Chapter 1

Friday, May 25, 1979

“Drink up, faggot!”

My mouth hits the water fountain spigot as the guy behind me shoves my head down. My face gets soaking wet. I turn around. Great. It’s Dougie Walters, my main bully. The guy who loves to make my life a living hell. What does this weirdo want now? I was hoping that the day would go by without him messing with me.

On this last day of school, I had been meandering back to class after eating my very last lunch here. I revisited some familiar spots in these hallowed halls. It’s not a bad school. I started kindergarten here in 1972. That year, I had Mrs. Nichols over there in Room 10. She still teaches here. Miss Vanderbilt teaches first grade across the hall. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Van Dyke, is down the hall. Most of the teachers I had, in fact, are still teaching here. Mrs. Dillon, my third-grade teacher, died a few months ago, though. She was nice, so that was sad. I think I’ve been in every single room in this H-shaped building. This year, to get us ready for junior high, I guess, we had to go to different rooms for different classes. I had Mr. Norman for Math in Room 2, which is in the top-left part of the H. My homeroom, though, is down at the bottom right, so a lot of times, I practically had to run to get there before the bell rang. 

I was ticking things off my mental checklist: Last drink from this fountain — check! ... Last walk down this hallway — check! ... Last trip to the restroom — check! Next year, I’ll start a new checklist: my first History class, my first French class, my first P.E. class. And so on and so forth … I can’t wait. Miss Walker, the guidance counselor, told me last week that I would be enrolled in some advanced classes — American Literature, World History, Space & the Universe. I can’t wait! 

Last time Dougie bugs me? Check — I had hoped. But nope. He looks down the hallway to make sure no teachers can see us. He shoves the sleeves of his oversized red flannel shirt up over his elbows. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes. A bit taller than me, he is gangly and looks like a tree without leaves.

“Hey, Dougie,” I say as I run my hand over my lips. No blood, but there’s gonna be some swelling. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Riley,” he says with a tone of snark. “I just wanted to say, so long, it’s been good to know you!

He holds out his hand. I look down at it and look back up at his face. 

“Are you about to break out in song?” I ask as I grasp his outstretched hand. Dougie and I are definitely not friends. He spends most of his time shoving me, bumping me, and tripping me. Just last week, he stuck his foot out in the cafeteria and caught me in mid-stride. I crashed to the floor, spilled my food, and made a huge mess. 

“Did you have a nice trip?” he teased as everyone laughed.

Last month, he grabbed me in the restroom and shoved my head into a flushing toilet. 

“Take a drink from the swirling whirly, shrimp!” he jeered. “That’ll teach you not to peek while I’m peeing, you perv.”

I got thoroughly dunked and took a gulp of toilet water. Yuck! Of course, I had not been peeking at him. In fact, I was minding my own business when he walked up to the urinal next to me and stuck his face over the divider and gawked at me.

“More than three shakes means you’re jerking it!” he said.

“Screw you, Dougie,” I said.

“Ha! You wish,” he said back and grabbed me.

So, who’s the perv?

Yesterday was the worst. At the awards assembly in the auditorium, I was called to the front to receive a ribbon for reading the most books at school. Dougie was sitting in an aisle seat, and as I passed him, he yanked my shorts down. My face turned as red as the underwear I was wearing (Jockey briefs — the kind Jim Palmer wears). Everyone laughed as I hiked my pants back up.

So, I wonder what he is up to now. His bony fingers wrap around my entire hand, and he squeezes it — hard. It hurts, but I don’t let on. I grit my teeth.

“I want to thank you for all the times you got me in trouble … pal,” he says. 

He twists my hand, causing me to bend forward.

“Thanks for being the class smarty-pants … pal,” he says. 

He puts his left arm against my chest and slams me against the wall. 

“Thanks for being the teacher’s ‘shining example’ of a good student … pal,” he says.

He flicks my ear. Over and over again.

“You think you know so much,” he says.

Dougie seems to have a problem with my intellect, but he has also tried to use it to his advantage. He has sat next to me on exam days, so he could copy off of me. To keep the peace, I have let him see a few answers. Teachers have always caught him, though.

“Eyes on your own paper, Douglas,” they said. 

He used those occasions to flick my ear or kick me under the table. For some reason, he is always punching, slugging, slapping, tripping, or kicking me — it’s annoying as hell. He is such a pest. 

“Knock it off, Dougie,” I say. “I’m not your ‘pal’ — let go!”

He grips my hand even tighter.

“Sure, you are,” he says. “You’re my P.A.L. — my personal ass licker!”

I look down at our enclasped hands. 

“Are you queer for me or something, Dougie? I’m sorry, but I don’t like you that way.”

He lets go of my hand and shoves me against the wall.

“Shut up, asshole,” he says.

I cock my head and shrug my shoulders. He swings back. I guess he’s gonna hit me. I put my fists up to defend myself. I know better, though. He is bigger and stronger. He has slugged me before, and I can’t do anything about it. I prepare myself for the punch. 

Someone storms up and shoves Dougie away from me.

“Knock it off or I’ll knock your block off, Walters!”

It’s Kendall, my best friend.

“What’s the matter, Settler? Am I picking on your boyfriend?”

“Fuck you,” Kendall says. “Get out of here!”

Dougie walks backward away from us. He flips us off with both hands. We watch as he stumbles into a pack of girls. One of them drops her books. He spins around, and they all take turns slapping him and calling him an asshole and a loser. 

Kendall puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks as we look away from Dougie’s dilemma.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, shaking my hand to get the blood flowing again.

“Do you need me to knock his block off — just to set him straight?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “C’mon, let’s get to class.”

I hope this is the last I’ll see of Dougie Walters. Until next year, anyway.

We enter our homeroom, and Miss Palomar is leaning on her desk.

“Welcome back, boys,” she says. “How was lunch?”

It was pizza — a rectangle of cheese and some kind of meat. It looked like something you would scrape off your shoe after stepping in doggie-do. 

“Enh,” I say, shrugging my shoulder.

“Er, okay,” she says. “All right, we had some fun this morning, writing about our summer plans. Let me read you a few of them. … Ah, here’s one.”

She shuffles through the papers and picks one out, and reads: 

Ahoy, me hearties! Let me tell you a tale — a tale of adventure and derring-do! In the summer of ’79, I will take to the seas and be “cast” away in a play — as a pirate of Neverland. Oh, a pirate’s life is a wonderful life! Yo-ho-ho, hee-hee!

She looks up, and her eyes dart to mine. My classmates groan. I slink down in my seat. She is reading my “essay,” and everyone knows it’s mine because all I can talk about these days is being in the community theater’s production of Peter Pan! Mr. Gibson, the director, has already said he would cast me as a pirate, maybe even Smee, a major character with lots of lines.

She keeps reading …

When I am back ashore, I will trek to the wilderness. I will pitch my tent and watch the sky, searching for “the second star to the right and on until morning.” Me mates and I will go swimming at the dam. (I hope we don’t run into any crocodiles! Tick-tock!) We will ride the wind on our bikes, play the sportiest of games, and do, oh, so much more! 

She puts the paper down and shuffles the papers to find another essay.

“Short and sweet,” she says as she looks at me again. Is she talking about my paper or about me? 

As Miss Palomar reads the plans of some other classmates, I look around at them. 

In the front row is Kendall. He didn’t choose to sit there; Miss Palomar put him there so she could keep a better eye on him. He likes to talk during class, make jokes, and generally cause distractions.

Mindy Graham sits behind him. Last year, she claimed me as her boyfriend for about a week, but she then dumped me for Wesley Hess. Wesley is seated beside her, looking as smug as ever. He thinks he is so smart. We are archenemies. We compete to get the highest test scores. I usually do better than him. It pisses him off. Ha-ha!

Sitting across from Mindy is Paige Whitson. She was my science lab partner earlier this year, and we had fun back then. I hope to have more fun times with her this summer. We will both be in the school band, which will march in the Cowboy Parade during the Sunflower Festival. Mindy passes me a note. It is intricately folded, and it takes me a moment to unfold the paper. I smooth it out on my desk and read it.

Riley Shrader,

Do you like Paige Whitson?

Check one:

__ YES  

__ NO  

I look up at Mindy. She nods her head and points to the note. I check the appropriate box and pass the note back to her. She and Paige look at it, cover their mouths, and whisper something to each other. Then they giggle. That makes me nervous. Why do girls do that? Make me nervous, I mean. They have always giggled for one reason or another. But these days, I feel nervous around them. Why is that?

I turn my head away from them, and my eyes fall on Dougie Walters, seated right beside me. He is sprawled out on his desk, his head in his arms. He may even be asleep. I look him over. His clothes are old and worn. His red flannel shirt has some rips. His shoes are scuffed up and may be a size too small. His little toe peeks out of a hole on the side of his right sneaker. I shake my head. What a loser. Then I remember what Papa told me.

“Clothes don’t make the man,” he said. “What’s on the outside doesn’t matter as much as what’s on the inside.”

On the outside, Dougie looks a bit rough. I know his parents got divorced, and most of his clothes are hand-me-downs. I should feel sorry for him, I guess. But on the inside, Dougie is a real jerk. His constant pestering has worn me out. Kendall has had to knock his block off more than a few times. He must sense that he’s being watched. He opens his eyes.

“What’re you looking at, Numb Nuts?” he snarls. 

“Nothing, Dougie,” I say. “Have a good summer.”

“Suck my dick, Shrader,” he answers.

The afternoon wears on. We spend it throwing away tattered spiral notebooks that have smashed spines, scribbled-on papers and old tests, pencil stubs, eraser nubs, and all the other junk that we have crammed into our desks. My backpack is stuffed with found treasures, including a protractor and a compass, a box of crayons, an unused pencil box, a baseball trading card, and a small Slinky — things that I thought I had lost long ago.

For the millionth time, I look at the face of the clock above Miss Palomar’s desk. Under my desk, my foot bounces to the tempo of the ticking. Oh, how I wish my superpower was to speed up time. We are going to be released early — at 3:12 p.m. Why they picked that time, I’ll never know. But it’s getting close! My eyes wander down to the face of Miss Palomar. She is staring back at me. Perhaps knowing that her time is running out and that she will no longer be able to advise us, she has some final words of inspiration. She stands in front of her desk and leans against it. She clasps her hands together.

“In these last few moments, I want to leave you all with these words: ‘Keep your eyes on the stars, but remember to keep your feet on the ground,’” she says. “Do any of you know who said that?”

Paige’s hand shoots up.

“Casey Kasem! He says it every week on American Top 40,” she says.

Miss Palomar blinks a few times as she tries to figure out what Paige means. Then it comes to her.

“Oh! Good answer, Paige,” she responds. “But, Casey Kasem says, ‘Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars.’ It’s a twist on the words that were originally uttered by President Theodore Roosevelt at the turn of the century — more than 75 years ago! They are still important words. He followed them with, ‘Live up to a high ideal. Have ideals that you can reach. Never fall short of what you actually can do.’

“So, boys and girls — I mean, young men and young women — I want you all to have high ideals, lofty goals that may appear like stars in the sky. Stretch as far as you can to reach them. But, as you are grasping for them, know that some opportunities will come up that may cause you to trip and stumble. They may shift your focus to more mundane matters. But that’s okay. The stars — your goals — are always up there, waiting for you.”

She pauses to let all of that sink in. 

“By pursuing those goals, you will learn what your strengths are and what you are passionate about. You will also learn about your limitations. So, make bold choices! Seek great adventures! Make your dreams and wishes come true! But be faithful and factual to the truth about you. Some of you will be rich; some of you will not be. Some of you will be great athletes; most of you will not be.”

Kendall, who is a jock, sits up and flexes his muscles. Everyone laughs. Miss Palomar, smiling, shakes her head and continues.

“Some of you will make startling discoveries about the world — and all of you will discover things about yourselves. But the most important thing about you is how those discoveries affect you and the people around you. Be a true and honest person, and a friend to all you meet. Help others attain their goals, and they will help you achieve yours. Pick someone up who has stumbled. … Be somebody’s hero! …”

Just then, the bell rings. We whoop and holler as we dash out of the classroom for the last time. Miss Palomar, who had guided us for the past year, smiles at us and watches us leave. 

She gives us one last instruction: “Have an extraordinary summer!” 

As I reach the door, I put my hand on the frame. I turn and give her a wave. She waves back. I’m going to miss her.

Chapter 2

I arrive home at the same time as Mama. She must be running late. She usually closes her store at 3:30 so she can be here when I get home. “Must be nice to set your own hours,” Dad teased.

In the kitchen, she pours us both a glass of iced tea, and we sit down at the kitchen table for our usual afternoon chat. Practically every day, we sit here and talk about music and movies, friends and family. I tell her about whatever happened at school, and she tells me about her day, or her childhood, or her father (my Papa Riley), or her best friend, Selena — whom I’ve never met. I think something happened to her, but Mama never tells me. I guess it’s a nice way to spend the afternoon, but the thing is, with summer here, I don’t want to spend every day sitting and chatting. I don’t know how to tell her.

Mama and I get along okay. Some kids describe their mothers as evil queens who rule the castle with an iron hand. My mother is different. We like to have fun. You could say that she has always been my favorite person. She was my first playmate, after all. She eagerly joined me in putting together picture puzzles. She admired my works of finger-painting and marveled at my early attempts to walk and talk. She has always taken care of me. When I had the flu, she wiped my forehead to keep me cool and wrapped me in blankets to keep me warm. She sat beside me and sang sweet songs to lull me to sleep.

“You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine.

You make me happy

When skies are gray.

You’ll never know, dear,

How much I love you.

Please don’t take 

My sunshine away.”

Yes, I still call her “Mama.” She insists on it. “Only you can call me ‘Mama,’” she once asserted. “It’s your special name for me.” (I call my dad “Dad.” My grandpa was “Papa.” I don’t know why; that’s just the way it is.) So, I’ve called her Mama ever since I learned to talk. But as I’m getting older, it’s getting embarrassing. Everyone else calls their mother “Mother” or “Mom.” When a guy at school heard me refer to her that way, he joked, “Oh, does the little baby need his Mama?” I wanted to slug him. 

I once tried on “Mom” for size. Her facial expression appeared conflicted. I couldn’t tell if she was going to cry or if she was getting mad. Either way, I knew she did not like it, so I dropped it. I continue to call her “Mama” — but only when no one else is around. 

“Are you happy that school is out?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll miss it a little bit. But I’m ready for summer!”

“Oh, I know how it feels. Back when I was in school, Selena and I did everything together — we went roller-skating, rode our bikes, went shopping ... You know, things that girls do. We had the best summers.”

“I don’t think Kendall and I will do much shopping.”

“I’m sure you won’t. So, what are you going to miss?”

“Oh, my teacher, my friends —”

“Your girlfriend?” she asks with her eyebrows raised.

“I don’t have a girlfriend!” I exclaim. At least, right now, I don’t have one, but I don’t want to get her hopes up. Paige is a likely candidate, but I’m not gonna tell Mama about her. She has recently become a bit too interested in whether I have a love life. She constantly asks me about girls: “Who do I like?” and “Is so-and-so cute?” She seems eager for me to have a girlfriend. 

“What about Mindy?” she says. “I thought you liked her. Didn’t you once get into a fight over her?”

“Oh, sort of. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hmm. Okay …”

We fall into an awkward silence. I take a sip of tea. 

“Kendall and I are going to ride our bikes today, and then we’re going camping,” I say, putting down my empty glass.

“You two spend a lot of time together, don’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s my best friend. Like you and Selena were.”  

“Hmm. Well, you just watch out. Something about him, I don’t like.”

“What don’t you like about Kendall? You’ve known him his whole life.”

“Oh, sometimes, he’s so rude. I think he takes after his father.”

“Kendall is fine. I’ve never seen him being rude.”

That’s a little white lie. Kendall revels in being rude and sarcastic. I smile to myself. 

*  *  *

I leave the house, cross the yard, and walk next door to Kendall’s house. He is sitting in a swing, waiting for me. I sit in the other swing. 

“Hey, man,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

We have outgrown the swing set. We used to see how high we could swing and how far we would go when we leaped out. Now, we mainly sit in them, spin them around and around, and plot our adventures.

“Wha’s happenin’?” I ask.

“Nothin’. Dad just reamed me out,” he says.

“About what?”

“He had a bunch of client meetings over the phone, so he’s working out of his home office. He was there when I got home, and he started in on me right away.”

“Uh-huh. What did he ream you about?”

“Oh, you know, about staying in shape, working out, lifting, wrestling … Apparently, those are my summer plans — no running off with the pirates for me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Kendall’s dad puts a lot of pressure on him to be a good athlete. Everyone calls him “Coach” because he coaches every youth sport in town — Pop Warner football, Little League baseball, junior wrestling. He claims credit for training Kendall into a football star and a wrestling champ. There’s nothing I can do for my friend. I punch his arm.

“Well, hang in there, buddy,” I say encouragingly.

“What did you and your mom chat about today?” he asks.

“I think she wants me to have a girlfriend,” I say.

“Oh!” he snorts. “Really? So, who do you like?”

“I don’t know,” I say as I spin around in the swing. “Paige is nice.”

“Paige Whitson? The girl who bailed you out of that science project?”

“Screw you!”

She and I were supposed to count fruit flies to determine their mating habits, lifespans, or something. I thought that project was a pain in the butt. Something went wrong every day. The flies kept getting stuck in the agar, and they died. Apparently, we didn’t seal the bottle tightly one time, and the flies escaped. And the flies didn’t seem to be reproducing. 

We giggled whenever we talked about reproduction. We both wondered how they “did it.” I liked how Paige’s nose crinkled when she laughed. She would sweep her hair back over her shoulder, look me in the eyes, and smile … seductively? The whole project was doomed, but I was entranced.

 “I’m thinking about asking her if she wants to hang out this summer and go to Sunflower Days with me.”

“Oh,” Kendall suddenly sits upright. “Well, are we gonna get to do stuff?”

“Sure!” I assure him. “Of course. It wouldn’t be Sunflower Days without you, buddy.”

He stares off into space. I often wonder what Kendall is thinking about. His jokes and comments usually make him the center of attention. He has a snarky attitude. His level of confidence may be due to his athletic success. His mastery of sarcasm often brings trouble with teachers and admiration from his peers. But when we’re alone, he’s different. He’s calm and relaxed. Not so much snark. Not so much sarcasm. I mean, we do crack jokes, but he is more thoughtful. He asks me serious questions about science, space, and life in general. We talk about our futures: how I’m going to travel the world, and how he’s going to be rich when he gets old — “I’ll be a millionaire by the time I’m 30,” he said. 

“Everyone else just wants to talk about sports,” he told me. “You’re not like that. I can talk to you about anything.” 

Kendall is my best friend, and I think I’m his. We try to see each other every day, but if a day or two goes by without us being together, he will pick me up and give me a huge hug when we get together again. I worry that a time will come when he prefers to hang out with his fellow athletes rather than with me. For the time being, I eagerly accept his companionship, and he is still eager to be my friend.

“C’mon,” I say. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”

“I don’t have any money,” he says. “I spent all of my allowance already.”

I dig into my pocket and bring out a small wad of dollar bills.

“I’ll get it,” I say. “My treat.”

“Ooo, are you taking me on a date? To practice for when you have a girlfriend?”

“Hah. You wish,” I say. 

We get on our bikes and take off for downtown. On the way, we do tricks and show off. We stand on our seats. We ride without holding the handlebars and zigzag down the street. We pop wheelies. As we get to the Sweet Shack, I swing my right leg over the seat and stand with both feet on the left pedal. I glide to a stop. We park our bikes and walk up to the window. A girl inside the ice cream store slides open a screen.

“Hey, aren’t you Riley Shrader?” she asks.

I look at her. I don’t recognize her. I look at Kendall. He shrugs his shoulders. He must not know her either.

“Yep, that’s me,” I say.

“My little sister talks about you all the time,” she says.

“Who’s your sister?” I ask.

“Paige. Paige Whitson,” she says. “I’m Melody Whitson.”

“Oh. Hi, Melody.”

“Yeah, you should call her sometime,” Melody says. “What can I get you?”

I stand there feeling a bit flustered. Paige talks about me? All of the time? I let those thoughts rumble through my brain. Kendall pokes me with his elbow.

“Order something, Romeo,” he says.

“Um, I’ll have a waffle cone with one scoop of butter brickle and one scoop of chocolate chip,” I say.

“Eww!” Kendall responds. “Butter brickle? That’s an old-lady flavor!”

“Well, I like it. What are you having?”

“I’ll have a scoop of Rocky Road and a scoop of coconut pineapple.”

“Eww!” I say back to him. “Those flavors don’t go together!”

“They do for me,” he says.

“Whatever floats your boat,” I say.

“Same to you, wise guy!”

I pay Melody, and she says, “Seriously, talk to Paige! Bye, Kenny!”

I nod, and we go across the street to Central Park. It’s nothing like the famous one in New York City. It’s only one square block. The grounds are dotted with pine trees and rose bushes. Benches line the brick walking path. A bandshell sits at one end. A gazebo sits right in the middle. Sometimes, we play Frisbee in the big open space on the other end.

We sit down on a bench and start licking our ice cream cones. It’s a hot day, so the ice cream is melting fast. Some of it drips onto my hand, so I lick it off.

“I hate it when someone calls me ‘Kenny,’” Kendall says.

“Huh? Why?” I ask. “You used to go by ‘Kenny’ until … I don’t know — when did it change to Kendall?”

“It was my name when I was little,” he says. “My grandma — all of my relatives, actually — still call me that. It’s annoying as hell. I’m not ‘Wittle Kenny’ anymore.”

“Okay, Kenny,” I say, “I won’t call you ‘Kenny,’ Kenny.”

“Shut the hell up,” he says.

I laugh.

“So! Paige, huh?” he says.

I lick my ice cream.

“Yeah. Isn’t that something?” I say. “The stars are aligning.”

“Are you gonna call her?”

“Maybe. Probably. I’m thinking about it.”

“Yeah? You should.”

“Do you know Melody?”

“No, I don’t.”

“She knows who you are. At least, she knew your name. Maybe she likes you.”

“Isn’t she, like, two or three years older than us?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Hmm. An older woman,” he says, scratching his chin. “Maybe I’ll have to get some more ice cream — to get the scoop!”

“Ha-ha! Yeah, you should.”

I take a few more licks of my ice cream and gaze across the street. Something catches my eye. In front of Price’s Stationery, a tall man holds a thin pole. One end of the pole points up into the office supply store’s awning. At the other end, the man grips an L-shaped handle. His hands spin around — faster and faster and faster. The awning goes lower and lower, blocking the afternoon sun from the store’s windows. 

I squint. My brain goes into scientist mode. (It does that a lot. I’m a bright boy!) I come up with a probable explanation. Ah! It’s a crank. A socket is set in a hole in the rod that forms the awning track. Turning the pole one way lowers the awning. I assume that if the man turns it the other way, the awning will go up.

“Look,” I say. “Isn’t that cool? The man spins the pole round and round, and the awnings move down.”

“Hmm, what’s that?” Kendall asks as he looks toward the window to see what I’m talking about. He sees the man, and his eyes narrow.

“Don’t stare at him, Riley,” he says.

“Why? Who is he?”

“That’s Herk,” he says. 

“‘Herk’?” I repeat. “That’s his name? ‘Herk’?”

“Yeah. He’s the town bum. Goes around bumming little jobs from businesses. Eating crap out of garbage cans,” Kendall says. “He used to be a pro wrestler. My dad knew him. But something happened, and he got sent to prison. I think he killed somebody.”

“Oh. Wow.” 

Was he one of the bums and riffraff that Mama was talking about? His clothes look old, but he’s apparently “dressed up.” He wears a brown blazer with a torn pocket. His jeans are faded and stained. The fedora on his head is bent and tipped to the right. Again, I remember Papa’s words about what matters is what’s on the inside, not on the outside. Is he a killer bum? I have never seen this giant man before.

He stops turning the crank and turns toward us. He stands up straight and erect, and stares back at us. His eyes pierce mine. Why is he doing that? Can he hear us talking about him? The big man just stands there, frozen, watching us for several minutes.

“Well, that’s creepy,” Kendall whispers.

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s he looking at us for?”

“Beats me.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter 3

Kendall and I head back home and gather our gear. We load it into Big Red, my utility wagon. This isn’t a little kid’s wagon. It’s about 3 feet wide by 5 feet long and rolls on 10-inch rubber wheels. It holds everything we need for camping, and it has a hitch that I can attach to my bike so I can tow it wherever we go. Besides our sleeping bags and the tent, I put my telescope in it. From my back yard, we head up the hill to Riley’s Woods and put up my tent at the edge of the tree line. Mama inherited these woods from Papa Riley. This is where Papa took me camping when I was little, and I still go there from time to time to avoid the world — and to strip down. 

We would sit cross-legged on a blanket outside our tent. In the nude, of course. “The human body is amazing, Riley boy,” he said. “Close your eyes. Feel the wind blow across your body. Feel the sun shine on your skin. Sense your body absorbing the energy it needs. Imagine your pores opening to release all the toxins from your body. Allow the stress and negativity to leave your body and your soul. Feel your confidence grow. Learn to live comfortably in your skin.”

Kendall and I set up the tent, and then I put my telescope on its tripod. Peering through the eyepiece, a bright cloud of diffused light fills the viewfinder. I slowly turn the focus knob, and … there it is! The moon is just a sliver in the sky — a thin fingernail shining just above the horizon.

“C’mere and see,” I say. Kendall puts his eye to the scope.

“What are we looking at?” he asks.

“The moon, you dope,” I say, slapping the back of his head. “It’s a waning crescent. It’ll be a new moon in a couple of days.”

“Oh, cool,” he says. “The mountains look extra pointy.”

“Yeah, the angle of the sun makes that happen,” I say. “That thin line between light and dark is called the terminator.”

“Ooh, that would be a cool name for a superhero,” Kendall says. “The Terminator … putting an end to evildoers.”

“Hah! Or an evil alien invader,” I say. “Earthlings, I have come to terminate your planet.”

I look into the telescope again.

“I guess, since I won’t be able to go up to Skylab, I’ll take the moon,” I say.

“Oh, yeah?” Kendall says. “What will you do up there?”

“Well, it’s a whole ’nother world, with places to explore and discoveries to make. I’ll set up a moon base and bring up the smartest scientists and most daring explorers. We’ll drive the Selenar rover all over the surface, even to the other side — “where no man has gone before,” I say in the tone of Captain Kirk. 

“You are such a nerd,” my friend says.

I wince. I get called that all the time, and guys don’t mean it as a compliment. I don’t care; I like what I like. 

“Yep, that’s me in a nutshell,” I say, shrugging.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, buddy,” Kendall says.

“Look, I’m not athletic, so I’m not a jock, like you are,” I say. “I don’t sneak off to smoke cigarettes — or pot — so I’m not a stoner. I’m not a country kid, and I’m not a country club kid. I don’t belong to any clique or gang. I can count the number of friends I have on one hand. I know where I fit in: I am a nerd. Science nerd, band nerd, book nerd — that’s me all tied up in a bow.” 

“Well, I hope you count me as one of your friends, man,” Kendall says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I don’t care if you’re a nerd. You’re my little nerd!”

Kendall grabs me and puts me in a headlock and gives me a soft noogie.

“Let go,” I say sternly. “Let me go, now!”

I struggle to get away, and he lets me go.

“Dammit, I am so sick and tired of other guys picking on me, putting me in headlocks and shoving me down,” I say. “I sure as hell don’t want you to do it.”

“I’m sorry, Riley. Don’t be mad,” he says. “I was just kidding around.”

I guess I’m still peeved by what happened today with Dougie.

“Everyone wants to pick on the ‘little guy.’ Bullies shove me, kick me, knock me down, and sit on me. Sometimes, the asshole will drool a drop of slobber over my face, and it will dangle from his mouth and slowly draw closer —”

“That’s a very specific example,” my friend says. “Does that really happen?”

“Yes, it does. I can usually twist my body loose, but I have taken more than my fair share of spit-face.”

“I’ll knock their blocks off if anyone picks on you, man,” Kendall says. “You know that. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I know,” I say. “I get called a nerd, a sissy, a wuss, a mama’s boy … They call me ‘Shorty Shrader’ and ‘Shrader the Shrimp.’ They love the alliteration, I guess, but I doubt they even know the meaning of that word.”

Kendall chuckles.

“Those names fit, though, since everyone in our class is taller than me, even the girls. It bothers me a little bit ... Okay, maybe it bothers me a lot. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Papa taught me about body positivity — ‘love the skin you’re in,’ he said. So, I’m learning to accept my size. Bullies, though, love to pick on the ‘little guy.’ I hope that changes soon because it’s getting tiresome.”

“Well, someday you’ll show them,” Kendall says. “You’ll be smarter, richer, more famous than any of them.”

“Ha! Okay.”

Seeing all that we can see through the scope, we decide to lie on a blanket and look up at the sky. It is vividly dotted with sparkling points. With my finger showing Kendall where they are, I name the major stars that we can see — Polaris, Betelgeuse, Rigel, Vega … I trace the constellations — the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, Scorpius …

“That’s so cool that you know all these,” he says.

“Yeah, Papa taught me about the stars when he brought me out here,” I reply. “We went camping all the time. We would lie here — just like we are now — and I would rest my head on his shoulder while he extended his arm to line it up with my line of sight, so I could see which star he was pointing at.”

“Like this?” Kendall says as he scoots over and plops his head on my shoulder.

It startles me, but I let him stay that way.

“Yep, just like this. … So, see … right there. See the backward question mark?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s the head of Leo the lion. Follow the head on down, and his body goes here and then down and over and back up,” I say as I trace the figure.

“Wow, that’s so cool,” Kendall says. “Do you really want to go up there, up in outer space?”

“Hell, yeah,” I say. “To the moon, baby! Ha-ha. … I really wanted to go up to Skylab, but NASA says it’s gonna come crashing down any day now.”

“Really?” he asks. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, it does,” I reply. “Hey, want to hear something funny? The astronauts up there found out that their drinking water gave them gas, and it made them fart all the time.”

“Ha-ha!” he laughs. “That’s hilarious! I’ll bet it was stinky!”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it was!” I say. “They probably used it as propulsion. ‘Toot, toot! Comin’ through!’”

“Engage rear thrusters, Mr. Sulu!” he says.

“‘Rear’ thrusters!” I repeat. “Ha-ha!”

We start laughing hard. His head is still on my shoulder. We stare up silently for a few minutes.

“So, ‘keep your eyes on the stars, but keep your feet on the ground.’ What the hell does that even mean?” Kendall asks. “What did Miss Palomar mean when she said that?”

“Hmm, well, people have always looked up,” I attempt to answer. “The gods live up there.”

I wave my hand above us.

“People think that’s where Heaven is. So, they were looking for guidance from the gods when things got hard.”

“Ha. You said, ‘got hard,’” Kendall says as he brings a fist to my crotch.

I flinch and knock his hand away.

“Knock it off, or I’ll knock your block off!” I say.

“Ha! You wish,” he replies. “Isn’t the state motto something about stars and hard times?”

“Yeah. ‘Ad astra per aspera’ — To the stars through difficulties,” I answer. “I think they were talking about the hard times that Kansas had when it was formed. Bleeding Kansas, the Civil War, the Santa Fe Trail, and all that stuff. They went through all that … difficulty, but they were still looking up. They were optimistic about the future.”

“Hmm. Well, you gotta be optimistic,” Kendall says.

“Yep,” I say agreeingly.

“Coach says I gotta be optimistic!” he says.

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, I gotta be optimistic that I’m gonna get in shape and score lots of touchdowns so our football team will win lots of games, and that I will win lots of wrestling matches. I hope I do, just to get him off my back. He says I’d better be good if I want to go to college. He says I’ll have to get a scholarship because that’s the only way I’ll get to go. He says he can’t afford it.”

“That’s too bad,” I say. “Well, college is a few years away. You can have some fun until then.”

“Not according to him. I need to ‘buckle down and train’ this summer. Every day.”

“Well, I guess you have to stay in shape,” I say. “I hope that doesn’t cut into our plans.”

“Let’s hope not,” he says. “I want to hang out with you as much as possible.”

“Hey, I know! I’ll be your training partner,” I say. “I’ll lift weights with you. I’ll do jumping jacks with you. You can wrestle me.”

“What? You want to wrestle?” he responds. “What has gotten into you?”

“I’m tired of being bullied,” I say. “I’m tired of other guys making fun of me. I don’t want Anson Daugherty, or Dougie Walters — or anyone — to shove me ever again. I don’t want those assholes to take out their frustrations on me. Next year is gonna be tough. I will be an easy mark. In Phys Ed, especially. There will be a lot of body contact. It will more or less be organized bullying. If I’m tackled in football, someone may “accidentally” step on my back. In dodgeball, the ball may “inadvertently” slam into my head. During a basketball game, I may take an “unintentional” elbow to the face. It’s not that I am not athletic. I can run fast, and I’m a decent swimmer. I even won a second-place ribbon in a tennis tournament last summer. But I am lousy in most other sports. I’m sick and tired of being everyone’s target. I’m tired of having you rescue me. You shouldn’t always have to run up and say, ‘Knock it off, or I’ll knock your block off.’ —”

He interrupts, “I like saying that! I like telling the assholes that I’ll knock their blocks off. It gives me a … a charge to light into someone who’s not treating you right.”

“Well, I want to feel that charge,” I say. “Show me how to take care of myself. Show me how it’s done.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Kendall is on me in a flash. He puts his left arm under my legs and lifts them. His right hand goes behind my head. I try to twist away, but he has me in an awkward position. I can’t get any leverage. He pulls my legs up to my chest. He pins my shoulders to the ground. 

“1 … 2 … 3!” he shouts. 

He jumps up and raises his clenched fists above his head. “And the crowd goes wild! Aaa-aaaaa!”

I lie sprawled out beside him, gasping at the suddenness of his actions.

“Let’s go again,” I say.

We wrestle for a while. Kendall shows me some moves and I try to repeat them. But he is so much stronger than me. I don’t think I’m making any progress. He gives me encouragement, though.

“Okay, that was pretty good. Good for your first try, anyway,” he says. “But I’m tired.”

“Me, too,” I say, yawning. “Let’s go inside and settle down.”

“Okay.”

I unzip the tent. In the dark, I strip down. Kendall rolls his eyes, like he usually does.

“Man, why do you always get naked?” he asks me.

“My Papa always said, ‘The only thing you need to wear to bed is a smile,’ so we slept in the nude when we went camping. And he told me about Benjamin Franklin’s air baths.”

“Air baths?” 

“Yeah. He would throw open his windows and let the sunlight flood his room. He sat there in the sunshine without clothes. He believed it energized his body, soul, and mind – and now I believe it, too.”

Kendall keeps his shorts on. We crawl into our sleeping bags. I yawn, and then I hear Kendall yawning, too.

“Good night,” he says. “Catch you on the flip side.”

“Ten-four, good buddy,” I say back. “Sleep tight!”

“And don’t let the bed bugs bite,” we say together.

Chapter 4

Saturday, May 26, 1979

I jolt awake. Sunbeams are peeking into the tent, so I guess we’ve slept late. I look over at Kendall. He’s awake and watching me.

“I just had a very weird dream,” I tell him.

“What was it about?” he asks.

“Well, you and I were licking an ice cream cone — the same one. Then, Paige — I think it was her — and I were licking it. And then, it was you and me again. Then, it was Paige and me again. It kept going back and forth. The ice cream dripped all over my body, making it sticky. Someone — I don’t know who —  was licking it off me, licking it off my body. Then, dark eyes were staring at me. … And I woke up.”

“Wow,” Kendall says. “You were twisting and turning and rolling over.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Well, should we go check in with our moms and meet up later at the swing?”

“Sounds good to me.”

We load up Big Red and head back down the hill.

*  *  *

Mama is in the kitchen. She is gritting her teeth and frowning as she scrubs the sink. Great, she’s in one of her moods.

“Take out this trash,” she says. “And while you’re out there, pick up those beer cans that the neighbors left in our gutter. Then, sweep the sidewalk. And the driveway.”

“Can I have some breakfast first?” I ask.

“Be fast about it,” she says.

“Be fast about breaking my fast?” I snicker.

She pauses to think about what I just said.

“You’re so funny,” she says without even a chuckle.

Well, crap. Doing yard work is throwing a monkey wrench into my plans. I need to get my summer started! I slurp the milk in my cereal bowl and finish up. I take the trash bag outside and toss it into the garbage can. I pick up the cans, and some food wrappers and plastic straws from the gutter and toss them in the bin. Our neighbors are such slobs.

After a while, Kendall comes out of his house, carrying a trash bag.

“Our moms must be on the same schedule, I say.

“Yup. Looks like,” he says.

“Well, my mom has decided to go on a cleaning spree,” I say. “I probably can’t do anything for a while.”

“Damn,” he says. “Hmm, well, I guess I’ll work out for a while and then go get some ice cream.”

“And talk to Melody?” I say, batting my eyelashes at him.

“Maybe so,” he replies. “Maybe so.”

I watch my buddy walk back to his driveway. His broad shoulders swivel as he saunters. He swings around, waves, and gives me a thumbs-up. I smile and wave back. That guy, I say to myself. He’s becoming quite the hunk. He has a good, athletic body. Girls go crazy over him. I wonder if Melody is into him. But she’s older than us, so who knows? 

Mama probably has more stuff for me to do, so I work slowly on cleaning up the yard. I might as well enjoy myself. At least it’s a nice day. I’m not the hunk that my buddy is, but I take my shirt off to work on my tan. Fortunately, Mama didn’t say anything about mowing the yard. Even though I’ll get more in my allowance for doing it, I don’t feel like it today. I start to sweep, and I begin to hum, “Whistle While You Work.”

“Hey, I should be whistling!” I say to no one in particular. So, I do.

After about an hour, I head back inside. I find Mama in my bedroom.

“You need to clean up this messy room,” she says. “Pick up all these clothes. Clear off your desk. Put all of these toys away.”

I look around. My room is not that bad. It’s not a mess. It’s just a bit … untidy. A few things are out of place, but nothing major. And “toys”? I don’t have “toys” — I have games and cards and puzzles and stuff. I even have some of those brand-new Star Wars action figures. Those aren’t “toys.” I’m not some little kid. Sheesh!

“What has gotten into you?” I ask her.

“Just … I just want to get this house clean,” she says. “Get to it.”

I toss the clothes into the hamper. I take the books off my desk and arrange them in alphabetical order by author in my bookcase — just like the library. Good old Dewey decimal system. I stack my comic books in boxes, organizing them by title and number. I spy a copy of Adventure Comics. It’s a Giant-Size issue with stories about Batman, Deadman, and the Justice Society of America. I read it all the way through and then put it in its proper place in my comic book box. I stand up, put my hands on my hips, and look around. My room is “clean” now.

What has gotten into Mama today? Why is she being a clean freak all of a sudden? Is she cleaning up her messes? Is she dusting her vases? Probably not. I go back to the kitchen. 

“Did you straighten your room?” Mama asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Everything is tidy and in tip-top shape,” I reply.

“Good,” she says. “Go pack a bag. We’re going to visit your Aunt Eva.”

And there it is — whenever something is really bothering Mama, she runs to her big sister.

“Why do I have to go?” I ask.

“To ride shotgun, of course, and to keep me company.”

I sigh. For years, even when I was small, and it was probably against the law, I rode in the front seat, and it was my job to hold the map and give directions to the driver. But she doesn’t need directions to get to Aunt Eva’s, so again I wonder why I have to go.

“Is Dad going?” I ask.

“No, he’s working,” she answers.

“Ugh.” 

“Come on, we have fun on these trips,” she says.

I know how “these trips” go. I have better things to do than sit around Aunt Eva’s house.

*  *  *

It’s a six-hour drive to Cherokee City, where Aunt Eva lives. We pass cornfields, cattle pens, and old rickety barns on one side of the road, and old barns, cornfields and cattle pens on the other side. It’s so monotonous. As we approach Smileyville, I keep an eye out for the trip’s highlight — the town’s yellow water tower. It has a smiley face painted on it, of course. Next comes the sign that says, “5 miles to go.” The 5 looks like an S.

“Smiles to go,” I chirp. Mama doesn’t say a word. On every single ding-dang trip, we have always looked at each other and said that as we passed by. But today, she is silent. Something really must be weighing on her mind.

I poke my nose into the book I have brought with me: Mythology, by Edith Hamilton. I have read it before, but I like it. It has tales about Apollo, Aphrodite and all the other gods. There are also stories about Thor and Loki, who are way different from how they are portrayed in the comic books.

When we finally arrive, I step one foot in the door, and I am zapped by one of Zeus’ lightning bolts.

Aunt Eva lets loose with a set of rules.

“Take those filthy shoes off and leave them on the porch,” she commands.

I do that. I walk into her house in my socks. 

“Put your backpack in this closet,” she instructs. 

I stash it there. 

“As usual, Riley, you will be sleeping on the fold-out sofa,” she points. “You will make it every morning and put your dirty sheets in the hamper.”

Great. I have indeed slept on this broken-down sofa in the living room. The mattress is very thin, and every spring digs into my spine as I toss and turn.

She takes us down the hallway to the bathroom.

“You’re old enough now to take some personal responsibility. Scrub the bathtub after every shower — and you will take a shower every morning,” she commands. “Wash the sink after you brush your teeth. Wipe off the mirror if you get any spots on it.”

We head back to the living room. 

“Keep your feet off the coffee table,” she demands. “Use a coaster for any drinks. Anything you put on it must be removed when you’re finished and put back where it belongs.” 

We go into the kitchen. She tells us that we will eat every meal at the kitchen table. No eating or snacking in the living room.

“After you eat, rinse off your dirty dishes until they are spotless,” she stipulates. “Then — and only then — you will put them in the dishwasher.” 

Wow! Rules! Rules! Rules! What’s gotten into her? Mama has been taking after her, I guess. 

Mama and Aunt Eva engage in some chit chat as she cooks supper. We settle in to eat it, saying grace first. It’s roast beef stew — potatoes, carrots, onions, noodles. Not bad, but it could use more broth. It’s kinda dry.

I’ve always thought that Aunt Eva was a mean old lady. Hate to say it, but it’s true. I’ve never heard her say a nice thing about anybody. Tonight, she gossips and tells mean stories about everyone she knows. 

“Gladys Plunkett, bless her heart, had a stroke last week, so we’re praying for her,” she says.

Okay, maybe I’m wrong. That sounds nice and sincere.

“Her husband, Ben, hasn’t even gone to the hospital to see her.”

“Why not?” Mama asks.

“He’s a drunkard,” Aunt Eva says. “They are quite the pair, let me tell you.”

Oh, well.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mama says.

“Yes, and with him being a deacon. He always takes a swig of wine as he prepares the communion cups,” Aunt Eva says. “Polly McBride has caught him at it several times. Pastor Clyde doesn’t do anything about it, though. I’ve had some things to say about him at trustees’ meetings. He doesn’t guide us or lead us in the Lord’s way. Some of his sermons have been … well, he gave the wrong message, if you ask me. And he actually met with some homosexuals who wanted to get married! Can you even believe that?! I think we need a new pastor. One who will tell those queers where to go.”

Mean old lady.

After dinner, she and Mama stay at the kitchen table while I go into the living room to read. I look around. Her house is nothing like our house. At Aunt Eva’s, everything is in its place. At our house, everything is higgledy-piggledy. At Aunt Eva’s, no art hangs on the walls — although every room has a crucifix. She has one bookshelf, and it holds books by some TV preachers and some romance novels — a weird mix of reading material. There’s nothing here that I want to read. Aunt Eva has no plants, no vases, no knick-knacks of any kind. Her house is an empty shell. It sounds empty, too. Echoes bounce off the walls. I wonder if that’s because there’s no love in the house to fill the void.

We all go to bed at 9 o’clock — while the sun is still up! I roll around on the sofa bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. I think about Aunt Eva and Mama. They are as different as they can be. Aunt Eva has wavy gray hair, and Mama has straight red hair. Aunt Eva wears glasses, and Mama doesn’t. Mama is thin, and Aunt Eva is … kinda fat. Aunt Eva is much older than Mama. When their mother died, Mama was still a little girl, so Aunt Eva essentially raised her. Mama talks to her big sister when something is bothering her. I wonder what it is this time.

Chapter 5

Sunday, May 27, 1979

Morning comes, and I am amazed that we don’t have to go to church.

“We have some things to talk about,” Mama tells me. “Just go into the living room and read.”

“Can I go for a run?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” Aunt Eva says. “Who knows what you’ll get yourself into out there alone?”

“Can I go to the swimming pool?”

“No,” Aunt Eva says. “There are too many perverts there.”

“Can I go to the library?”

“It has many illicit books,” she says. “They should be banned.”

I look at Mama, my eyes pleading with her to let me go, to let me do something. Anything! She shakes her head. I go into the living room and plop down on the couch. The women sit at the kitchen table, looking at old family photos and gossiping about people they used to know and old boyfriends. I am mildly interested in the photos, but I don’t want to hear about their lost loves.

I open my book and read in relative peace, but I can hear their voices coming from the kitchen. I catch bits and pieces of what they’re saying.

“Stella, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times …”

“Oh, Evie, do you remember when Daddy …” 

“… and he twisted his arm? …”

“Was that the first time or the second …?”

“… I miss her so much!”

They talk and talk. I read and read. I finish my book, but I resist the urge to read one of Aunt Eva’s books. I am afraid that I will put it down in the wrong spot. 

Tonight, at dinner, Aunt Eva turns her attention to me.

“Riley,” she says. “Look at you. Are you growing any?”

“Growing any what?” I ask.

“Growing any taller, smarty-pants,” she says. 

“Yeah, I think so …”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks.

“Umm, no, I don’t,” I say. No way am I telling her about Paige.

“Well, one of these days, you are going to break some poor girl’s heart,” she says. “You know, you’re the last male in our family line. It’s up to you to carry on your Papa’s legacy. It’s up to you to have his descendants.”

“O-okay,” I say. “What about Hope and Faith?”

“Oh, my daughters aren’t going to give me any grandchildren,” she says. “Faith is studying for her master’s degree in women’s studies, for crying out loud. And Hope is still living with her college roommate, even though they graduated 10 years ago.”

“Hmm,” I say.

“I know you’re young, and I know you’re … small for your age, but soon you’ll grow into a big, strong man,” Aunt Eva says. “And so, you need to be more … manly, more macho. Girls like macho men. They don’t want bookworms or boys who act in plays. You need to get out there and do things that other boys do — sports and outdoor stuff.”

I look at Mama. What has she been telling her sister?

“Well, I do that,” I say. “I like to go running, but you won’t let me. And I like to go camping. I got that from Papa. I also like to read and play music. I like being in plays.”

“You shouldn’t be so … artistic,” Aunt Eva says. “Girls don’t like that.”

I look at Mama, who is not looking at me. She is avoiding looking me in the eyes. Why is she letting Aunt Eva talk to me like that?

“‘Artistic’?” I ask.

“People will call you that, but they’ll mean something else,” Aunt Eva says. “It’s another word for … queer. They will be calling you a homosexual. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Of course not,” I say.

“I didn’t think so,” she says. Aunt Eva is finished making her point, I guess. She turns back to Mama and continues telling her tales. 

“That reminds me … Bill Wilbur, the choir director, and Albert Cabot, the organist, are apparently sexual deviants,” she says. She darts her eyes at me and then at Mama. “We need to put those perverts out to pasture, if you catch my drift.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask.

She sniffs.

“Let’s just say that if all the homosexuals want equal rights, then they should all get in line — against a wall.”

“A wall?” I ask.

“For a firing squad,” she says.

After we settle in for the night, I think about what Aunt Eva was implying. Does she think I’m queer? Does she think I’m a homo? Does Mama think that? Is that what they have been talking about? Is that why we’re here? So she can try to set me “straight”? What the hell? Maybe I should tell them I have a girlfriend. Maybe I should tell them about Paige. But I guess I should talk to Paige first. I think she wants to be my girlfriend, but I really don’t know...