It sounds depressing, but it wasn’t. I mean there were lots of good memories of Mick at that field too. Living so close to school, we used to go down there all the time and kick the soccer ball around or throw the Frisbee or something.
A couple of months ago, we even tried playing polo on our bikes using my father’s golf clubs. It wasn’t that much fun, though. I kept hitting myself in the foot with the sand wedge and Mick kept getting the putter caught in his pants.
I grinned at the memory and sat down in the grass.
Unfortunately, right across the field from me, a group of noisy workmen were banging around putting up a new set of permanent bleachers. They were setting them in concrete. So it was pretty clear they were going to be working there for a while.
Even so, I decided to wait them out. It’s another talent of mine, I guess you’d say. In addition to staring you down, I can also wait you out.
It was almost dark when they finally went home. I still can’t believe no one stayed behind to guard the new sidewalk they’d just poured. I mean you’ve gotta be nuts leaving wet cement unguarded at a junior high school.
Especially if there’s an eighth-grade girl sitting across the field who’s been watching you all afternoon. And she’s already spotted a little stick lying in the grass next to her hand. Which was totally weird, by the way. Because there’s not a tree anywhere near the soccer field. None even in sight, I mean. And yet there was this stick.
It can give you the shivers if you think about it too much.
The stick was just the perfect size, too. Small enough to do a neat job, but still strong enough to carve the letters deep into the concrete so they would be there forever.
That’s what’s so great about cement, you know. The forever part, I mean.
I was totally calm when I did it. I just walked over, bent down, and printed the letters, large and neat and clear as they could be.
M-I-C-K H-A-R-T-E W-A-S H-E-R-E.
I stood up and looked at it.
I smiled.
Mick Harte was here.
And now he’s gone.
But for twelve years and five months, my brother was one of the neatest kids you’d ever want to meet.
And I just wanted to tell you about him, that’s all.
I just thought you ought to know.
Dear Readers,
Although Mick Harte is a fictional character, the following statistics are all too real:
1) Bicycle accidents are one of the leading causes of accidental deaths of children between 5 and 14.
2) Head injuries are the main cause of death in bicycle crashes.
3) A fall from as little as two feet (2 feet!) can cause permanent brain damage.
4) The proper bicycle helmet can reduce head injuries 85% and brain injuries by up to 88%.
Please, don’t make Mick Harte’s story, your story.
Wear a helmet when you ride a bike!
Sincerely,
BARBARA PARK is one of today’s funniest authors. Her Junie B. Jones books are consistently on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. Her middle-grade novels, which include Skinnybones, The Kid in the Red Jacket, Mick Harte Was Here, and The Graduation of Jake Moon, have won more than forty children’s book awards. Barbara Park holds a BS in education. She has two grown sons and lives with her husband, Richard, in Arizona.
Kids love Barbara Park’s books so much, they’ve given them all these awards:
Arizona Young Reader’s Award
Dorothy Canfleld Fisher Children’s Book Award (Vermont)
Emphasis on Reading Award (Alabama)
Flicker Tale Children’s Book Award (North Dakota)
Georgia Children’s Book Award
Great Stone Face Award (New Hampshire)
IRA-CBC Children’s Choice
IRA Young Adults’ Choice
Maud Hart Lovelace Award (Minnesota)
Milner Award (Georgia)
Nevada Children’s Book Award
OMAR Award (Indiana)
Rhode Island Children’s Book Award
Tennessee Children’s Choice Book Award
Texas Bluebonnet Award
Utah Children’s Book Award
Young Hoosier Book Award (Indiana)
Barbara Park, Mick Harte Was Here
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