“The Treasure of Lemon Brown”by Wal

“The Treasure of Lemon Brown”
by Walter Dean Myers
The dark sky, filled with angry, swirling clouds, reflected Greg
Ridley’s mood as he sat on the stoop of his building. His father’s voice
came to him again, first reading the letter the principal had sent to the
house, then lecturing endlessly about his poor efforts in math.
“I had to leave school when I was thirteen,” his father had said,
“that’s a year younger than you are now. If I’d had half the chances you
have, I’d…”
Greg sat in the small, pale green kitchen listening, knowing the
lecture would end with his father saying he couldn’t play ball with the
Scorpions. He had asked his father the week before, and his father had
said it depended on his next report card. It wasn’t often the Scorpions
took on new players, especially fourteen-year-olds, and this was a chance
of a lifetime for Greg. He hadn’t been allowed to play high school ball,
which he had really wanted to do, but playing for the Community Center
team was the next best thing. Report cards were due in a week, and
Greg had been hoping for the best. But the principal had ended the
suspense early when she sent the letter saying Greg would probably fail
math if he didn’t spend more time studying.
“And you want to play basketball?” His father’s brows knitted over
deep brown eyes. “That must be some kind of a joke. Now you just get
into your room and hit those books.”
That had been two nights before. His father’s words, like the distant
thunder that now echoed through the streets of Harlem, still rumbled softly
in his ears.
It was beginning to cool. Gusts of wind made bits of paper dance
between the parked cars. There was a flash of nearby lightening, and
soon large drops of rain splashed onto his jeans. He stood to go upstairs,
thought of the lecture that probably awaited him if he did anything
except shut himself in his room with his math book, and started walking
down the street instead. Down the block there was an old tenement that
had been abandoned for some months. Some of the guys had held an
impromptu checker tournament there the week before, and Greg had
noticed that the door, once boarded over, had been slightly ajar.
Pulling his collar up as high as he could, he checked for traffic and
made a dash across the street. He reached the house just as another
flash of lightening changed the night to day for an instant, then returned
the graffiti-scarred building to the grim shadows. He vaulted over the
outer stairs and pushed tentatively on the door. It was open, and he let
himself in.
The inside of the building was dark except for the dim light that
filtered through the dirty windows from the streetlamps. There was a room
a few feet from the door, and from where he stood in the entrance, Greg
could see a squarish patch of light on the floor. He entered the room,
frowning at the musty smell. It was a large room that might have been
someone’s parlor at one time. Squinting, Greg could see an old table on
its side against one wall, what looked like a pile of rags or a torn mattress
in the corner, and a couch, with one side broken, in front of the window.
He went to the couch. The side that wasn’t broken was
comfortable enough, though a little creaky. From the spot he could see
the blinking neon sign over the bodega on the corner. He sat awhile,
watching the sign blink first green then red, allowing his mind to drift to the
Scorpions, then to his father. His father had been a postal worker for all
Greg’s life, and was proud of it, often telling Greg how hard he had
worked to pass the test. Greg had heard the story too many times to be
interested now.
For a moment Greg thought he heard something that sounded like
a scraping against the wall. He listened carefully, but it was gone.
Outside the wind had picked up, sending the rain against the
window with a force that shook the glass in its frame. A car passed, its
tires hissing over the wet street and its red taillights glowing in the darkness.
Greg thought he heard the noise again. His stomach tightened as
he held himself still and listened intently. There weren’t any more scraping
noises, but he was sure he had heard something in the darkness—
something breathing!
He tried to figure out just where the breathing was coming from; he
knew it was in the room with him. Slowly he stood, tensing. As he turned,
a flash of lightening lit up the room, frightening him with its sudden
brilliance. He saw nothing, just the overturned table, the pile of rags and
an old newspaper on the floor. Could he have been imagining the
sounds? He continued listening, but heard nothing and thought that it
might have just been rats. Still, he thought, as soon as the rain let up he
would leave. He went to the window and was about to look when he
heard a voice behind him.
“Don’t try nothin’ ‘cause I got a razor sharp enough to cut a week
into nine days!”
Greg, except for an involuntary tremor in his knee