Lightning Rider Read Online Free Page B

the building giggle.
    “Let’s see. Chinese place.” His fingers work across the screen, but I can see it’s kicking his butt.
    I grin and tug it away. “Here. Let me do it.”
    Through his reading glasses, his brown eyes are clear and huge. “I can do it.”
    I laugh. “We’ll starve first.”
    We wander through the back family room toward the kitchen, and I pull up the number of the Chinese place down the street. Before I can call, I miss the first step on the small flight of stairs, and my ankle rolls. Stabbing streaks of pain shoot clear up to my knee. I stumble forward, crashing my shin against the second stair, and the phone spins across the tile. I roll onto my side and clutch my ankle. Stairs dig into my ribs.
    “Evy!”
    I moan. “It was just getting better.”
    “Here.” He scoops his hands beneath my arms and helps me stand. 
    I lean on him, and we make it up the last step and into the kitchen. “Those damn things get me every time.”
    “I know. One of these days I’m going to redo that room.”
    He settles me on a stool at the breakfast bar, and we prop my foot on another. He goes for ice, and I glare at the short flight of steps leading from the kitchen down into the family room. What a stupid design.
    Otherwise, the worn laminate countertop and gold linoleum floor of the small, outdated kitchen is cozy. Some of my favorite memories live here. We pretty much lived in this nucleus growing up.
    Papi wrestles with the overstuffed freezer and curses as everything begins to shift. He yanks out an ice pack and slams the door. I make a mental note not to open it anytime soon.
    Though he tries to be gentle with the ice pack, it makes me wince, and I turn away. Against the wall, a worn cardboard box sits totally out of place. “What’s that?”
    “Not sure. Your mamá found it in the attic when she was looking for her brushes and paints. She thought it was my father’s stuff.”
    I jerk my head. “You haven’t opened it yet?” Balanced precariously, I lean across the counter and tug it closer. “I’ve never seen anything of his.”
    With surprising quickness, he jumps around the bar and holds the top closed. “Leave it.”
    The doorbell chimes. Papi’s hands flatten against the flaps, and he rubs the length of them once. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was afraid. I shift on the barstool, and he looks up from the box.
    “Stay here.” His stern expression says the rest. Stay out.
    He and Mr. Steinaman bring in my lone box of stuff and settle Ike into the back bedroom. While they discuss the Cardinals’ chances in the playoffs this year, I scoot closer to the box. Sitting up as high as I can, I crane my neck and lift one flap. The yellowed tape comes away, and I can almost see inside. I lean closer, tipping my barstool up on two legs.
    “Bye, Evy,” Mr. Steinaman calls from the door.
    I jerk and slam the stool back down. The flap drops back into place. “Thanks, Mr. Steinaman. Tell Mrs. Steinaman hello.” My voice is too high.
    “Will do. Hope you’re back soon.” He peeks around the corner into the kitchen, his bald head rimmed with a silver crown of short flyaway strands.
    I wave.
    Papi closes the door and returns to my side. I try to wipe the guilty look off my face.
    “I’ll grab dinner,” he says.
    “Great! Orange chicken for me.” I practically shout. Chill .
    Plucking his keys off the low table by the back door, he’s oblivious to my larcenous thoughts. He shrugs into a denim jacket, then pushes the heavy back door open and lets his retriever, Bimni, in through the storm door. Her brown and white coat catches the buzzing fluorescent light, making it shimmer. Hand still on the glass, he peers over the backyard. “Looks like it’s going to storm again tonight.”
    “Fantastic,” I say with a snort. All my lightning ropes were gone when I woke up this morning, and my meager attempts to recreate them failed. Whatever that was last night, it didn’t stick around. But