Chapter 2

I head outside and walk next door to Kendall’s back yard. My friend is sitting on a swing, waiting for me. I sit in the other swing. We have outgrown the swing set but it’s still our meeting point.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

We used to see how high we could swing and how far we would go when we leaped out. Now, we mainly sit, spin them around and around, and make plans.

“What are you up to?” I ask.

“Getting over my dad’s lecture,” he says.

“Hmm. What was it about?”

“Staying in shape. Working out. Lifting. Running. Wrestling,” he says. “Apparently, those are my summer plans.”

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 — Pee Wee football, Little League baseball, junior wrestling. He claims credit for training Kendall into a football star and a wrestling champ. (By the way, I run track sufficiently and play tennis unsatisfactorily, but I am not a jock.) Coach is tough on Kendall. There’s nothing I can do for him. I give him a soft punch in the arm.

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

Kendall and I have been best friends, well, forever. A teacher once said that we were each other’s shadow. “When I see Riley, I know that Kendall isn’t far behind — and vice versa.”

I don’t really remember meeting Kendall; he has always just “been there.” My earliest memory — I was 2, maybe 3 — is of us playing in my sandbox with our Tonka trucks. As we have grown older, we have done everything we can together. We learned to ride our bicycles around the same time, and soon we were building bike ramps out of scrap wood. His mom said we were a couple of Evel Knievels. Nowadays, we go exploring all over our tiny town, riding from the dam on the river to the hilltops near the state hospital.

When not on our bikes, we have played hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, and catch. We shoot hoops in his driveway — he massacres me in Horse. He obviously has the height advantage. When I get tired of basketball, I challenge him to a race. I can outrun him.

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

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

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

I blink my eyes slowly. We have had this discussion before. During sleepovers, we lie in his queen-size bed — I don’t know why he has one, but we love it. It’s so spacious! We used to giggle and tickle each other and use the bed as a wrestling mat. His mother always had to come into the bedroom to tell us to keep it down. These days, though, we don’t tickle each other. We lie there with our hands behind our heads, looking at the ceiling. We have deep discussions about sports, superheroes, movies, and lately, girls.

“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?”

“Yep,” I say, as I lift my feet and go into a swirl.

“Oh.”

Kendall nods but doesn’t say another word.

I often wonder what Kendall is thinking. He usually has an outgoing personality and a snarky attitude — maybe because of his athletic success. His mastery of sarcasm often brings trouble with teachers, and admiration from his peers. He jokes and makes comments and wallows in the spotlight as the center of attention.

When we’re alone, though, sometimes he’s different. He gets calm and he relaxes. Not so much snark or 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. I tell him about exploring the stars. He tells me about his plan to be a millionaire by the time he’s 30.

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

We are obviously best buddies. 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 wonder if a time will come when he prefers to hang out with his fellow jocks rather than with me — a quiet, non-athlete. For the time being, I eagerly accept his companionship, and he is still eager to be my friend.

“C’mon, we only have a couple of hours before it gets dark,” 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 my small wad of dollar bills.

“I’ll get it,” I say. “My treat.”

“Ooh, are you taking me on a practice date 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 tell jokes and laugh. We both do tricks and show off. We ride without holding the handlebars and zigzag down the street. We pop wheelies. We stand up on our seats.

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 walk up to the window, and a girl behind the counter slides open the screen.

“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.

“Yes, 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 cone with one scoop of butter brickle and a scoop of chocolate peanut butter,” I say.

“Eww!” Kendall responds. “Butter brickle? Only old ladies like that flavor!”

“Well, I like it too. 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, fella!”

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

I nod, and we go across the street to Central Park. Our town’s Central Park is nothing like the famous one in New York City. It’s only one square block. The grounds are sprinkled with pine trees and rose bushes. Benches line a 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 on a bench and start licking our ice cream. It’s a hot day, so it’s melting fast. Some of it drips on my hand. I lick it off.

“So,” Kendall says. “Paige, huh?”

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

“Are you gonna call her?” he asks.

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

“Yeah? You should.”

I lick more of my ice cream and gaze across the street. Something catches my eye. In front of Price’s Stationery, a tall man is holding a thin pole. One end of the pole is pointed up in the store’s awning. At the other end, the man holds an L-shaped handle. His hands spin around — faster and faster and faster. The awning goes lower and lower and blocks the afternoon sun from the store’s windows.

I cock my head and squint my eyes, and 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 makes the awning go lower. I assume that if the man turns it the other way, the awning will go up.

“Look,” I say. “Isn’t that cool? That 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 am 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 used to be a pro wrestler. My dad knew him,” Kendall says. “But something happened and he went to prison. I think he killed somebody.”

“Oh. Wow.”

Is this the riffraff that Mama was talking about? He kind of looks like a bum. His clothes look old, but he is apparently “dressed up.” He wears a brown blazer, which has a torn pocket. His jeans are ripped, faded, and stained — but not in a stylish way. The fedora on his head is bent, and it is tipped to the right.

I’ve never seen this giant man before, but Kendall seems to know who he is. As if he could hear us talking about him, the big man turns toward us and stares back at us. His dark eyes pierce mine. Does he know what I’m thinking? Is he reading my mind? He stands still for a couple of minutes, just watching us.

“Creepy,” Kendall says.

I gulp.

“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”