Patricia McCormick is a former journalist and a two-time National Book Award finalist whose books include Cut, Sold, Never Fall Down, The Plot to Kill Hitler, the young readers edition of I Am Malala, and the award-winning picture book Sergeant Reckless: The True Story of the Little Horse Who Became a Hero. Patricia lives in New York. Visit her online at pattymccormick.com.

Never Fall Down

HarperCollins Publishers

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

At night in our town, it's music everywhere. Rich house.Poor house. Doesn't matter. Everyone has music. Radio.Record player. Eight-track cassette. Even the guys whopedal the rickshaw cycle, they tie a tiny radio to the handlebarand sing for the passenger. In my town, music is likeair, always there.

All the men, all the ladies stroll the park to catch thenewest song. Cambodian love song. French love song.American rock 'n' roll. Like the Beatle. Like Elvis. LikeChubby Checker. Ladies in sarong walk so soft like floatingon the street. Men in trouser, hair slick back, smokingLucky Strike. Old men playing card. Old lady sellingmangoes, selling noodle, selling wristwatch. Kid flyingkite, eating ice cream. The whole town is out at night.My little brother and me, we stand in front of themovie palace and sing for them. We do the twist also."Let's Twist Again, Like We Did Last Summer." Twoskinny kid, no shoe, torn pants, they like it if we sing forthem; they even give us a few coin.

Tonight I study the crowd, find a lady - fat one,fat like milk fruit - and slowly, slowly, very sneaky, mybrother and I, we hide behind her skirt, hold on so lightshe doesn't know, and pretend she's our mom. Kid withparent can see the movie for free. Kid like us, we pretend.Inside the movie palace we watch America, black andwhite, with airplane, shiny car, and women in skirt soshort they show the knee. War movie, lotta shooting, anda little bit kissing. For the shooting, my brother and me,we clap; for the kissing, we hide our face in our shirt.

After the show, it's the best part - when we do themovie ourselves. Outside in the park, we fly the plane,shoot the gun, be the hero. Just like the real soldier fightingright now in the jungle outside of our town. We shootprobably a hundred bullet, die a hundred time. Then wehear a whistle, and the sky far away flash white. The palmtree shiver, and the ground shake. And all of a sudden thewar is real.

I grab my little brother hand and run and run till we getto a little pond near our house. We jump in, water up to ournose, and hide there. Where nothing bad can find us.Next day, the music is back and the war is gone. Sometimethe war come close, but never into our city. Mostof the fighting, the radio says, it's far away, in the jungle.Government soldiers, they fight for the prince. The badguys, I don't know what they fighting for, but I do knowthe prince is a great man. A great man, with importantfriend like the widow of the young American president.And beautiful daughter I saw in the newspaper when sheand the prince go to China. So pretty, I cut the picturefor my wall.

I worry about those two in China. The Chinese eatbad smelling food. Where they gonna eat? How theygonna get home with all this fighting?

But one soldier at the market, high-ranking guy, hebrag about the government fighters. He's a big, bull-neckman, this guy who says he know the prince. He says thewar only gonna last one week.

He says the soldiers in the jungle, they not real soldiers.Only peasant in black pajama. Not even with realboot. Sandal made from old tire. We gonna win, he says.We gonna squish them like cockroach.

So I try not to worry about the prince and princessand worry instead about how I can make a little money.Sometime I sell ice cream. To sell, you have to have a bell.A small bell, it sound when you walk so people hear youcoming. But poor kid like me, I buy a cheap one. Old bellfor buffalo. Big. Not good sound. Like old gong aroundmy neck.

At first nobody buy. Nobody buy my ice creambecause I look like poor kid. So I eat all the ice creambefore it melt. Make myself almost sick. I learn a lessonthen: sell fast before the ice cream melt. Sell fast. Also,go far. All over town. I walk so much I know this townlike my pocket.

A lot of time kid throw stone at me. Rich kid. Kidwho go to real school, with desk and a hoop for basketball.Not like temple school for poor kid like me, whereyou have to do chore, serve the monk, then maybe get alittle teaching. Rich kid, they make a face at me, throwstones. Sometime I run. Sometime I make a face at them,too. Then run.

But soon I learn another lesson: you want to sell, yousneak out from the temple and sell when those kid inschool.

My number one big sister, Chantou, she find out I'm notat the temple; she get mad. Very mad. "Arn," she say tome, "you should be doing chore for the monk, learningthe chant, doing schoolwork. Selling ice cream, that's lowclass."

I don't tell her the monk sometime are very mean.I don't tell her they make us work all the time and thattemple is not like real school. I don't tell her they getangry, they hit and say, "You stupid boy."

Also, I don't tell her we are low class. She still thinklike the old days, when our family owned the opera. Mydad the star, my mom also the star. In our house, bighouse on the main road, before the show it was all singerand musician staying with us, getting ready. Forty people,maybe. A show every Saturday. Packed. So crowded somepeople have to sit on the grass. Our family a little bit rich,a little bit famous.

Then my father has a motorcycle accident. Hit hishead on the road. At the hospital he yell like it's still theopera, like still onstage. Then he die and my mom, shecan't run the opera anymore. She try. But no leading man,no opera. So she has to go far away, to Phnom Penh, tosing and make a little money, and we live with our aunt.Me and my brother and four sister. My aunt, she have nokid, so she love us like her own, but not enough money.That why I go stay at the temple sometime, why I also tryto make money on my own.

I don't say any of this to my sister. I let her say that it'slow class what I'm doing.

I want money, but also I want to have fun. Maybe it'slow class. But it's okay for me.

Sometime, I steal coconuts. Sometime, the lady nextdoor, she let me pick the flower to sell. And sometimeI play a game for money. You can say it's gambling. Butmaybe you can say it's sport, also. Doesn't matter.I give the head monk a little money so I can sneak outof the temple to play. You can say maybe I bribe him. Oryou can say maybe I give him a little gift.

This game, it's easy for me. You draw a circle on theground and put money there. You throw your shoe. Youhit the money, you take it. I lose sometime, but most thetime I win. I play not only with kid, I get so good, manytime I play with the men, the cyclo driver. I tease them.I say, "You so fat, you can't see over your belly, man," andthey get mad and they throw the shoe like crazy and I win.No other little kid has money like me. This mean I canbuy things for my family. Good food. Grill banana. Coconutcake. Mung bean pudding. Always I give the best thingto Munny, my little brother. Palm sugar, very sweet, wrapin palm tree leaf. But one time when I give a treat to myaunt and my sister, they cry. I don't know what's going onwith them. I say, "Why you cry?"

They ask where I got this money. "A little boy likeyou, how you get so much money?" They keep pinchingme, pinching me and say maybe I steal it. I tell them thetruth, that I win it. But they don't believe.

They go see the head monk. They take me, too, pinchingmy ear all down the street. "Arn got a lot of money,"they say. "Where he got it from?"

The monk shake his head like this is very sad news forhim. He tell them the truth, about the shoe game. Andhe says, "Arn try to give me some money too, but I don'ttake it."

I rub my ear and think: next time, no money for thatguy.

In our town is a tree that make hard little seed ball.Buffalo toe tree. You shake it, the seed, they fall on thesidewalk. You cut down a reed, you stick the seed inside,you make a blow gun.

My little brother, he says tonight he's gonna shootour sister in the butt for telling our aunt we sneak inthe movie. This sister, Sophea, she's in the middle ofus. Younger than me. Older than him. Our favorite forshooting at. Also she swear and says curse word when wehit her, and our aunt get mad at her instead of us.

I hug this tree, shake it hard and hear, far off, soundlike thunder. I look at the cloud and wait for rain to falllike curtain, for the umbrella to pop up like mushroom.For the hot season to end and the rainy time to start.

But no rain is coming. Only truck.

All kinda truck. Mostly jeep and tank, but also Coca-Colatruck and bus and garbage truck. All full of soldiers.Young guys. Dark skin and tough, all in black. Blackpajama, black cap. Only with red and white scarf tiedaround the head.

Most are kid, teenagers. Some of them only a little bitolder than me. Kid with sandal made from car tire. Kidwith gun. And lotta bullet across the chest. And pistol.And grenade. Some soldier are even girl. Girl with shorthair, angry face.

Now people coming out of all the house. Cheering,waving white flag. Handkerchief, bed sheet maybe, scarf,everything white. They run up to the truck and try totouch the soldier.

Next to me, a guy in blue jean, hair and sideburns likeElvis, he wave at the truck. I ask him what's going on.He says the war is over.

Up and down the street people cheer and yell andwave the flag. One guy, a cook, he wave a big spoon, alsohis apron. The guy who cut the hair, he shake a whitetowel. One old lady, no teeth, pink gum like a baby, shetry to kiss one soldier.

Horn honking. Little kid, they run around in circles.Dog, even, they chase their tail. So I run around, losingmyself, too. I don't know who are these guy with gun11 and truck, but I don't care. No more war. Maybe now theprincess can come home.

All quiet now. The parade is finish, and all the peopleinside making food. On the radio it says, "Give the soldierswhatever you can. Show that you support them."Everyone inside now, except me. Near our house is aschool, a rich-kid school, the one with the basketballgame. Sometime I lean against the wall, look in the windowand try to learn like the other kid. The letter. Thenumber. Sometime the teacher, he says scram, and I actlike I don't care, like maybe I'm just passing by. But todayis no school, so I kick the soccer ball in the yard.At the corner, five black-pajama soldier stand, smokingcigarette, on a lookout. They're young, these guys, soI say, "Wanna play?"

They take the ball like they don't know what to do.They kick like they never saw this game before and Ithink maybe I can make a little money off them. But alsothey play with a frown face, no fun, always keeping thegun on the shoulder, so I think maybe not such a goodidea to gamble with these guys after all.

One soldier, the biggest one, he see a kid come by ona motorcycle, and he yell at this kid to stop. He walk tothe road to talk to the kid and I go too.

He tell the kid, "Give me a turn on your moto."

You can't do that. You can't just ask someone to ridehis moto. So the kid says, "No, I have to go home."No warning, the soldier, he hit the kid in the headwith the rifle. And the kid, he sag to the ground, likehis leg go dead, and then fall in the curb. He twitch, andbubble come from his mouth. Then he stop moving.I run away, very scared, very fast. I tell my aunt aboutthis, but she doesn't believe me. She give me an orangeand says to go celebrate like everyone else. But I keep thatsoldier in my mind.

Next day, early in the morning, no temple gong for wakingup, no monk chanting. Strange sound. Voice like machineand very loud. Truck full of soldier ride down the street.Shouting in a bullhorn. "We are Khmer Rouge," theysay. "We are Red Cambodia." Also, they say the princeis coming back, that all government soldier should comemeet him at the airport. "All soldier of this town," theysay. "Come join us." And the government soldier, theycome out of the house one by one, wearing the uniformin green. Uniform, hat, boot. Even white glove, some ofthem. Medal also. Very fancy. Very proud. And they jointhe young guy in the black pajama.

One government soldier, old guy, very high ranking,living in a big house, his wife grab his sleeve so tight, healmost can't go. Another soldier's wife, young, pregnant,she wave a white handkerchief and cry a little bit. I lookfor the bull-neck guy, the one who says he know theprince, but no sign of him.
(Continues...)Excerpted from Never Fall Down by Patricia McCormick. Copyright © 2012 by Patricia McCormick. Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
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