Excerpt
That morning, after he discovered the tiger, Rob went and
stood under the Kentucky Star Motel sign and waited for the school bus
just like it was any other day. The Kentucky Star sign was composed of
a yellow neon star that rose and fell over a piece of blue neon in the
shape of the state of Kentucky. Rob liked the sign; he harbored a dim
but abiding notion that it would bring him good luck.
Finding the tiger had been luck, he knew that. He had been out in the
woods behind the Kentucky Star Motel, way out in the woods, not really
looking for anything, just wandering, hoping that maybe he would get
lost or get eaten by a bear and not have to go to school ever
again. That¹s when he saw the old Beauchamp gas station building, all
boarded up and tumbling down; next to it, there was a cage, and inside
the cage, unbelievably, there was a tigera real-life, very large
tiger pacing back and forth. He was orange and gold and so bright, it
was like staring at the sun itself, angry and trapped in a cage.
It was early morning and it looked like it might rain; it had been
raining every day for almost two weeks. The sky was gray and the air
was thick and still. Fog was hugging the ground. To Rob, it seemed as
if the tiger was some magic trick, rising out of the mist. He was so
astounded at his discovery, so amazed, that he stood and stared. But
only for a minute; he was afraid to look at the tiger for too long,
afraid that the tiger would disappear. He stared, and then he turned
and ran back into the woods, toward the Kentucky Star. And the whole
way home, while his brain doubted what he had seen, his heart beat out
the truth to him. Ti-ger. Ti-ger. Ti-ger.
That was what Rob thought about as he stood beneath the Kentucky Star
sign and waited for the bus. The tiger. He did not think about the
rash on his legs, the itchy red blisters that snaked their way into
his shoes. His father said that it would be less likely to itch if he
didn't think about it.
And he did not think about his mother. He hadn¹t thought about her
since the morning of the funeral, the morning he couldn¹t stop crying
the great heaving sobs that made his chest and stomach hurt. His
father, watching him, standing beside him, had started to cry, too.
They were both dressed up in suits that day; his father¹s suit was too
small. And when he slapped Rob to make him stop crying, he ripped a
hole underneath the arm of his jacket.
"There ain't no point in crying," his father had said
afterward. "Crying ain't going to bring her back."
It had been six months since that day, six months since he and his
father had moved from Jacksonville to Lister, and Rob had not cried
since, not once. The final thing he did not think about that morning
was getting onto the bus. He specifically did not think about Norton
and Billy Threemonger waiting for him like chained and starved guard
dogs, eager to attack.
Copyright © 2001 by Kate Dicamillo