Chapter One

my block

Ma says it's a good thing we can't see too far down the road, 'cause we'd never take the journey. I found this true-and my journey was filled to the brim with trouble. It all started the day Jacob walked headfirst into a lamppost on my block.

"Judy's doing a dance on second base!" Harold yelled from the pitcher's mound. Second base was an imaginary square next to Mr. Johnson's front tire, and the pitcher's mound was a sewer cap. I knew it was stupid to play stickball in bare feet. It was a blistering afternoon in July, and my toes felt like sausages on a hot griddle.

"Time-out," I called to my friends. "I need shoes." I ran inside, grabbed my Keds, and plopped down on the stoop to tie my laces. Harold's Doberman pinscher, Bruiser, had been watching our game, and during this time-out he lifted his leg and christened second base.

Harold looked at me and laughed; then he scratched Bruiser behind the ear and said, "Good boy."

Great, I thought. Now I'd have to breathe hot asphalt mixed with dog pee while we finished our game. I closed my eyes for a minute and thought about the Catskill Mountains. In just a few weeks I'd be running barefoot in the cool grass and breathing in wild honeysuckle.

"Come on, Judy. We ain't got all day," Harold said. His hands were on his hips, and his jaws chomped hard on a piece of gum.

"All right, all right." I think the only reason I put up with Harold was that he let us use his Spalding ball. It was 1944, and the war was still on. Rubber was scarce and Spaldings were hard to come by.

I hopped off the porch, and that's when I saw Jacob Ja