Chapter 3

I arrive home at the same time as Mama. She works part-time at the bank, and her shift ends in the early afternoon.

“Must be nice to have banker’s hours,” Dad has teased.

Yes, I still call her “Mama.” (I call my dad “Dad, and my grandpa “Papa.” I don’t know why; that’s just the way it is.) She insists on it. “Only you can call me ‘Mama,’” she once asserted. “It’s your special name for me.” So, I’ve called her Mama ever since I learned to talk. But as I’m getting older, it’s getting embarrassing. All of my friends call their mothers “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.

Mama and I get along okay. Some of my friends tell me their mothers — and fathers — are evil tyrants who rule the roost with an iron hand. My parents, though, are different. We like to have fun. Dad and I swap jokes, and we talk about movies, comic books, science, and all sorts of things. We go for walks, and he will soak up the sun with me, both of us without any clothes. Mama, not a nudist, takes me with her on her errands. I always ride shotgun, and we talk and sometimes we sing along with the songs in the radio. We go all over town to garage sales and estate auctions. It’s usually a good time. 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, too. When I had the flu, she wiped my forehead to keep me cool and swaddled 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.”

She pours us both a glass of iced tea and we sit down at the kitchen table for our afternoon chat. We do this every day, and it’s a nice time. We have had some good discussions in the past.

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

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

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

“Yeah, I doubt if Kendall and I will do much shopping,” I say.

“I’m sure you won’t,” she chuckles. “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.

“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 sip from my glass of iced tea and look at Mama. She had recently become a bit too interested in whether I had 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.

Girls are ... interesting, I suppose. Some of them are cute. Some of them say I’m cute. Paige Whitson comes to mind; she is definitely cute. Maybe I’ll ask her to go to Sunflower Days with me, but that’s a couple of months away.

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

“Hmm. You and he spend a lot of time together, don’t you?” she says.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend,” I answer. “Like you and Luna were.”   

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

“What?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s rude and not very polite,” she says. “I think he takes after his father.”

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

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

“Now, Riley, I know you expect to have fun this summer,” she says. “But remember what your dad and I talked about.”

“Yeah, yeah” I say.

My parents have loosened the leash to some extent. They told me that now that I’m 12 years old, as long as I don’t do anything stupid, I am allowed to come and go as I please this summer. There are some rules attached, but they trust me “to do what’s right,” they said.

“Now, listen!” she orders. “For starters, watch out for traffic. I know you are going to be tearing all over town on your bikes. Drivers don’t pay attention to boys on bicycles.”

“Okay, we’ll be careful,” I say. “What else?”

“I don’t want you spending all of your allowance on those comic books,” she demands.

“Aww!” I whine. “Those are my favorite things to read!”

“You can buy some, but as I said, don’t spend all your money on them.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Don’t talk to strangers. There are some shady characters around — bums and riffraff.”

“Bums and riffraff?” I exclaim. “Our little town has riffraff?”

“Yes,” she answers. “Stay away from them.”

“Okay. I know not to talk to strangers and not to get into strange cars,” I say while smirking. “Anything else?”

“And no riding all over town after dark,” she says. “Make sure you are home before the sun goes down.”

“Dun-dun-dun! … That’s something they say in horror movies,” I remark.

“Well, just don’t get bitten by a werewolf,” Mama replies, smiling.

“A-roo-oo,” I howl.

 

*   *   *

 

I leave the house and head outside. I walk next door to Kendall’s back yard. My friend and next-door neighbor is sitting in a swing, waiting for me. I sit in the other swing.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

We have outgrown the swing set, but it’s still our meeting point. 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 tirade,” he says. “He was working at home after a bunch of client meetings.”

“Hmm. What was his tirade about?” I ask as if I didn’t know.

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

“Mm-hmm,” I say.

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 give him a soft punch in the arm.

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

“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 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?”

She and I were supposed to count fruit flies to determine their mating habits or 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, or we didn’t seal the bottle tightly, and the flies escaped. Or the flies didn’t seem to be reproducing.

We giggled whenever we talked about reproduction. 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.

“Yep,” I say as I lift my feet and go into a spinning swirl. “I wonder if she’ll want to hang out at Sunflower Days.”

“Oh,” Kendall nods. He stared 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.

When we’re alone, though, 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: I’m going to travel the world; he’s going 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.”

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 wonder if 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, 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 a small wad of dollar bills.

“I’ll get it,” I say. “My treat.”

“Ooh, 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 we 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? That’s an old-lady 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! 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 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 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.

“So,” Kendall says. “Paige, huh?”

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

“Are you gonna call her?” he asks.

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

“Yeah? You should.”

“Do you know Melody?” I ask him.

“No, I don’t,” he replies.

“She knew who you were,” I say. “Maybe she likes you.”

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

“Yeah, I guess so,” I say.

“Hmm. Maybe I’ll have to get some more ice cream — to get the scoop!”

“Ha-ha!” I say. “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 bookstore’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. 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’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 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.”

Was he the riffraff that Mama was talking about? He kind of looks like a bum. His clothes look old, but he has apparently “dressed up.” He wears a brown blazer, which has a torn pocket. His jeans are ripped, faded, and stained. The fedora on his head is bent, and it is tipped to the right.

I have 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. Did he hear us talking about him? He just stands there watching us for a couple of minutes.

“Creepy,” Kendall says.

I gulp.

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