Invasion of the Road Weenies by David Lubar

initials.”
    â€œCured.” I told him. “Concrete doesn’t dry—it cures. How do you think they use it underwater for bridges?”
    â€œYou need to be cured,” Scott said. He looked back at the sidewalk. “One of these days, I’m going to get to the cement in time and leave my mark—you know, my initials. Just once—that’s all I ask. Just one SB written to last forever.”
    I shrugged. I guess everyone had different dreams. We headed down the street. A while later, we saw another sawhorse. Scott picked up the pace and jogged over. Once again, he knelt down and checked out the concrete.
    â€œDry,” he said, getting back up.
    â€œCured,” I said.
    â€œHey,” he said, ignoring my comment, “maybe they’re doing a bunch of sidewalks today.”
    â€œCould be. One truck holds a lot. As a matter of fact, a whole load is nine cubic yards,” I told him. “That’s where the expression comes from.”
    â€œWhat expression?” Scott asked.
    â€œThe whole nine yards.”
    â€œYou’re crazy—that comes from football,” he said.
    I didn’t bother arguing. Scott hurried down the street. He seemed to be on a mission. “Gonna leave my mark,” he said.
    As I walked after him, I looked back. There was a set of footprints in this patch of concrete, too. I had no idea how the kid had done it. I really thought I knew everything about concrete and cement. As I turned away from the spot, I realized that I had a bit of a mission myself. While Scott was running around, trying to find a place to leave his mark, I was going to go with him, hoping to get a chance to see how that kid was leaving those footprints.
    We wandered up and down the side streets. We found two more slabs of recently poured sidewalk, but they’d already cured. Each spot seemed a bit fresher than the previous one. I figured we were getting close.
    â€œThat’s it,” Scott said, looking ahead as we caught sight of another sawhorse. “I know this is the one.”
    He ran ahead. I saw him kneel down. Then he almost jumped for joy as he shouted, “Yes!”
    I caught up with him. There was a small mark where he’d tested the concrete with his finger. Otherwise, the surface was perfectly smooth. There wasn’t even a footprint. “Finger or a stick?” Scott asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCome on—you’re the big expert. What works better? Should I use my finger? Or should I look for a stick?”
    I shrugged. “Either way would work. Some people are allergic to concrete, but it’s not that common.”
    â€œGreat. Here we go. Ess,” he said as he drew his first initialinto the concrete. He lifted his finger and paused for a second, then grinned. “Finally, I’m doing something that will last.” He reached down and added the
B
.
    â€œOops, one more thing, just to make it perfect.” He raised his finger and thrust it down, making a period after the
S
. Then he made a period after the
B
.
    â€œOkay, you’ve left your mark. Now let’s get out of here,” I said.
    â€œI can’t,” Scott said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy finger’s caught.”
    â€œQuit joking.” I looked over his shoulder. He still had his finger stuck in the concrete. He was pulling, but it wouldn’t come out. I figured he was fooling around, trying to play a trick on me.
    I changed my mind when he was yanked in up to his elbow with one sudden jerk. “Get help,” he said.
    â€œYeah.” But before I could take a step, he got dragged down and across the concrete. His body slid over the spot where he’d written his initials, smoothing the surface out. A moment later, he got pulled under. It wasn’t like someone sinking in quicksand. It was fast. One second, he was only sunk in up to his arm. The next, he got tugged down. For an instant, there was nothing to see