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 3:00 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.” 

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.

“Oh, man! I wanna go up there so bad!” 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 lunar 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. … Maybe I'll get to  go to Skylab, but NASA announced a while back that  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, he says 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."

"Okay, but you also get naked right out in the open, don't you?"

 "Yep. Papa also 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...

Chapter 6

Monday, May 28, 1979

I wake up after a back-breaking night. Apparently, Mama has talked to Aunt Eva about whatever was bothering her, so we are leaving after lunch today. Good thing — I don’t know how much more I can take of her.

We get in the car, and Aunt Eva comes out with us. Putting her hands on her hips, she has one last thing to say to Mama: “Don’t forget what I told you: just stop!”

“Thank you, Eva!” Mama says. “Riley, tell your aunt, ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you, Aunt Eva,” I say with little enthusiasm.

Through the windshield, I see her standing there, staring at us as we back out of the driveway.

We drive down Main Street. It’s Memorial Day, and all of the light poles and storefronts are decked out with American flags. The town looks dead. No stores are open. No one is walking on the sidewalks. No cars are moving. In fact, there’s no one in sight. It’s like a ghost town. We hit the highway, and Mama switches on the radio. She starts humming to the song playing. It’s like a switch has been flipped.

“Are you feeling better now?” I ask her.

“Yes, I am,” she says. “Why do you ask?

“Oh, you weren’t quite yourself before …”

“Hmm, well, there was something I needed to talk to her about. She helped set me straight.”

I laugh at that.

“You’d better be ‘straight,’” I say, “or else she’ll line you up against a wall.”

“Shush, you!” she says, slapping my arm.

“Why is she so mean?” I ask.

“She’s not mean! She just … has her opinions.”

“You and Aunt Eva are so different from each other.”

“How so?”

“Well, she’s so serious. She doesn’t have a sense of humor ... And she has all those rules I had to follow. Why is she like that?”

“Hmm. Our mother liked rules, too. I guess Eva is more like our mother, and I am more like our father. Your Nana hated the antiques and junk that your Papa brought home. When I was growing up, our house was nearly as spotless as Eva’s is.”

“Wow. Is that why his antique store was down in the basement?”

“Well, his last one was there. Before that, he had a store on Bristol Street. And I don’t think Mother ever went to it. He only had the one in his basement after she died.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“I was 10.”

“Wow, that’s how old I was when Papa died.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I miss him.”

“So do I, sweetie. So do I.”

We travel in silence for a few miles. I keep thinking about what they talked about. 

“What was that last thing she said to you?” I ask. “What are you supposed to not forget?”

“Mmm, she thinks I should stop doing something that she thinks isn’t good for me.”

“That’s … vague.”

“I need to talk to your dad about it. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”

“Hmm, okay.”

“Say, tomorrow, why don’t we go downtown and do some shopping?”

“Nooo,” I whine. “I wanna do something with ... my friends.”

“Your friends can wait,” she says.

I scrunch down in the seat and sulk the rest of the way home.

*  *  *

We get home late in the day. Too late to go for a run or a bike ride, too late to do anything. I go outside, sit on a patio chair, and stare up at the stars. I trace constellations with my finger: the Big Dipper … the Little Dipper … Sagittarius … Scorpius …

Sigh. Summer is off to a bad start. I was physically bullied on the last day of school and verbally bullied by someone in my own family. Now I’m wondering if I am “macho” enough for a girl to like me. What does Paige think? Am I macho enough for her? Is Kendall going to spend less time with me because I’m not macho — because I’m not a jock? 

In the privacy of my patio, I take my clothes off. The thing about being nude is that it has always made me “love the skin I’m in.” I did learn “body positivity” from Papa. Being smaller than everyone else has been hard. But when I’m by myself, just me and my body, there’s no one to compare myself to. I feel comfortable and relaxed. Lately, though, I’m not so sure. I look down at my torso, my tummy, my groin, my legs. I’m thin. I’m short. No bulging biceps, no abs, no muscles anywhere. Paige will never like a guy like me, that’s for sure. I shake my head and repeat my mantra: “Body positivity, body positivity.”

I need to stop thinking these things. I take deep breaths. My heartbeat slows. I calm down. I begin to feel at ease. One bit of stress lingers, though. Aunt Eva’s comments still stab at me. She thinks I’m too “artistic.” She thinks I’m a homo. She thinks I’m gay. She thinks I need to be macho. I start singing to myself: “Macho, macho man … I gotta be a macho man … Macho, macho man …” 

That makes me laugh. I stand up and start moving to the music going through my head. 

“Body, want to feel my body …” 

I thrust my hips, swing my arms in front of me, and point my fingers to the sky. 

“Body, such a thrill, my body …” 

I rotate my fists around each other. I jog in place. I twist and turn my body. I jump up and down. I spin and twirl. I even do a cartwheel. How’s that for being macho, Aunt Eva? 

A streak of light flashes across the sky. Wow, it was a falling star! It was probably just a space rock, a meteor. Maybe it was an asteroid! Hey, maybe it was a piece of Skylab! Nah, it wasn’t that. The space station will cause a big fiery ball of flame. That will be a cool thing to see. Whatever it is, I recite:

Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.

I think about it for a minute. I think about Paige. I think about Kendall. I think about Peter Pan. I think about Miss Palomar’s last words to us.

“I wish for something extraordinary to happen this summer.”

Chapter 7

 Tuesday, May 29, 1979

I get up early and go for my morning run. I go about five miles along the river. After I get home, I peel my clothes off and get in the shower. I let the water pour over my puny, scrawny body. Papa Riley — my grandpa — tried to teach me body positivity. “Love the skin you’re in,” he said. But I am not liking my skin these days. Zits are popping up all over my face. My voice cracks — going from high to low with every word I say. I sweat a helluva a lot more than normal lately. Hair is growing everywhere — under my arms, above my lip, over my wiener and on my balls. 

Books have told me to expect “startling changes” when puberty hits. Well, puberty is hitting me. Hard. As in, I get hard all the time. Boners. All the time. What the hell. … My wiener — Oh, that’s a little kid’s name for it. What would be better: my dick? My cock? My pecker? Be proper and call it my penis? I dunno. Hopefully, I’ll never have to talk about it. Anyway, it is getting bigger. My doctor (who’s kinda creepy) said I was an “early bloomer,” whatever that means. I look down at it and wrap my hand around it. It feels so good when I … Well, I’d better take care of my schlong, my dong, my wang, my peter, my prick … right … now … 

*  *  *

Dad is sitting at the kitchen table as I enter the room.

“Morning, kiddo.”

“Morning, Dad.”

He rustles the newspaper — his newspaper, since he’s the editor. Mama is shuffling papers in a kitchen drawer. She slams it shut, opens another, and does the same. What has gotten into her, I wonder. I slide into my chair and pick up the cereal box.

“Hey, listen to this,” Dad says. “‘Skylab will come crashing out of the sky within the next few weeks or months, NASA said. The space agency said the orbital workshop, which had its last mission in 1974, is in a decaying orbit, despite attempts to keep it aloft. NASA could not specify when or where the space station would crash.’”

My eyes light up.

“What do you think about that?” Dad asks.

“Dang!” I say.

“Language!” Mama yells. She is now pulling odds and ends out of yet another drawer.

“Sorry,” I say. “Darn, that sucks. I wanted to go up there someday.”

Dad is well aware of my interest in Skylab and all things above us. He and Mama gave me a telescope for Christmas last year, and he helped me set it up in the back yard. I have a subscription to Astronomy magazine. I watch NOVA on PBS. I’m definitely a space geek.

“Too bad for the astronauts, though,” I say, “but it would be so cool to see it come down.”

“They’ll keep tracking it so they can warn people when it’s coming down.”

“When do you think that’ll be?”

“Well, NASA doesn’t know, but according to this article, I’d guess sometime this summer.”

“Cool, cool,” I say, crunching my cornflakes.

Mama sighs and turns.

“Did you have a nice jog, honey?” she asks.

I glare at her.

“I don’t jog, Mama,” I say. “I run.”

She chortles.

“Oh, what’s the difference?”

“I run very hard, very far, and very seriously. Jogging is, like, just trotting around the block.”

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Did you shower? I don’t want you go shopping all stinky.”

“Of course I did,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

Mama doesn’t take my joy of running very seriously. She thinks it’s a fad I’m going through. She just doesn’t get it. Ever since the Montreal Olympics three years ago, I’ve been hooked on long-distance running. I try to run every morning. Frank Shorter is my hero. He won the gold medal in the marathon in ’72 and the silver medal in ’76. A poster of the mustached marathoner hangs on my bedroom wall next to one of Ace Frehley of KISS.

“Now, Riley, this is the first day of summer, and I know you expect to have fun,” Mama says. “But your dad and I have been talking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He has talked me into letting you roam free. He says this is a safe town, that everyone knows everybody, and nothing will happen to you. …”

“Just don’t go roaming all over,” Dad says. “Stay in the city limits, and if you ever need anything, you know where I’ll be.”

“At the newspaper?” I ask.

He nods. Mama continues.

“There are certain rules, though, young man.”

“I remember. Watch out for traffic ...”

“Yes! For starters. I know you are going to go tearing all over town on your bike. Drivers don’t pay attention to boys on bicycles.”

“Okay, I’ll be careful. What else?”

“You will do your chores. Pick up the trash, clean your room …”

“And we've already talked about you mowing the grass,” Dad says. “For a boost in your allowance, of course.”

“Cha-ching!”

“Just don’t spend it all on comic books,” Mama says.

“Aww! They’re my favorite things!”

“You can buy some — but don’t spend all of your hard-earned money on them.”

“Fine. What else?”

“Don’t talk to strangers. Despite what your father says, there are some shady characters around — bums and riffraff.”

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

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

I think about that big guy downtown, Herk. Kendall called him the town bum. Is that who Mama is talking about?

“I know not to talk to strangers and not to get into strange cars,” I say while smirking. “I’m not a little kid. Anything else?”

“No riding all over town after dark. Make sure you are home before the sun goes down.”

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

“Well, don’t get bitten by a werewolf,” Dad says, smiling.

“A-roo-oo,” I howl.

We all laugh.

Dad gets up and scoots in his chair. “Well, gotta go. The news never stops.”

Mama swirls back around.

“Before you head off, answer me this: have you been into my drawers?”

Dad and I look at each other, smirking.

“Well, hon, do you really want to talk about that in front of our 12-year-old son?”

She scans out faces and realizes what she just said. Her face turns red.

“No, no, no, ha-ha,” she says. “I mean these drawers — the kitchen drawers, my desk drawers …”

“What are you missing?” he says.

She pauses.

“Well, it’s … Oh, never mind. I’ll find it.”

I shake my head.

“Bye, Dad,” I say. “Make good sausage.”

“Will do, buddy boy,” he says, kissing Mama on the cheek. He winks at me and exits through the back door. “Good sausage” is our private joke. He told me journalism — and politics — are messy and complicated. (I guess meat markets are, too.) Everyone complains, but they don’t know what goes into them. Nobody wants to see how the sausage — or laws, or the news — is made.

“We’d better get going, too, Riley,” Mama says. She is still poking into her desk drawers.

“What are you looking for?”

She pauses.

“… A little piece of paper … a newspaper clipping.”

“Well, I haven’t seen it.”

She sighs. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, apparently trying to visualize where the clipping might be.

“It’s got to be here somewhere.”

I’m not surprised she has lost this particular treasure. Mama is a bit of a clutter bug. So much so that I’m embarrassed to bring any friends over. Mama has accumulated many items for her “collections.” She has gathered old plates, porcelain figurines, and salt & pepper shakers. She even has a collection of barbed wire! She has nailed strands of it to a board to display on a wall. Who knew there were so many kinds of barbed wire?

She especially likes old vases. Several shelves of them in all shapes, sizes, and colors line the walls of our family room. Ironically, she hates housework — “Cleaning the house is something to do in a mad frenzy the night before company is coming from out of town.” So, a dust cloth has never touched them. I often swipe my finger across a shelf, leaving a trail. The vases look a bit dingy and dirty. I once picked one up to wipe it clean.

“What are you doing?” Mama shouted.

“I’m wiping it off,” I said. “I’m cleaning off this grimy dust.”

“Well, put it down,” she asserted. “You’re going to drop it!”

I quickly put it back on the shelf. She was furious. I’ve never tried to clean one of her precious vases again. They are still covered with a thick coat of sticky dust. But this is the first time I’ve ever seen her so concerned about a little piece of paper.

I finish my cereal and put the bowl and spoon in the sink.

“Okay, kiddo,” Mama says. “Let’s go buy you some clothes.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “What about your junk shop?”

“My ‘antique store,’ thank you very much!”

I snicker. The name of the store is “Trash & Treasures.” So “junk” is implied.

“I’m taking the day off. Hannah can handle things without me,” she says. “Now, come on, let’s get going.”

“Aargh!” I cry with my fists raised to the ceiling. “When will this hell ever end?”

“A bit overdramatic, don’t you think?” she says with one hand on her hip.

“Maybe so, but I need to practice being dramatic since I’m gonna play a pirate.”

She looks at me with narrow eyes.

“And I don’t care how Aunt Eva feels about it,” I say. 

She looks away.

“Oh, honey …” she says.

Curses! Is Mama planning to make me walk the plank? Is she gonna try to make me change course and alter my summer plans? She seems to be embarking on acts of sabotage. Of that, I am absolutely certain. First, a trip to the miserable land of Eva, and now a useless excursion to the center of town. My summer of destiny will never get started at this rate.

We drive downtown. It’s a nice, cool morning, and we roll down the windows. As I look out, I see the sun shining brightly, its light fluttering through the tree branches. A soft breeze blows through the leaves of the giant elms that arc over Elm Avenue. 

“Psithurism,” I say.

“What?” Mama asks. “Did you say, ‘zitherism’?”

“Yes,” I answer. “It’s a word that describes the whispering sound that the wind makes when it rustles the leaves of the trees.”

“Oh, honey, you are such a nerd,” Mama says.

Wow, did my own mother just call me a nerd? Swell. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s true, and I admit it: I am a nerd — a word nerd. Dad and I found out I could read when I was 3. While sitting in his lap, I began reading a newspaper article out loud. 

“Stella!” he called. “Come see what Riley can do!”

He and Mama were both astonished. I didn’t see anything big about it. It just came naturally to me. Only later did I learn about spelling and grammar and phonics. Since then, I have liked to learn new words. 

I continue to stare up at the trees as we pass them. The swaying limbs convey waves of welcome. If I were riding my bike under the canopy, the whispering boughs would bow to me, too. Branches would beckon me toward the fairgrounds, and the woods beyond would open up for exploration. Past the grove, the river below the dam would flow gently, encouraging swimming. Mother Nature is enticing me, but Mother Shrader is making me decline the invitation. No RSVP from me.

Mama does seem to be in a better mood. She continues to hum along to the songs on the radio. Her visit with Aunt Eva must have helped. I hope it stays that way. Her moods flicker back and forth. Sometimes, she is all happy and laughing with me, and then something changes, and she scolds me for the slightest offense. I never know which end of the spectrum I’ll find her in.

When she’s all happy and everything, Mama has a bit of a wild streak. And I like that. During those times, her motto ought to be “Life is an adventure.” Because she hates doing housework, we often jump in the car and take off to get a cheeseburger and an ice cream cone, or just drive around town. Apparently, that’s what we are doing today. Maybe she’s trying to make up for the boring couple of days I just had. She pulls into a spot at the Western Trails Drive-In Restaurant on the south end of town. 

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Not sure,” I say. 

We look over the menu board. There are some new choices: the Get-a-Long Little Dogie, a foot-long hot dog; the Vaya con Dios burger, which comes with jalapeños; and the Happy Trail, a burger topped with curly onions and a wiener. Mama orders the Best of the West burger — two beef patties, cheese, onions, tomato, lettuce, and a slice of avocado. I don’t know where she puts it all. Mama is thin, but she can always eat a lot of food in one sitting. I’m not very hungry — I did just eat breakfast, after all. I get the Dude Ranch — a grilled chicken patty with ranch dressing and coleslaw. 

“Look at all the cool kids,” she says, looking around the drive-in. 

Since it’s Tuesday, business is slow, and I don’t spot anyone I know. Of course, no one I know drives. Maybe I just don’t know any “cool kids.” I am a nerd, after all.

We eat and then start dragging Main. 

“I did this when I was your age,” she has said. I’ve always wondered about that. She repeatedly drove up and down Main Street when she was 12? I doubt it.

“Honk if you’re horny,” she says, honking the horn and giggling.

My eyes grow wide. What has gotten into her? She is in a really good mood!

She looks around for anyone she might know. Who is she looking for, I wonder. 

“Brakes!” I yell.

We nearly ram into the back of a car. 

“Don’t tell your daddy,” she says. I won’t, but I get the feeling there’s a lot she doesn’t tell Dad.

We go through downtown and drive past J.P. Barnard’s Department Store, Sanders’ Gas & Oil, Curley’s Lotsa Lasagna Diner, and the bank. We go clear to the north end of Main Street, where there’s a fork in the road. Go left to take the state highway to St. Augustine and Butler City. Go right to enter Lagoon Park. With a large lagoon (duh!), the park has a circular drive. You can loop around it and do the drag circuit again. And again. And again. In my opinion, dragging Main gets monotonous. We go through the park and head back downtown. Mama cranks up the volume on the radio when a song she likes comes on, “It’s My Party.”

I roll my eyes. 

“How about we listen to something a little more modern,” I say.

“The driver gets to choose the music,” she says. 

She likes the songs that she listened to when she was a girl, and I hardly ever get to hear any songs that I like. She tips her head toward me and starts dramatically mouthing,

“You would cry, too, if it happened to you …”

Her eyes twinkle. She winks at me. Though her erratic driving worried me earlier, I find myself enjoying her antics. Inevitably, she wins me over, and I join the sing-along. With the windows rolled down, we cruise down Main Street and croon as loudly as we can.

“My boyfriend's back, and you're gonna be in trouble.
Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend's back.”

We laugh and laugh. As we pass other cars, the people in them look over and shake their heads at us. A few give us a thumbs-up. We laugh some more. It’s a good time, I’ll have to admit. When a particular song comes on, though, Mama changes her tune. She doesn’t sing along to this one.

"Teen angel, can you hear me?
Teen angel, can you see me?
Are you somewhere up above,
and am I still your own true love?

Just 16 and now you’re gone;
They’ve taken you away.
I’ll never kiss your lips again.
They buried you today.

Mama grasps the steering wheel tightly. She is shedding tears. I get that it’s a really sad song. But why does it make her cry?

“Are you okay, Mama?” I ask.

She wipes her nose.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “This song, though, reminds me of … never mind.”

Mama grew up in this town, and sometimes, we take little tours of it. Today, we drive by the same places that we have passed several times over the years. She points to a building along the way. “There’s your Papa’s old diner,” she says wistfully. “He served the best chicken-fried steak.” 

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that,” I say, nodding my head sarcastically.

As we pass by an abandoned storefront, she informs me, “That’s where your Papa’s first antique store was.”

“Hmm, you don’t say,” I say, as if I had never known that fact before. “That’s amazing!”

“You are such a stinker,” she says, slapping my arm.

I am named after my Mama’s father, sort of. My first name, Riley, was his last name. He was famous in these parts. He was the town’s mayor for many years. A plaque on the bridge south of town says the span is named after him. So, me and the bridge have the same name. Ha-ha!

He was very popular. When Papa was a county agent, he knew all the farmers, and they helped get him elected. Before that, he held all sorts of jobs. When he was about 24 or 25, he worked as a National Park ranger, which explains his love of camping. Later on, he managed the town’s Rookie League baseball team — back when we had one. A few of his players went on to play in the major leagues. He also owned a diner, which, according to Mama, served the best chicken-fried steak. That all happened before I was born. When I knew him, he was an antiques dealer.

According to Mama, “When my daddy entered a shop, he would gauge the value of an item and start dickering with the owner. He would wear him down and get a lower price. He knew how to get a good deal.”

Papa’s last store — the one in his basement, the one he died in! — was north of town on the state highway. Travelers passing by were attracted by the colorful neon sign that said, “Riley’s Curiosities.” (I wish I had that sign, but it was lost a long time ago. Oh well.) Many of his customers dickered with him over prices, and they thought they were getting a good deal. Papa would chuckle as he rang up the sale on his old cash register. 

“There’s a sucker born, et cetera, et cetera,” he would say, emphasizing each syllable. “Cha-ching!”

It was in Papa’s basement that I discovered I like to open boxes, drawers, and glass cases to see the valuables inside. It was there that I found the greatest treasure ever. A broken, stained cardboard box revealed to me a stack of old comic books — Batman, Spider-Man, Superman, Journey Into Mystery, Archie & Jughead, Donald Duck, and many more. I heard an angels’ choir as I flipped open the flaps and thumbed through the issues. I was hooked, and I have been reading them ever since. 

My favorite superhero is Superman. I like the Man of Steel. He has the best powers, the best villains, and the best secret origin — rocketed to Earth when his home planet exploded. A kindly old couple took him in and taught him to be humble and brave. And then, they tragically died. He disguised himself so he could live among us mere mortals. He protects the world from evildoers and fights for truth and justice. The movie that came out a couple of years ago was excellent. Kendall and I have seen it about 10 times. We can’t wait for the sequel, which comes out in a couple of months. When Mama saw me reading an issue of Action Comics, she told me that Papa was her Superman.

“He helped a lot of people — when they needed money or a ride or a place to stay,” she said. “He was quite the hero.”

Mama likes to follow in the footsteps of her father — as an antiques collector. She opened her antiques store a few years ago. We go to lots of yard sales, garage sales, estate sales and auctions. She will pick up any gimcrack, gizmo, and gewgaw that catches her eye. She will turn it around and flip it over to see all sides. She will look at the bottom, peer inside it, and bounce it in her arms to judge its weight. 

Except for vases and barbed wire, most of what she finds at sales ends up in her shop. Unfortunately, she does not have Papa’s knack for knick-knacks. Most of what she buys and sells isn’t worth much. 

“It’s mostly junk,” Dad once said quietly to me. 

She brought home an old typewriter — “You can learn to type,” she told me. I tried, but it was a challenge, let me tell you. The shift key would randomly switch to uppercase mode, so WRitIng LoOked LiKE tHis. 

She bought a coffee maker with the words on the buttons rubbed off, so you didn’t know if you were switching it on or setting the time. And she got me a Batman board game with most of the pieces missing. Riddle me this, Batman: How can I get to the Batcave with no Batmobile pieces?

After our town tour, Mama is all business. We have several errands to run, including dropping off some clothes at the dry cleaners. She is particular about Dad’s shirts.

“No starch, please, Evelyn,” she says. “And see if this stain will come out, could you?”

“I’ll see what we can do, Stella,” Evelyn replies.

Mama seems to know everyone in town. At some places, she gets into long conversations. She and the bank teller, her friend Brenda, chat and chat over the intercom at the bank’s drive-through window. Brenda pops two peppermint candies into the vacuum canister. Mama hands one to me. I take it and pop it into my mouth. I’m not a fan of peppermint, but hey — it’s free candy!

We go to the hardware store. The owner, Jim Perkins, walks over to us.

“What can I do for you today, Stella?”

“I need to look at some color samples,” she says.

He leads us to the paint department.

“Here you go,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks, Jim,” she says. “Tell Phyllis that I’m thinking about her and that I’ll call her.”

“I will,” he says. “She’s going through a lot right now.”

“I know, Jim. I’m praying for her,” she responds.

“That poor woman,” Mama whispers to me after he leaves. “Cancer.”

She gets several paint sample cards. Then, we go over to the lumber section and look at different varieties of wood. Evidently, she is on a recon mission to gather intel for future projects. Someday, she will paint a chair; someday, she will build another shelf for more vases. Today, she isn’t buying anything.

At the pharmacy, she picks up a prescription refill. At the shoe store, I try on some shoes because my feet have suddenly gotten huge — two sizes bigger than last year. Riley needs a new pair of shoes, baby! I take a gamble and slip on some cool running shoes — red Pumas. 

“Can we get these, please?” I plead. 

“Not today,” she says. “But your birthday is coming up in a couple of months, so …”

Score! 

We keep going from store to store. No matter where we are shopping, or “just browsing, thank you,” she always wants my opinion.

“This is cute. Riley, what do you think?” she asks in Barnard’s Department Store as she considers a mailbox shaped like a cow.

“I dunno,” I say, shaking my head. This shopping trip is taking way too long. I just want to get it over with. She puts it back and moves down the aisle to the next item that catches her eye. 

Barnard’s is our town’s biggest store. It’s huge — a whole block wide. On the first floor, they sell a lot of cheap stuff, like cow-shaped mailboxes, plastic picture frames, and novelty pens and pencils. Go up the escalator to the second floor, and you’ll find kitchen items, bed linens, and clothes. Their newspaper ads say they have “all the latest styles in all the latest sizes.” Of course, I don’t get to examine anything that interests me, like an action figure, a board game, or even a book. If I could look at them like she looks at her things, it would make this shopping trip worthwhile.

We could have just gone to the store, bought my clothes, and gone home. But no. Mama is making sure we cover it wall-to-wall and floor-to-floor. She looks at towels for the kitchen, blouses for herself, and shirts for Dad. To make matters worse, I am her designated purse-holder. Whenever she needs to look at something closely, she hands me her pocketbook. 

I sigh and take it. I read that once upon a time, a pocketbook was a small bag, like a backpack, that was used for carrying — books! Mama’s pocketbook, though, is huge. It’s the size of my bed pillow. It has long straps and several zippered compartments and flaps. I have no idea what is in it — I doubt it contains any books. I hate holding it. Not only is it heavy — it is a ladies’ purse! The possibility of being caught in the act of carrying it horrifies me. What if my friends see me? I’ll never live it down.

“Hey, Wile E. Coyote, what’s in your purse?” I hear, as the very thing I am dreading happens.

Chapter 8

I turn around, and there is Kendall. He is smirking — but he is also carrying a purse! Mama and his mother, Fran, start chatting. Kendall and I wander down an aisle by ourselves.

“None of your bees’ wax,” I reply. “What do you have in yours, ‘Ken-doll’ — your balls?”

I guffaw. My friend’s nickname comes from Barbie’s anatomically neutered boyfriend. Guys razz him about his supposed lack of gonads. I join in on the teasing, but he doesn’t really deserve the grief. I know that he has balls. I’ve seen them — we’ve gone skinny-dipping. One time, Dad, who has never seen them, said that Kendall must have “big balls” to act up like he does sometimes. That observation puzzled me because, to me, they looked normal-sized. (By the way, I got my nickname when a kid in first grade couldn’t pronounce his “Rs” when saying my name.) 

“Hey, how was your trip to your aunt’s?” Kendall asks, ignoring my question.

“Unh,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. “Hey, so, are you still sore about me putting you in a headlock?”

“No, don’t worry about it,” I say.

“Well, I know you don’t like that. … Dougie Walters was picking on you the other day. He does that a lot, doesn’t he?”

 “He was squeezing my hand really hard to see how much pain I could take. When I asked him if he was holding my hand because he was a homo, he let go right away.”

“Ha! Good one! Well, he’s a butthole. Let me know if he bugs you again. I’ll take care of him.”

“You’ll knock his block off?”

“Damn straight, I will!”

I laugh. I guess it’s cool that Kendall is still worried about me. He has appointed himself my guardian angel and often comes to my rescue. He has stepped in and pulled Dougie Walters off me several times. And Dougie isn’t the only one who pesters me. When Kendall saw Anson Daugherty giving me a noogie, he ran up and pulled him off of me. He reached into the back of his pants, grabbed his underwear, and gave him an atomic wedgie. 

I am grateful for Kendall’s protection, but I hope he will train me so I can take care of things my own way. Right now, I’m smart, and I can usually talk, joke, or insult my way to safety. I need to be able to keep the assholes off me because, in the fall, Kendall won’t always be around. We will be going to different classes and activities. I will be going to band class and French club, and Kendall will be focused on football and wrestling. It will be a different world for both of us.

“Hey, you wanna work out or go ride bikes later?” he asks, as he swings his mother’s purse from side to side.

“Yeah, if we ever get outta here,” I say, rolling my eyes.

We shake our heads in mutual misery. Soon, Kendall and his mom go to another section of the store. Mama turns and holds out three pairs of jeans.

“Go try these on,” she says. “You’ll need them this summer. You’re ripping your jeans to shreds.”

Ugh. I hate trying on pants. Even if they fit around my waist, they’re always too long, and Mama has to shorten the hems. And it’s summer. I’m not gonna be wearing jeans in the heat. I don’t see why I need new ones. My current jeans, when I wear them, are comfortable. They may have holes in the knees, but so what? — it’s air-conditioning! And I don’t need the right back pocket — I am left-handed, after all! 

Mama waves toward the back of the store, so I take the jeans from her, and we head in that direction. As we reach the fitting rooms, Mama asks, “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“No!” I say vehemently. She laughs; she’s joking. When I was a mere child, Mama did go into fitting rooms with me! She stopped doing that soon after Dad walked into my bedroom while I was changing clothes. I was bare-ass naked, and he looked me up and down and then told me that dinner was ready. Since then, he and Mama always knock before coming into my room. They must have decided that I needed more privacy. 

I slide the curtain closed, making sure there are no gaps where she can peek in. I take off my shorts and stand in front of the mirror. In my Superman T-shirt and red briefs, I flex one spindly arm and raise the other above my head like I am flying. 

“Up, up, and away!” I mouth to myself.

Next, I put up karate hands and make a judo kick. Then, I thrust out my scrawny chest, put my fists on my hips, and recite the lines in my head: “… fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and the American way!” 

Oh yeah. I’m a superhero!

I put down my arms and sigh. I stare into my eyes in the mirror. I’m not super. Not at all. Despite Papa’s encouragement, more and more, I am not loving the skin that I’m in. I need more muscles. I need more strength. Maybe Aunt Eva is right — I need to be more macho. Kendall does have to protect me and fight off the bullies. I’ve only won one fight in my life — and I’ve regretted it ever since.

*  *  *

Last year, I “beat up” Wesley Hess. At the time, it seemed to be for a good reason. I learned later that it was not.

He and I were not friends — we still aren’t. In fact, nobody is his friend. He has always been a pest. He is a major tattletale who will tell the teachers who was talking when her back was turned, who was shooting spitballs, and who was passing notes. 

He is also a smart aleck. He thinks he knows everything. A couple of months ago, when I was giving an oral report on the Tyrannosaurus rex, he kept interrupting me. 

“T. rex could not turn his arms,” he claimed. “He just held them there in front of him, like claws.”

I wanted him to shut up. I corrected him.

“In fact, T. rex could rotate its hand inward and upward so that the palm would face its chest,” I clarified. “That made it easier to bring its prey in closer for a bite.”

I illustrated it with my own arms. I raised my hands, palms up, fingers pointed like claws. I brought them to my chest. At the last minute, I put four claws down and left the middle claw up. The whole class saw me flip off Wesley, and everyone cracked up. Luckily, the teacher didn’t see it from her angle. 

At recess, when choosing teams, nobody ever wants Wesley. He is usually the last man standing when sides are chosen. (Luckily, thanks to Kendall, more often than not, I am picked earlier.) Over the years, no one ever wanted to teeter-totter with Wesley, or swing on the swings with him, or go on the merry-go-round with him. He has spent most of his playground time alone — or he has chased after the girls. They have run from him, turned on him, and yelled, “Leave me alone, you little weasel!” And that’s how he got his nickname: Wesley the Weasel. His big ears and big teeth also have something to do with it.

Wesley and I got into it because he was pestering Mindy Graham. Mindy liked me, and I sort of liked her, too, I guess. Our relationship mainly consisted of walking together around the outer edge of the playground, far away from the prying eyes of our classmates. 

I didn’t mind. At the time, the other boys were into playing Smear the Queer. I did not want to run around trying to catch the boy with the ball and piling onto him. I certainly did not want to be on the bottom of that pile. Walking around with Mindy was a better alternative than getting smeared. Or being called a queer.

Mindy liked to chatter. She went on and on about cousins and cats. She tried to cast magic spells and invoke fairies. She wanted a pony. One day, her favorite color was scarlet; the next, it was fuchsia. She talked and talked and talked. At one point, I seriously considered joining the boys, but she insisted that we hold hands, so there was no getting away from her.

In class one day, we were sitting beside each other on the sofa in the reading zone. Mindy was as pleased as punch. When the teacher left the room to check on something, Mindy leaned over, took my head in her hands, turned it to hers, and kissed me right on the lips. The class went wild. The kids whistled and hollered. The teacher rushed back into the room to find out what was going on. Tattletale Wesley told the teacher all about what had happened. 

The teacher looked at me sternly.

“Riley Shrader, keep your hands — and your lips — to yourself,” she scolded.

I was so embarrassed. Why was she blaming me? It was Mindy’s doing; I was an innocent victim. However, I was the class hero for a couple of hours. So that was good. But it did not last. At recess, Wesley started chanting: 

“Riley and Mindy
Sittin’ in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love,
Then comes marriage
Then comes Junior
In a baby carriage.” 

Other kids joined in. I hated it. I didn’t love Mindy. I didn’t want to marry her. I certainly didn’t want to have a baby with her. Mindy, though, loved the attention. 

After the infamous kiss, Wesley chased Mindy around the playground, trying to get her to give him a smooch. One day, he managed to sit next to her on the reading sofa. Wesley smirked as he glanced over at me and draped his arm around her shoulder. Mindy shrugged in an attempt to get him to remove his arm. She looked across the room at me, arching her eyebrows while darting her eyes at Wesley. Did she think I was going to do something about it? Mindy was quite the drama queen. 

After school that day, Wesley was waiting for me on the playground. He had his hands on his hips. We were both scrawny, but he was a bit taller than me. He did indeed look like a weasel with those pointed ears and those teeth that poked out over his bottom lip.

“Hey, Shrimp,” he said. “Mindy is my girlfriend. Leave her alone.”

“I don’t think she knows that, Weasel,” I said. “She thinks she’s my girlfriend.”

He walked over and punched me in the shoulder. It barely hurt. I looked at my shoulder and then up at him. Was this happening? Was he going to fight me for Mindy’s affections? Other kids started crowding around us, chanting, “Fight! Fight! FIGHT!” He took another swing at me. I saw it coming and swerved. He missed. 

He lunged at me and wrapped his arms around my torso. He was trying to take me down. “Fight! Fight! FIGHT!” continued. Oh, great. Now, I have to prove to the crowd — and to myself — that I am not a wuss. Well, if I must, I must. 

I had learned a thing or two from my bullies, so I thrust my arms up and broke his hold on me. I wrapped one arm around his head and took him to the ground. I sat on him and held his arms down as he squirmed under me. 

It felt good to be on top of the situation. It felt good to be in control. It was the opposite of what I was used to. I could do whatever I wanted, and he couldn’t stop me. Borrowing another example from my bullying experiences, I hawked a loogie. It started to slowly dribble toward his face. 

Then, a car drove up, and out jumped Wesley’s mother!

“Get off my son!” she shouted.

I sucked up my spit and looked down at him. His eyes were wide open. He looked very afraid. In that instant, I caught a mental image of myself in that position. Do my eyes look like that when I am peering up at bullies? Do I look that scared? … This was not what I intended to do, I thought to myself. I don’t even care that much about Mindy. 

I suddenly felt sorry for Wesley. True, he had no friends. Nobody liked him. He was a pest. He was also bullied a lot, maybe even more than I was. I knew what that was like. I guess he didn’t deserve what I was doing to him. I patted his cheek, got up, and helped him to his feet. Wesley got in his mother’s car. Looking out the passenger window, he stuck out his tongue at me. I stood there and watched them drive off. That was that, I thought. No harm done.

That night, Dad took a phone call, and I could only hear him say, “Uh-huh,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll talk to him.” After he hung up, he shouted, “Riley! Get in here!”

I walked into the kitchen, and Dad was sitting at the table with his arms crossed. I didn’t like Dad’s expression. He didn’t look happy. He was usually smiling; he liked to tell jokes. This was not a joking occasion.

“I understand that you beat someone up today,” he said. “Want to tell me about it?”

“Well,” I said hesitantly. “I knocked down Wesley the Weasel. But I didn’t ‘beat him up.’”

I made quotation marks with my fingers.

“His mother got there, and they took off in their car.”

Also making quotation marks, Dad asked, “So, you would have ‘beaten him up’ if you had had the chance?”

“I … I … maybe. I dunno,” he had me on that technicality. Would I have beaten him up? Would I have let him have it? Knocked his socks off? Taken him to pound town?

“I don’t know. I guess, maybe?” I said. “But I didn’t want to fight him. He made me! He started it! He kept picking on Mindy, and I was trying to make him stop it.”

“Who’s Mindy?” he asked.

“She’s a friend.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Were you defending her honor?” he said, with his eyes twinkling.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Were you sticking up for her? Was he being disrespectful? Were you righting a wrong?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Yes, that’s what I was doing. … So, you’re not mad at me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “Violence is never the answer. Never, ever fight anyone — unless you have a really good reason. Only fight if you are defending yourself, or if you are protecting someone else, or if you are coming to someone’s rescue. But even then, be careful and think about what you’re doing.”

Dad’s double standard confused me. Don’t fight — unless you have to? I stayed silent. 

“Now, as punishment, your teacher is going to make you stay indoors for recess for a week.”

“Oh,” I shrugged. “The boys are playing Smear the Queer at recess, so I don’t care.”

Dad sighed. Then he looked at me with squinted eyes.

“What was that name you called Wesley Hess?” he asked.

“Um, ‘Wesley the Weasel,’” I said. “It’s what everyone calls him.”

“Why do they call him that?” Dad asked.

“Oh, he has big ears that are sort of pointed, like a weasel’s. And big teeth that stick out over his bottom lip.”

I used my hands to illustrate Wesley’s ears and teeth. As I envisioned him, I giggled. But seeing Dad’s stern face, I quickly stopped.

“Let me ask you something, Riley,” Dad started. “Do you like it when someone calls you ‘Shorty’ or ‘Shrimp’?”

“No. No, I don’t,” I replied.

“Why not?” Dad asked. “You are short, aren’t you? Why shouldn’t someone call you that?”

I considered the reasons.

“Well, it’s a mean thing to say,” I said. “It’s nothing I can do anything about. I’m not going to suddenly start growing taller.”

“Can Wesley help it that his ears are big and that he has an overbite?” Dad asked.

“No, he can’t,” I said.

“Riley, never make fun of someone for something they can’t do anything about,” Dad said. “It makes you the bully.”

“Oh! Okay,” I said.

So, I guess I learned my lesson. Wesley and I still hate each other, though.

*  *  *

Mama calls from the hallway, “Honey, how do they fit? Do you need me to come in and help?”

“No!” I shout, as I snap out of my daydream. I pull on one of the pairs of jeans. 

“Come out and let me see,” she calls again.

I slide back the curtain and almost knock her down because she is so close. She spins me around and puts her sharp-nailed fingers inside the waistband — I hate that — and then she checks the length. 

“Oh, you’re growing so much taller — and wider,” she laments. “You’re not going to be my little boy for much longer. Okay, try on the others.”

I roll my eyes and go back into the changing room. I go through the fitting ritual two more times — minus the superhero poses. Mama decides the first pair fits best, so I guess I had to do all that rigamarole for nothing. I roll my eyes again. I am relieved that this ordeal is over. Maybe I will still be able to do something fun.

As we leave Barnard’s, I look up toward the sun. It’s still shining bright and strong. I can tell that it is now afternoon. Ugh. It was early morning when we started shopping. I sigh. The day is wasting away! When would we be finished? I brush the hair out of my eyes — hoping Mama won’t notice that I need a haircut — and look down the street. 

I see Herk washing a store window. Mama sees him, too.

“Oh!” she says. “I didn’t know he was back in town.”

“You know who that is?” I ask. “You know Herk?”

“Yes, I know who Herk is,” she answers.

“Where has he been?” I ask.

“He has been … wandering. I guess you could say, ‘bumming around.’ I heard that he was in Warrenton, or was it Butler City ... But now he’s back.”

She continues to squint at the giant man.

“Now, Riley, I want you to stay away from him.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, some bad things have happened to him, and his life is … not so good. … Come on, we have more shopping to do.”

Despite her admonition, as we walk, we aren’t staying away from him. We’re getting closer. I get a better look at him. Herk is a big man — not fat, really, just tall and wide — a giant. Under the hat, his face is broad, and his nose is flat. I think it might have been broken at some point. He could use a shave, and he is missing a couple of teeth. I can see the gaps because he smiles at everyone who walks past him. His toothless smile creeps me out. There’s no joy in it. It’s almost a sneer. It’s … sinister, as if he knows something dark and dreadful that no one else does, like some hidden secret.

“Hello, Mr. Albertson,” he says. “How do you do, Miss Jenkins?”

He tips his hat and greets all. Few people smile back, and most avert their eyes. Everyone steers clear of him. They make wide circles around him as they walk past. They are all trying to avoid him. 

As Mama and I come closer, he tips his hat out of habit. Then, their eyes meet. His smile goes away. His face grows dark. His chin sinks into his collar. I look up at Mama. Her eyes are locked on his. He looks deep into her eyes. Remarkably, his left eye is blue, and his right eye is green. Heterochromia, that’s what that is. A difference of coloration in the irises. 

Mama’s lips are pursed. I know that expression well. She makes it whenever I do something that irritates her. The mood on the street grows tense. Neither of them says a word. She grabs my arm and pulls me into a store. I turn my head and keep looking at him. Herk stands there, saying nothing. His mouth opens as if he were about to say something. His bicolor eyes bore into me. Herk frowns and stares at me long and hard until the doors close.