Read Everyday Hero for Free Online Page B

perfume.”
    “And Megan doesn’t?”
    “No.”
    He cut the celery and threw it in… plop, plop, plop …
    “Why?” he muttered, grabbing another celery stick and cutting again with quick, sure
strokes. “I’ve always wanted you to have friends and now—now you choose the local
thug, and all you can say is she doesn’t smell. She might murder us in our beds,
but she doesn’t smell.”
    “And,” I said loudly, the words I needed to say suddenly clear in my mind, “she doesn’t
do things for gold stars.”
    ***
    After dinner, Dad said Megan could come over on Friday. “She can come here,” he said,
“but I don’t want you going over there.”
    “I don’t want to go there,” I said. “I will tell her tomorrow. Although I wish I
had a texting plan. Then I could text her.”
    Dad was washing dishes. The smell of chicken soup still lingered. “Are you getting
into this high-tech stuff?”
    Getting into is slang. It means getting involved in .
    “Yes, it is easier to make friends,” I said. “Megan has 201 friends.”
    “She would.” He looked at me and pushed a damp strand of hair from his face. He opened
his mouth and then closed it.
    After that he turned off the tap and poured a second cup of coffee from the pot.
A drop of coffee fizzled on the hot plate. He took the cup to the table and sat down
heavily, so that the seat wheezed. “I guess I’d best go over the rules.”
    “Yes,” I said. I like rules. They make me feel safe, like seat belts in cars and
railings around high balconies.
    “I’m not sure about Facebook, but I guess we could set you up with texting and your
own email on your phone.”
    “And the rules?” I asked.
    “Never give out your real name online. Never give out your address. Never give out
your age or other identifying information.”
    He stirred his coffee. I watched the wisps of steam rise. I didn’t know what identifying information meant. Dental records? That is how they identify people after a plane
crash.
    Or DNA and fingerprints.
    I said this to Dad, and he laughed, so I guess I made another joke. He said it meant
that I must not give out any information that might allow someone to find me, like
my real name or my address.
    “But why wouldn’t I want them to find me?” I asked.
    He went to the fridge for cream. “Sometimes bad people go on the Internet and pretend
to be kids when they’re really adults. You know, they pretend to be something they’re
not.”
    “Like my preschool teacher being a witch at Halloween?” I said.
    He ran his fingers through his hair. “Not exactly. Just remember—don’t give out your
personal information on the Internet. It’s not safe. And never agree to meet someone
that you’ve only met online.”
    “Is that a rule?” I asked.
    “Yes. Actually, there was a pamphlet at the library about this stuff. I thought it
might be useful.” He got up and started to rummage through the drawer where we keep
papers like warranties and manuals. “Here.”
    He gave me a pamphlet with the heading Keep your child safe online and a picture
of two kids hunched over a laptop.
    “Thanks. I’ll read it later,” I said.
    Dad nodded, sitting. “I guess it’s—um—Megan who told you about this stuff?”
    I nodded.
    “I mean, I guess it’s good. All the kids are doing it,” he said.
    “Good?”
    “Well, um—normal.”
    “You mean average in type, appearance, achievement, function and development?” I
asked.
    Dad was silent for a second. He stirred his coffee and then laid the wet spoon on
a napkin. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he said.

Seven
    The next time I saw Megan was at recess two days later. She was sitting at her locker.
Her bruise was no longer a reddish purple but now looked a yellowish-greenish purple.
    “Was it closed?” I asked, sitting beside her.
    “Huh?”
    “The door you walked into?” I asked, because on the bus she’d said she walked into
a door.
    “Sure,” she said.
    “But your nose isn’t