Street Trap

by Margaret Shauers

"Gram!" Juan called as he dropped his school books on the hall table and paused at the sewing room. "The boys want to start a softball team down at South Park, but the diamond's all cluttered with trash. We thought we'd start cleaning it tonight."

His grandmother looked up from the heavy upholstery fabric she was sewing for the factory down the hill. "A ball team is a good idea," she said, "but you know what I think about how that area has been overrun by hooligans."

The whole street knew how his grandmother felt about the unkempt buildings and dirty park a few blocks down. But then, the whole street knew his grandmother didn't think anything today was safe.

"I'll be home before dark, Gram," he promised. "That's when the creeps crawl outside, remember?"

Gram was always saying that, too. Now she gave him a sharp look, then sighed. "Go along with you then," she agreed. "Just mind you wear that police whistle I bought you."

"Sure, Gram," Juan said. Inwardly he groaned. Gram worried too much about the street being dangerous.

He could imagine the guys howling if he actually wore that whistle around his neck! As usual, he wore it to the front door, then crammed it into his pocket before meeting his friend Carlos downstairs. When the whistle slipped from his pocket a couple of blocks from home, Juan kicked it under the only bush he'd ever seen in the neighborhood. He just wouldn't tell Gram he hadn't had it with him all the way. That wouldn't exactly be lying.

The thought made him really uncomfortable. They'd just been talking about truth coming from the heart at church--and how Jesus didn't want people to lie to themselves either. Hiding the whistle, after telling Gram he'd take it, felt like a lie. Still, the whistle was silly. They'd be home well before dark!

The work went quickly for the six boys who turned out at the park. Unfortunately, the sun went quickly, too.

"Oh, man!" grumbled Carlos. "I'm supposed to be home by dark."

"We'll have it clean with one more trip to the trash," Juan argued. The other boys agreed, but by the time they finished, the shadows were deeper.

"Too bad we don't live closer together," said a boy named Fred. "My dad says it's safest to walk in groups. Maybe we should walk with you and Carlos, Juan, then call our folks to pick us up."

A couple of the neighborhood tough boys were lounging near the park entrance. Walking together sounded good--and Gram's worries seemed very real. But, before he could agree that they all should walk together, another boy yelped, "If I'm late again, I'm grounded for a year!"

"We'll be okay," Juan decided, pushing uneasiness away. "It's only seven blocks." Still, he felt creepy as they approached the older boys.

One of the boys called, "Hey, little men, you tryin' to pick a fight?" The boys stepped toward them.

"Ignore them," Juan murmured. "They won't try anything on all six of us." But he'd heard rumors about those boys--a story about a knifing.

"Run along to Mama, little boys," one of them taunted as Juan and his friends edged past and ran for the corner.

"Five more blocks," Carlos said once he and Juan left the others.

"Yeah," breathed Juan as street lamps came on. Then, noticing a low, red sports car creeping along the street, he added, "Let's cross, before we have to wait on that car."

The red car picked up speed, slid to a stop beside them. A man sat in darkness behind the wheel. A woman leaned out the window. Her fuzzy red hair looked strange and straw-like, but her voice was low and pretty.

"You boys shouldn't be out," she said, stretching her bright lips in a smile. "Can't we give you a ride?"

"Sounds good," said Carlos. "There are more creeps down the block."

The woman jumped from the car and opened the back door. "Here we go," she said, only now the smoothness was gone from her voice. She sounded eager--too eager--as Carlos began to climb in.

"No," said Juan, pulling Carlos from the car and jerking his own arm away from the woman's thin fingers. "You know what Gram says about riding with strangers." Then, as a man leaped from the car, he yelled, "Run!"

It seemed to take Carlos forever to realize they were kidnappers, but at last he sprinted down the sidewalk and across the street.

Within seconds, heavy footsteps pounded behind them and the woman was screaming, "Get one of them, Alfredo! We promised Max at least one kid!"

Blood surged in Juan's ears. The footsteps were closing in. "Help!" he cried as they ran past five older boys who lounged at the corner, smoking and watching.

One of the boys laughed. Another yawned. There'd be no help here.

"Faster!" he cried, wishing to heaven for Gram's police whistle.

He could hear the rasping breath of Alfredo now. His head was dizzy with pain and his chest felt as if someone were kicking in his ribs. There were three blocks to go, and he knew the man would have them soon. They were trapped by their shorter legs--and by his stupidity in thinking his grandmother was silly.

Then Carlos screamed, "I can't, Juan! My side!" He staggered and Juan reached out just in time to jerk him back to his feet.

The man behind them had paused for breath. Juan took the chance to look around--and there it was. The bush!

"One block, Carlos," he urged in low, urgent tones. "One block and I can get help. Don't ask questions. Run!"

"Got 'em," Alfredo yelled, then cursed as the boys burst away. Juan ran straight for the bush, sliding in as if he'd made a home run. Then the night was torn apart by the screaming, shrill whistle.

Immediately, the footsteps behind them ceased. There was the slam of a car door and the squealing of tires as the car turned in mid-block and roared away.

"Here's your gram and my mom--with men from our building," Carlos cried. "You brought them, man!"

"Call the police," Juan gasped. "I didn't see the license number, but the man's name is Alfredo and we can both describe the car and the woman."

His voice broke and faltered. "Gram," he said at last, "about that promise to be home before dark--"

"Juan!" she exclaimed, sounding both angry and relieved as she pulled him close. "You used the whistle. It kept you safe."

"Yes," Juan agreed, and it was unbelievably comforting to know that, after this story spread, he'd never need feel ashamed of the whistle again. Or lie about it either, even to himself.

The End.

Margaret Shauers has been active in many writing areas over the past 30+
years, but writing for children remains her best love. Over the past
several years, she has worked in the activity book and game book area. She
also freelances children's short fiction and puzzles and some adult
material. Her online column about writing for children is at
http://write4kids.com/wmarket/index.html. She also teaches three classes
about writing for children at http://home.universalclass.com.

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