The Lambkins

Chapter One

It was eight-thirty on a warm California night when the woman kidnapped me. I was on my bike, coming home from my art class at the Marengo Gallery when I saw her. I was in a great mood. The gallery had had a display of students' work in the window and a collector had bought mine. Only mine! Richard, our teacher, had thumped my shoulder and beamed at me. "A hundred bucks! Not bad for a kid in ninth grade."

"Easy with the kid stuff," I'd growled. But I was stoked. Really stoked. I couldn't wait to tell Mom as soon as she came home from work. A hundred bucks! That's what I was thinking about when I saw the woman.

She was standing by her car at the side of Anney's Road. The lid of the trunk was raised, and it wasn't hard to see she was in trouble. She looked nervous. No wonder. Anney's Road is dark and quiet.

I always came this way after my Tuesday and Thursday night classes because there's hardly any traffic and no speed bumps. I could cruise along, my bike light making a pool of yellow on the pavement, sometimes a possum or a skunk skittering across in front of me. The houses on one side of the road are big, set back behind high gates and walls. I never saw anybody going out of them or going in. On the other side is this open field area, not built up or anything. It's nice. You can almost imagine you're in the country. Anney's Road cut off ten minutes' riding time for me. But sometimes, like when there's wind moaning in the trees, it's scary, and then I push hard and buzz through, fast as I can. I almost didn't stop when I saw her. I'm fourteen years old and a guy, but even so I know better than to stop for a stranger at night.

But this was a woman, about my mom's age, all alone. I couldn't just zip on past and leave her there. Didn't she have a cell phone? I mean, everybody has a cell phone. Why didn't she use that to get help if she needed it?

I slowed and called out, "What's wrong?" At the same time I was checking to make sure she was alone and that there wasn't somebody else in the car or hanging around just to jump on me or whatever. I've heard about this kind of thing. No use taking chances.

She was alone.

I stopped, leaning with one foot on the pavement.

"I've got a flat tire," she said. "Thank goodness you came by. I can change it okay. But"—she spread her hands—"would you believe I can't get the spare and the jack out of the trunk? If you could just help me do that . . ."

Of course I'd end up having to change the tire for her. What was I going to do? Let her do it by herself? Man! I was already wishing I'd coasted on by. Now I was stuck.

Her headlights were off, but in my bike light I could see her pretty well.

She was wearing jeans and a heavy white sweater, and as she walked toward me I saw that her hair was that funny, artificial red that I guess some women think is pretty. Her smile was nice, though. I had this odd feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before. That too-red hair was ringing a bell.

"I was just thinking of hiking to the nearest gas station." She pointed into the trunk. "I'm afraid the spare and the jack are both under the floor section, all the way at the back."

"Okay," I said. "No problem." I hesitated. "Do you have triple A, by any chance? They'd change the tire for you. They changed a tire once for my mom when I wasn't around. Do you have a cell? You could call."

"I don't have a cell," she said. "How stupid can I get?"

Of course, even if she had a phone and called them I'd still have to hang with her till they came, so it made sense just to change the tire myself and get it over with.

I got off my bike and laid it on the grass at the side of the road, wedged far enough out of the way in case a car did happen to come by, then shrugged out of my backpack.

About a million crickets were singing in the fields that bordered the road. The little breeze carried the scent of jasmine, the kind we have in our backyard. I turned to smile at her, then leaned far into the trunk. It was dark and empty. My fingers searched for the crack that would let me lift up the carpeting and get at the spare-tire well, and that was when I felt a sting, right on my butt. It was a sharp sting that pierced the fabric of my cargo pants. "What the heck!" I yelped. I jerked back, but I was off balance and she pushed me. "Wait a sec—" I began, and then it seemed my mouth wouldn't work and my words wouldn't come. "Let me . . ." I mumbled and I tried to turn my head, but it wouldn't turn.

The trunk was half closed on me now, the metal biting into my thighs, and she was talking softly. At least I thought she was talking, saying, "Just relax," over and over. Vaguely I felt the trunk lid opening all the way and my legs being crumpled into the dark space along with the rest of me. And that was all.

The Lambkins. Copyright © by Eve Bunting. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from The Lambkins by Eve Bunting
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.