Chapter 2

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

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

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

“You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine.

You make me happy

When skies are gray.

You’ll never know, dear,

How much I love you.

Please don’t take 

My sunshine away.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my teacher, my friends —”

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

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

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

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

“Hmm. Okay …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

“Hey, man,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

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

“Wha’s happenin’?” I ask.

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

“About what?”

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

“Uh-huh. What did he ream you about?”

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

“Mm-hmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Screw you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll get it,” I say. “My treat.”

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

“Hah. You wish,” I say. 

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

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

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

“Yep, that’s me,” I say.

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

“Who’s your sister?” I ask.

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

“Oh. Hi, Melody.”

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

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

“Order something, Romeo,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

“They do for me,” he says.

“Whatever floats your boat,” I say.

“Same to you, wise guy!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut the hell up,” he says.

I laugh.

“So! Paige, huh?” he says.

I lick my ice cream.

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

“Are you gonna call her?”

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

“Yeah? You should.”

“Do you know Melody?”

“No, I don’t.”

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

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

“Yeah, I think so.”

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

“Ha-ha! Yeah, you should.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t stare at him, Riley,” he says.

“Why? Who is he?”

“That’s Herk,” he says. 

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

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

“Oh. Wow.” 

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

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

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

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

“Beats me.”

“Let’s get out of here.”