about speaking properly, even if she used a lot of street slang herself. Robin could go both ways. It was useful.
“Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “Sly’s show starts in five minutes. It’ll take me that long to git to the rec hall!”
Sly was Sylvester “Sly” Thomas. He was one of Robin’s two homies, along with Karen Knight, who everyone just called Kaykay. Sly’s daddy was Reverend James “Tex” Thomas of the Ironwood Community Baptist Church that Robin and Miz Paige attended. Sly and Kaykay hung at the Center a lot. Most every Friday afternoon Sly put on a magic show. The old folks loved him. His goal was to have his own stage show in Las Vegas, and Robin thought he just might do it. He was a cold magician and a dope mime.
Robin and Mr. Smith finally reached the rec room, where a crowd of maybe fifty people waited near the low wooden stage for Sly to appear. Kaykay saw them enter. She rushed over with a full plate in her hands.
That’s so Kaykay , Robin thought. She never walks if she can run .
Robin gulped. Kaykay was just so … fine, even in her blue school uniform. An inch taller than him, she had tawny skin, straight hair to her shoulders, and eyes that appeared to change color depending on her mood. Every boy who met her wanted to be with her. Robin did too.
Not that I’d ever tell her. She’d laugh her ass off .
“Robin! Mr. Smith! Check out what I made with Mrs. Swett in the kitchen!” Kaykay talked as fast as she moved. “Organic peanut butter cookies. Taste!”
That was so Kaykay too. She was all about keeping it organic and green. She was the kind of girl who’d yell at a stranger for dropping a McDonald’s cup on the sidewalk.
Robin and Mr. Smith were about to try Kaykay’s cookies when the room hushed. Robin thought Sly’s show was starting, but it wasn’t. Instead, a man of about forty-five took the stage. He wore black pants and a white shirt and stood ramrod straight. This was Sergeant Bruce Jones, who’d been a real Marine drill sergeant before he ran the Center. Everyone just called him Sarge. When Robin first met Sarge, he’d been afraid of him. Then he figured out that under it all, the ex-Marine was a softie.
“I’m gonna keep this short,” Sarge declared, “ ’cause it sure ain’t sweet. You know I care ’bout each of you. You also know the shape this place is in. We jus’ got a visit from the city inspectors, and they say we can’t put off the new roof no longer. But it’s gonna cost twenty-five thousand dollars we ain’t got. If we can’t get the money soon, we gots to close.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Robin felt sick to his stomach. The Center had to close? He loved this place. It had this rec hall, a kitchen, arts and crafts, meeting rooms, even a small library. The place was pretty jacked up, though. The heat was bad, the A/C worse. The walls and floors were a mess, and it did need a new roof in the worst way.
“When we gots to close?” Mr. Smith called out.
“Next Wednesday. Wednesday be the last day, ’less someone comes up with some big money. That’s all I gotta say.” Sarge stepped off the stage as everyone talked at once.
What will these old people do with themselves? Robin thought as a dozen conversations erupted around him. What am I gonna do?
Mr. Smith went to talk with some of his friends. Sly came over to join Robin and Kaykay. Sly wasn’t tall, but he was wide. A clown by nature, he wasn’t clowning now.
“Can you believe this bull?” Sly asked. “We can’t let this place close! No way, no how!”
Kaykay put her hands on her hips. Robin thought that maybe she was about to cry. “Whatchu plannin’ to do then, Sly? Pull a big-ass wad of dead presidents out your magic hat? If we was in the rich burbs, we’d get fixed right up. But who gonna help us out?”
“I wish I could,” Sly admitted.
“We can’t just give up,” Robin told his friends. What they could do, he didn’t know, but they just couldn’t let the Center die.
Like Sly said: “No way, no how.”
Chapter Two
R obin was still with Sly and Kaykay when he got a text from his grandma on his elcheapo cell.
“heLP ME close shop?”
He managed a thin smile. His grandmother had fat fingers and never mastered the texting thing. He texted back.
“C U soon”
“I gotta help my grams,” he told his friends. “Sly, why don’t you do your magic show anyway? Cheer these folks up. And Kaykay? Pass out those cookies.”
Robin headed out a moment later. The Center was on Marcus Garvey Boulevard at Nineteenth Street, a fifteen minute walk from his apartment above the Shrimp Shack. Garvey wasn’t just a main shopping street. A lot of white folks used it as a way to get home to the burbs when the highway got jammed. Robin would see them hunched over their steering wheels, safe behind the locked doors of their Audis and Lexuses, and wondered what they thought.
Probably they’re wondering how anyone could live here. Probably they’re thinking how they’re better than we are.
Robin crossed Nineteenth. When he reached the other side, he heard someone shouting his name.
“Yo, Robin! Yo, Shrimp!”
He froze. “Shrimp” was the nickname he’d been given in fourth grade by Tyrone Davis because he was short and because his grandmother ran the Shrimp Shack. Tyrone had busted his chops constantly then and had been on his case ever since. These days, Tyrone was six feet tall, had a soul patch, and could kick Robin’s ass from here to Chicago.
Robin kept it light as Tyrone approached. “Hey, wassup, Tyrone? How you doin’?”
Tyrone roared with laughter. He wore a black muscle shirt and sagging green shorts. “Ha! Shrimp talkin’ like we be friends!”
“You all ready for school?” Robin asked, ignoring Tyrone’s sarcasm.
“Only one thing good ’bout school and thas football, which you will never do, Shrimp. You be too shrimpy!”
Tyrone laughed again and edged closer to Robin. Robin looked around, hoping maybe someone he knew would come by. He’d been bullied enough to be able to pick up a bad tone in Tyrone’s