“We all have something we’re embarrassed about,” Lovie said. “Afraid to let other people know about. In case they laugh.”
“Yeah,” Macon said.
Lovie took a deep breath, then looked at Macon. “I know what that feels like”—she paused to twiddle with her sea turtle necklace again—“to feel embarrassed.”
Macon furrowed his brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”
She shifted her body and looked down at her flip-flops, which were coated with sand. “I have a secret. But I don’t want to have a secret between us.”
Macon sat quietly, listening.
“My daddy…” She paused. “Not my real daddy, but my biological father,” she explained. She paused again to bite her lip. “He’s in prison.”
Macon’s chin dropped. “Really? For how long?”
“A long time. Since I was in kindergarten.”
“That’s tough,” said Macon softly.
“Yeah. Everyone at school knows. I’m that girl. The one with the bad dad. I hear them talking about me behind my back.”
“How come you never told us?” Macon asked.
“Why didn’t you tell us you couldn’t swim?” she asked.
“Yeah, okay. I get it,” Macon said.
“Your mom told us about what happened to you when you were little,” I said to Macon. “How you almost drowned.”
His eyes widened with surprise. “She did? When?”
“We went to your house looking for you and she told us,” Lovie said. “That had to be so scary.”
Macon nodded. “I still remember that day,” he said. “I had on green swim trunks, my favorite. They had these little frogs all over them.” He leaned back on his arms. “It was weird being underwater and looking up and seeing blurry colors above me. I kept kicking and reaching, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get out. My chest hurt. Then, in a flash, this lifeguard was yanking me out of the water. I remember my mom’s face. She was screaming and crying.” He shook his head. “That’s what scared me the most.”
“You almost drowned…” The words fell out of my mouth.
“Yeah,” Macon said, and blew out a plume of air. “It gave me nightmares for a long time.”
“But you’re not scared now, are you?” I asked.
“No,” Macon said quickly. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You could learn how to swim now. You can learn right here. At Huyler House,” said Lovie.
Macon looked up from his shoes at her. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she told him, filled with the excitement of a fisherman who hooked a fish. “They have classes.”
“Isn’t it kind of babyish? I mean, I don’t want to be the big kid in a class with a bunch of four-year-olds.”
Lovie replied quickly. “There’s hardly anyone in the class. I mean, we’re the only kids. This is our island, remember? Who’s to watch? Your mom said she’d like it if you could swim. She’d feel better about you living around all this water.”
“She did?” he asked.
Lovie said, reeling him in, “You’ll learn how to swim in no time. You’re so strong.”
Macon smiled at that.
“I know: You take a swim class,” I told him. “I’m taking boating lessons starting next week.”
“What about me? What class should I take?” Lovie asked, never liking to be left out.
“I don’t know. What do you want to take?”
She shrugged. “Maybe art. I’m trying to get better in my notebook.” She paused. “Yeah, I’ll take an art class,” she decided in typical quick fashion.
“I guess that means we’ll all be in summer school,” I said.
“Don’t call it school,” Macon said with a roll of the eyes. “It’s summer cool!”
I snorted a laugh at his joke, glad that he thought swimming classes would be fun. “I’m all for that,” I said. “If you promise to learn how to swim, I promise to get my boater’s license. How awesome would that be?”
Lovie moved to sit on her heels, excited. “At the end of summer, we’ll all go out on my boat for a ride together.”
I extended my right hand toward Macon in a handshake. “Are you game?”
He stared hesitantly at my hand.
I extended my hand a little farther. “Come on, man. What’s there to think about? You know you want to. I can see it in your eyes. And… my arm is getting tired.”
“Yeah,” Macon said, and took my hand.
Lovie wrapped an arm over each of our necks, completing the circle.
We stayed out until the sky grew dark, waiting for the fireworks to start on Isle of Palms. We ate the sandwiches, adjusted the pinwheels and flags, filled in the ghost crab holes with wrack, told stories, and hunted for shells until the first explosion of color burst into the sky. It caught us by surprise. We all jumped up and down and cheered.
Then for no reason other than joy we took off running along the beach in single file, our arms stretched out like the wings of pelicans. Our feet skimmed the shoreline, spraying the air with droplets of water that sparked in brilliant colors, the fireworks mirrored in the water. I felt the wind in my hair and the water on my face as we ran.
I led the pack, veering toward the beach, and still the fireworks exploded overhead. The sudden bursts of sound were a drumbeat and we danced wildly. Overhead the fiery lights zigzagged across the sky in staccato.
We whooped and hollered at the top of our lungs. We were the only ones on the beach. We could act goofy. Jump and sing and dance and laugh out loud the way we couldn’t if we were home, or at school, or anywhere else than this beach.
Our beach.
CHAPTER 20
Our Lucky Day
Be fearless.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, OPERATION COYOTE was back on. I picked up Lovie and we were on our way to meet Macon at the nest. We crossed the wooden bridge by the gazebo. It sounded like a thousand frogs were in the bog below. We couldn’t see them, but their croaks and squeaks pulsed so loud it drowned out everything else.
“Stop! What’s that?” Lovie pointed to the edge of the path.
I hit the brakes and leaned forward, squinting. “It’s some kind of dead animal.”
We hopped off the cart for a closer look with a flashlight.
“It’s a dead rabbit.” I gently nudged the lifeless animal with the tip of my shoe.
“Or what’s left of it,” she said.
We stepped around the bits of flesh, fur, and blood surrounding the carcass.
“Coyote,” Lovie whispered.
Our walkie-talkie crackled to life, making us jump.
“Guys. Come in. Guys!” It was Macon and he sounded scared. “Where are you? Come in! Over.”
I ran back for the walkie-talkie in the golf cart cup holder and pushed the talk button. “Macon! We hear you. Over.”
“I think the coyote’s near,” he said softly. “I heard a bark and some whining. Close. Where are you? Over.”
“Close. We can reach the rendezvous in just two minutes. Over.”
“Ten-four. I’m standing guard at the end of the boardwalk. Over.”
Lovie and I leaped back on the golf cart. I stepped hard on the pedal and took off. We sped down the boardwalk and screeched to a halt next to the gazebo, our tires spitting sandy gravel and broken shells. Jumping off, we sprinted the rest of the way toward the beach and Macon.
Suddenly Macon’s scream pierced the ocean air. “Help!”
Lovie shouted, “We’re coming, Macon!”
Our feet dug into the sand as we raced. The light from Lovie’s headlamp bounced on the sand. I caught sight of Macon standing frozen, arms outstretched.
“Macon! Wha… what is it? What’s wrong?” Lovie called out.
“A coyote!” Macon pointed, his hand shaking. “It’s right there! Staring at me! I can’t move.”
Lovie came to a sudden stop a few feet behind Macon. I crashed smack into her.
“I see it!” she said
in a loud whisper.
“Where?” I said. Panting, I searched wildly around for something… anything.
She pointed to the shadowy shrubs farther up the dunes. I squinted and leaned forward and then I saw it too. The hulking shape of the coyote was standing beside the tall grasses. In the dim light it was shadowy, but I could tell it was thin and scraggly. I felt my blood drain from my face and the hairs on my body stand straight up.
“What do we do?” Lovie asked.
Macon didn’t move his head but spoke in a loud whisper. “Retreat.”
“Okay. Start stepping back toward us. Real slow,” I said in a low voice. “We don’t want to spook it.”
“What about shouting and screaming?” Lovie asked.
“We don’t have our stuff! On the count of three, step back. Then we all start screaming and run for the gazebo together. Okay?”
Macon nodded his head. I could feel Lovie’s hand clutch my arm.
Macon took one step back.
The animal took one step forward.
He took another step.
The animal took another step. Again and again until Macon stopped moving.
“It’s not working!” Macon cried. “It’s after me!”
My body pulsed with fear. All the plans we had made suddenly seemed so stupid. This was real. What do I do?
My mind flashed back to a time my dad and I were walking in a park when suddenly a mangy-looking dog approached us. It lowered its head and growled threateningly. I wanted to run, but Dad warned me not to turn my back. “Be fearless,” he told me. Then he waved his arms out and roared like a beast as loud as he could. The dog backed away.
I took a deep breath and raised my arms. Then I started waving them and growling like a monster. I yelled to my friends, “Run! Run to the gazebo now!”
Macon turned and sprinted across the beach. Lovie ran by his side.
The coyote’s ears pricked up when it saw them run off. Then it began trotting toward me. I still had a flashlight in my hand. As the animal drew near, I stepped forward with another loud “Aaarrgh!” and swung my flashlight. I missed. The animal stopped, nose in the air.
I turned and ran as fast as I could, my fists like pistons at my side. My heels dug into the sand. I was fast.
But so was that coyote. It stayed hot on my heels.
Macon and Lovie were inside the gazebo banging the tin pans and shaking the coin canister, making a loud racket.
“Hurry!” Macon screamed.
“Run, Jake!” called Lovie.
I ran so fast my chest felt like it would explode. Macon stood at the gazebo door, holding it open. His flashlight shone a path to guide me. I ran inside and he slammed the door. We stood staring at one another, wide-eyed and panting. Sweat poured down our faces.
Suddenly, bam! The coyote leaped up on its hind legs, its front paws against the screen. Macon and Lovie screamed and ran to the opposite side of the gazebo. I spun around and growled as fierce and loud as I could. I shone my flashlight right in its eyes.
“Grrrrrrrrr!” I shouted as mean and growly as I could.
But… the coyote wasn’t growling back. Or gnashing its teeth. It wasn’t clawing to get in. It wasn’t acting mean or scary at all. It was licking the screen and whimpering.
Confused, I stopped shouting and took a step closer to peer into the darkness. Something shiny caught my eye.
“Jake, get back here,” Lovie cried in panic. She shook the can of coins again.
Macon ran to my side, aiming his vinegar-filled squirt gun at it. “Jake, stand back!”
“Hey, wait!” I put my hand on the squirt gun. “Look! It has a collar.”
Macon lowered his gun a little, his eyes doubting me. He was ready to spring. “It has a what?”
“A collar! What kind of coyote wears a collar?”
“Maybe it’s an animal tag,” Lovie called out from the corner. “They tag animals in the wild.”
The animal whined, then lowered to a sit outside the screen door. The sounds of its pants sounded loud in the hush.
I shone my flashlight in the animal’s face. In the beam of light, I saw a black-and-white rounded muzzle. A plump black nose. Floppy ears.
Macon took a step closer to peer through the screen. “Coyotes don’t have floppy ears.”
Lovie stepped nearer, hesitatingly.
“You guys,” I said, wonder filling my voice. “This isn’t a coyote.”
Lovie leaned in and exclaimed, “It’s a dog!”
* * *
“That dog absolutely cannot sleep in the house. It’s filthy! And it’s probably covered in fleas and ticks,” Honey exclaimed.
“We can’t abandon him. Please…,” I pleaded. “He has nowhere to go.”
“And he’s starving,” Lovie cried. “We gave him the rest of our food, but he’s so skinny.”
We were standing at the foot of the stairs of the Bird’s Nest with a piece of rope slipped around the dog’s neck. The dog did look mangy. It was the size of a small Labrador retriever and not bad-looking. Brown hair, sad brown eyes, and a mass of dirty, matted, wiry, brownish fur. He looked like a big Benji, from the movie. And he stank like sweaty socks.
“We can’t let him loose,” I said. “That’d be mean. He could get attacked by a coyote. Besides, I don’t think he’d run away anyway. He’d just be here in the morning.”
“Fine. He can stay on the screened porch. Just for tonight. But don’t you go getting any wild ideas of keeping him. I’ll call Chief Rand to come by tomorrow morning and take him to a shelter.”
The dog pressed against my leg. I stroked his head.
Even though it was late at night, word traveled fast on the tiny island. A neighbor came to drop off dog shampoo, a leash, and a bag of dry food. Honey mixed in leftover hot dogs and hamburger from the holiday. She put her hands on her hips and watched as the dog ate it all up.
She seemed pleased that he licked the bowl clean. “Poor thing. He’s near starved and covered in those awful sandspurs. Jake, go in my junk drawer and grab me some needlenose pliers.”
The dog didn’t yelp or snap as Honey carefully plucked out one sharp, pointy sandspur after another from his hair. He just stood there. I sure knew how those spurs could hurt.
“These spurs hurt like the devil,” she muttered as she snipped a knotted-up spur from the hair with scissors. “We call them the revenge of the Carolina parakeet.”
“The what?”
“The Carolina parakeet was a fancy-looking parrot, native to America. Used to fill the skies around here. Their favorite food was sandspurs… these tiny round prickly things. Some folks call them cockleburs or sandburs. No matter what you call them, they hurt like the dickens when they prick your skin. Ouch!” Honey plucked one off her finger.
“Well, we humans drove that beautiful bird to extinction, in part because farmers were afraid they were eating their crops.” She frowned as she kept working on the dog’s fur. “Now the Carolina parakeets are no more. Extinct.” She shook her head. “And we’re stuck with the seeds of these devils. There, I think that’s the last one.”
She rose and patted the dog’s head. He whimpered gratefully and put his paw on her leg.
She cracked an unwilling smile. “I have to admit, he’s a good-natured creature. That had to hurt. He’ll sleep better tonight. But tomorrow, he gets a bath.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “This dog stinks!”
CHAPTER 21
A Boy and His Dog
Sometimes life makes decisions for you, and it’s best not to fight it and just to go along.
WHEN THE MORNING SUN SHONE through my round window, I raced downstairs to see if the dog was still in the screened porch. I swung open the door. There he was, lying on the makeshift bed of blankets we made for him. The minute he spied me, he sprang to his feet to greet me with whimpers of excitement. I petted him, then fed him more dog food and filled his water dish. When I turned to leave, the dog trotted behind me.
“I�
�ll be back,” I told him. “I promise.”
The dog tilted his head and his big eyes looked up at me, trusting.
It killed me to hear him whimper and scrape at the door when I left. I begged Honey to let me off Dawn Patrol just this once, but she wouldn’t allow it. “A dog is all about accepting responsibility,” she told me. “And being old enough for a dog means you’re willing to accept responsibility.”
Macon, Lovie, and I raced through our turtle patrol duties, then rushed back to the Bird’s Nest.
The dog barked and whined and jumped all over us, he was so happy to see us. His tail wagged so hard and fast that his butt wiggled.
“He’s so cute,” Lovie said.
“He’s so dirty,” said Macon with a frown. “I’ll bet he’s covered in fleas.”
“You’re just in time to help with the bath,” I told them.
“I have no clue what to do,” said Macon. “I’ve never had a dog before. Or any pet.”
“It’s easy,” said Lovie. “First we need a hose.”
“This way,” I said, and led the dog to a spot under the house.
“Jake, you hold on to the dog while I spray him gently with the hose,” Lovie said. “And guys, prepare to get wet. Ready?”
The dog wagged his tail all the more and his tongue hung out of his mouth, happy for the attention. In the summer, the water from the outside faucet was as warm as bathwater. Macon squirted soap all over the dog, and Lovie and I took turns lathering him up with our hands. I could have sworn I saw the dog smile. By the time we rinsed him off, we were as wet as the dog. When he shook his wet fur, he sprayed all three of us. We stepped back, laughing.
Macon and I patted him dry with a towel, and Lovie brushed him.
“You know, with all the pluff mud and sandburs gone, he’s a pretty good-looking dog,” said Lovie.
The dog licked my face. “He’s beautiful,” I said.
“I wonder what his name is,” Macon said. “Did you check the tag?”
“It’s just a rabies tag,” I answered.
“Let’s give him a name,” Lovie said. “How about Bubba? That’s a good Lowcountry name for a dog. Or maybe Bo? No, scratch that. Buster!”
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