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    Toughing It
    Toughing It
    Toughing It
    Ebook94 pages1 hour

    Toughing It

    By Nancy Springer

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Winner of the Edgar Award: When Tuff’s brother is killed, he loses the best friend he ever had—but he may be about to find the father he never knew

    Tuff was there when Dillon died. Riding behind his older brother on the back of his dirt bike, Tuff saw it all—except who shot him. Now Tuff has no one. When his mother, too drunk to know which way is up, hears the news that her son has died, her response is, “Well, one less to worry about.” Tuff has never been close to his half siblings either. Dillon was all he had, and now he’s is gone.

    Tuff is no crybaby. He’s used to fending for himself. With a picture of Dillon in his pocket, he leaves home—but not before his mother reveals the identity of the boys’ father. What started out as a search for justice soon becomes much more. Dillon and Tuff had dreamed of finding their father their whole lives. With Dillon gone, can their dreams of family happiness be realized?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 30, 2014
    ISBN9781497688896
    Toughing It
    Author

    Nancy Springer

    Nancy Springer is the award-winning author of more than fifty books, including the Enola Holmes and Rowan Hood series and a plethora of novels for all ages, spanning fantasy, mystery, magic realism, and more. She received the James Tiptree, Jr. Award for Larque on the Wing and the Edgar Award for her juvenile mysteries Toughing It and Looking for Jamie Bridger, and she has been nominated for numerous other honors. Springer currently lives in the Florida Panhandle, where she rescues feral cats and enjoys the vibrant wildlife of the wetlands.

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    3.5/5

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    • 3/5
      Quick read about a young man out riding with his brother on a dirt bike, when his brother is shot and killed. Shawn decides to find out who killed his brother. Tense and page turning and short.

    Book preview

    Toughing It - Nancy Springer

    1

    The moment before he died, my brother turned his head to yell something to me above the noise of the dirt bike. He was grinning, teasing me about a girl. So does she like your stuff, Tuff? he yelled, and the answer was no, she did not, but I never got to answer. Those were the last words he ever said to me.

    It happened like a knife cutting my life in half. We were blasting along the Jeep trail, with me hanging on to his back and his hair whipping me in the face and the trees whacking at both of us as Dillon pushed it faster around a curve—he loved to go fast up that mountain. So did I. He throttled it higher—and there was no warning, no skidding, no sliding, just a flash of light and a boom like thunder and Dillon’s head smashing back into mine. The bike flew out from under us. The engine screamed. Maybe I did, too. It’s hard to remember. I don’t really remember how I fell, or how Dillon and the bike fell, or how I got to my knees in the dirt. All I remember is kneeling there staring down at him.

    Dillon? You all right?

    It was god-awful quiet. The bike had stalled. Dillon stared straight back at me, but his mouth opened without speaking and there was something wrong with the look in his eyes. Then he shuddered all over.

    Dillon!

    Nothing.

    Dillon, goddammit, this is not funny! Get up!

    No answer. It was not a joke. I felt for the pulse at his neck and found blood instead. My hand came away from him sticky with blood. I pulled off my shirt and pressed it against the bloody place, but it was no good—he was not breathing. There was no heartbeat. I got on top of him with my fists on his chest and started shoving, hard, trying to get his heart started, hitting him with everything I had again and again and again. I don’t know how long I practically beat on him, trying to make him live, but way back in my mind I already knew it was no use. He was—

    No. No, he could not be dead.

    Dillon, please, I whispered.

    He did not move or breathe. But he could not be dead. Probably I was being stupid, not doing the right things for him. I had to get somebody who knew what they were doing, quick. I had to go for help.

    I staggered a few steps back down the trail and came face to face with the double barrel of a shotgun staring me down like two hard black eyes. No person, just the gun. I didn’t understand what had happened, I was so panicked. Didn’t guess it was the murder weapon. I just thought, Who would leave a shotgun there in a tree?

    I ran.

    It would have been faster to take the bike, but I never thought of it. It was Dillon’s. Maybe I didn’t feel like I could touch it. I ran all the way to the paved road where there were some trailers strung out between the mountain and the river, and the first one I came to I pounded on the door. A girl opened it, but I was panting so hard I couldn’t talk.

    Tuff? She knew me from somewhere.

    I leaned there in her doorway, half bent over with the pain in my chest.

    What happened? She grabbed a paper napkin and touched my face. It came away soaked with blood. I flinched back, surprised to see all that blood.

    Your nose looks broken, she said. Did somebody hit you or something?

    I pushed past her and got to the phone. Dialed 911. My brother, I panted as if there was somebody listening.

    Is he hurt? the girl asked.

    Dillon. My brother. There was somebody on the emergency line now. Send an ambulance. He’s up on Sid’s Mountain, just laying there. Send help.

    It was like the knife from hell kept cutting the day into pieces. I must have gone out to stand along the road and wait for the ambulance, but I don’t remember doing it, or leading the medics up the mountain. All I remember is being there again, getting back to Dillon, and he hadn’t moved at all.

    It was—it was scary, the way he looked at me without seeing me. I got to within a few steps of him, and then I had to stop. I could not go closer or touch him. I froze like a deer in headlights, with death coming at me. The medics clustered around Dillon and did their stuff, but in just a couple of minutes they shook their heads and got up. I stood there listening to the cops talking. Three cops, and I don’t remember how any of them got there.

    Double-O buckshot, looks like, one of them was saying.

    I don’t remember which one said what or even what they looked like, just what they said.

    Caught him in just the wrong place.

    Set up just the wrong height. The shotgun in the tree, they meant. Triggers wired back, and then a trip wire going to the hammer, with the end of the wire fastened to a black string stretched across the trail. I figured out how it worked later. Right then I was looking straight at it, yet I did not understand. Not what it was, not what it had done, not what it was meant for, not anything.

    That’s the ugliest goddamn thing I ever seen.

    Son. One of them was talking to me. Didn’t remember my name, so he called me son. Wouldn’t that be a hoot, if he really was my father? Son, did you and your brother ride up here often?

    He had to ask me twice before I really heard him and answered.

    Shortest way for him to get to work. My voice came out a whisper.

    So he came through here all the time.

    I nodded. Lots of the people who lived along the river used these mountain trails to get to town.

    Do you know who owns this land?

    I shook my head. Probably it was state land, logging company land, mine company land, or something, and what the hell did it matter?

    So you don’t have permission to ride here.

    I just stared at him. I was numb. Could not believe any of this was happening.

    One of the other cops said, It’s still murder, far as I’m concerned.

    Tell that to our wimp D.A. Manslaughter is the most he’s likely to go for.

    If we ever get the guy. Damn hard to prove anything. Anybody could have come in here and rigged this up.

    Maybe the detectives will find a footprint or something. He was being sarcastic.

    They all laughed. I swear to God, they laughed like it was a show.

    Then I must have blipped out again. Next thing I remember, the cops were gone. Dillon’s body was gone—where had they taken him? The bike was gone. The shotgun was still there and I was still there, sitting down, with a

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