Bryan waved back. He’d been friends with Kyle since before he could remember. Their mothers had met at the hospital the last week in September when both boys were born. Kyle and Bryan were always the oldest in their class, something that hadn’t hurt them on the hockey team.
Kyle grabbed his green bike from the side of his garage with one hand, and with the other he pretended to throw a ball into the hoop over the garage door. “Thank you, thank you,” he called. “Skip the applause!”
Bryan shouted, “You’re such a screwball!” He pushed down his pedal and headed south.
Kyle followed. “Hey, the beach isn’t this way!”
“I know. There’s something I want to do first.”
At the end of the block, Bryan stopped at the blue mailbox, pulled a white envelope from under his shirt, and opened the door with a squeak. The letter slipped down. It was on its way to the Daily News. If the paper printed it, Dad would be surprised when he read through the editorials. At least he’d know his son was on his side.
Bryan turned right, shifted gears, and rode side by side with Kyle. He felt strong inside, older somehow. A good feeling.
A white-throated sparrow sang its melancholy song. A grasshopper, clacking, flew across the road, just missing Bryan’s front tire.
“So, what’s up now?” Kyle asked.
“I’m thinking.…” said Bryan, the sun hot on his face. But he kept on pedaling, following the asphalt road, which wound between stands of aspen trees, leaves beginning to turn yellow, fluttering in the breeze. The field beyond the woods, where Bryan and Kyle used to catch bugs, was covered with acres of freshly laid gravel and enclosed by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence. Inside, row upon row of canary-yellow mobile homes housed hundreds of Badgett workers, who rode charter buses to work at the mill.
In a small metal building at the camp entrance, someone moved. A guard. Dad had talked about how he couldn’t stand the Badgett Construction guards. “Hired bulldogs,” he’d called them. Bryan suddenly had an idea.
He slowed his bike to a stop on the far side of the street. “Grab a few rocks,” he said.
“Why?” Kyle screwed up his face, not moving his hands off his handlebars.
“You’ll see,” Bryan said. He reached down, pretended to scratch his ankle, picked up five stones, and handed two to Kyle. “When I say ‘now,’ nail the guardhouse.”
“Wait a second,” Kyle said.
“Now!” Bryan let his stones fly, one at a time. His aim was good. Ting! Ting! Crack!
“Go!” he yelled, forcing his foot down on his right pedal. He glanced back. Red-faced, Kyle was pumping hard, hunched over his handlebars. In the distance, the guard flew out of the house holding a clear, four-foot riot shield in front of his wide shoulders and angry face. He ran after them, shouting.
CHAPTER THREE
“Hey, you punks!” the guard bellowed. “Get back here!”
Their bike tires whirred over pavement. Bryan raced past the stop sign, spun around the corner, and turned right onto Highway 11, heading toward the center of town. His lungs burned, but he gripped his handlebars tightly and pedaled faster. Kyle sped behind him.
When they were a half mile away, Bryan slowed down until he and Kyle rode side by side.
“We hit the guardhouse!” Bryan said, struggling to catch his breath. “I can’t believe it. We actually hit it!”
Kyle lifted one hand from his handlebar and flung his stones into the ditch.
Bryan glanced at Kyle. “You mean … you didn’t throw any?”
Kyle shook his head. “What if that guard caught us? He’d have pounded us! What’s the point?”
“Why couldn’t you just go along with it? No one got hurt or anything,” Bryan said in annoyance. “And it was just for fun,” he added, aware that it was somehow more than that.
Usually Bryan and Kyle thought the same way about everything: They both loved watermelon, tortilla chips and hot sauce, biking, and hockey. They even had the same favorite book—Hatchet.
They biked past the high-school track field.
“Hey,” Bryan said, “maybe you don’t get it because your parents didn’t grow up here.” Kyle’s parents were from Grand Rapids, a few hours away, and they went back there lots of weekends to visit. “Look, my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents are all from here.”
“So?” Kyle screwed up his face, clearly not getting Bryan’s point.
“Oh, forget it. Maybe you’ll never get it.”
Kyle looked straight ahead. “No,” he said, his voice shaky. “I don’t get it!”
Kyle was usually lots of fun, the class joker. Was he trying to make Bryan feel guilty? Actually Bryan felt good about what he’d done. Until now, the most daring thing he’d ever risked was toilet papering the Stassons’ house on Halloween last year, but he and Kyle had gotten caught in the act. They’d spent the following Sunday on ladders removing every white speck from the limbs. Kyle hadn’t minded. It was a chance to get close to Laura Stasson, whom Kyle had loved passionately back then. Now he’d forgotten she even existed.
Bryan adjusted his backpack strap, which was cutting into his shoulder. He didn’t know why he had nailed the guard’s building, not exactly, but it felt good—really good—like slamming a surprise shot into the opponent’s net.
Besides, if the guard had caught him, Bryan knew Dad would have understood. Still, Bryan hated when he and Kyle disagreed. To shift the talk away from the guard at the housing camp, Bryan told Kyle about the girl at church and how she’d smiled at him.
The boys pedaled past stores and banks, the paper mill, and the American and Canadian flags flying at the end of Main Street. They rumbled over shipping-yard railway tracks and passed under a three-foot-round pipe that ran from enormous woodchip piles to the mill. The pipe wheezed, sucking in the chips like a giant vacuum cleaner. A loaded logging truck roared past them; from its longest log, a red ribbon whipped in the wind.
“This girl,” Kyle said, “did she smile just a little, or was it a great big smile?”
“I said, ‘She smiled.’” Bryan told him. “Just a smile. It’s no big deal. Really.”
“Right. Look straight at me and say that,” said Kyle, his sun-bleached eyebrows arching.
On the bike trail, the boys passed the pulp-wood storage yard, where tree-length logs were stacked as far as Bryan could see, stockpiled to be made into paper. Beyond that, the shipping yard was filled with what resembled a giant’s toys—pipes and bolts and boxes and cylinders of every color—building parts for the goliath paper machine.
“In Grand Rapids,” Kyle commented, “the mill has gardens surrounding it. It’s pretty.”
“Oh,” Bryan said. Well, this wasn’t Grand Rapids.
Ten minutes later, they turned at the twenty-foot statue of a voyageur, an early fur trader who traveled the northern lakes and rivers by canoe. At the beach, they locked their ten-speeds in the metal rack.
Bryan breathed in the water-scented air. Three miles from the mill the air smelled fresher. All the tension in town seemed left behind them for a while.
“C’mon, let’s go,” Bryan said, walking toward the lake. A dozen kids and parents were spread out on the stretch of sand, a haze hanging in the air over them. Under an arching pavilion, a family gathered. The sand beach radiated a wave of heat.
The lifeguard, short and muscular, climbed the steps of the purple and gold painted platform. “Last day,” she called as the boys scattered seagulls on their way to the dock.
Bryan took off his backpack, set it on the weathered boards, and pulled out a small, black video camera. He was glad Mom had finally agreed to let him take it to the beach so he and Kyle could tape the dives they’d worked on all summer. Since she had gotten it last Christmas, she’d guarded it like a diamond. “It’s for capturing moments with my most valuable jewels,” she’d said, kissing him on the cheek. “Mom,” he’d groaned. She was like that.
“Here’s the plan,” Bryan said. “You dive
, I shoot. I dive, you shoot me.”
“Really? Sounds dangerous.” Kyle’s face was unflinching.
Bryan tilted his head. “You know what I mean.”
By late morning, Bryan had nearly perfected his back dive and his forward one-and-a-half. He stood on the edge of the diving platform, looking back at Kyle, who held the camera.
“This one,” Kyle announced, “executed with tremendous skill, will undoubtedly qualify young Mr. Grant for the Olympics.”
“Yeah, right,” Bryan said. He bent his knees, swept his arms low, then brought them upward. As he did, he caught sight of the girl with apricot hair, wearing a turquoise swimsuit, stepping wide around a sunbather. She was walking down the dock, coming closer.
“Folks,” Kyle announced, “he’s losing his concentration.”
“Kyle,” Bryan whispered loudly, “that’s her!”
“Her as in her? Kyle said, turning his head slightly.
“She’s coming down the dock!”
Bryan started teetering on the edge of the board. He dug his toes in, swung his arms in wide circles, but started falling, and with his arms and feet pointed skyward, torpedoed into a mighty back flop. Slaaap!!! He went under and contemplated swimming under the dock and hiding, but he didn’t. In the brisk water, he surfaced, skin stinging, and wiped water from his eyes. He stretched out his arms and floated on his back. He didn’t feel like getting out.
When he looked up, the girl was at the end of the diving platform. Bryan couldn’t believe this. Could this be happening to him? “Could y’all move out of the way?”
Y’all? Bryan looked around. Nobody from Minnesota said y’all. With a sick feeling, he realized that she was probably here with Badgett Construction. His heart sank. He couldn’t let himself like her. He couldn’t. Dad would kill him.
Bryan breaststroked to the ladder, started climbing, and stopped halfway. He turned and watched.
The girl walked to the edge of the board. Looking down at her feet, she positioned her heels over the edge, her calves round and muscular. In one fluid motion, she pressed her arms down, reached up, and set them in a perfect T, then arched into a graceful back dive. Gliding through the air, she cut into the dark water, leaving a string of sparkling beads behind her.
Bryan could hardly breathe. Not only was she pretty, but she could really dive!
She surfaced, brushed water from her eyes, and swam toward him. “Hey, I saw you at church,” she said, smiling. “You were leaving early.”
Before he could say a word, Kyle stepped toward the ladder, focusing the video camera on the girl. “That was great,” he said. “Nice dive.”
Bryan climbed onto the gray, weathered dock. He’d already made a fool of himself by hanging back, staring again. She probably thought he was a brainless geek by now. He turned and watched her.
“Thanks,” she said, wet bangs in her eyes. She dipped her head back in the water and lifted it out again. “This water’s freezin’!”
“What’s your name?” Kyle said, his dimples deepening, his blond hair catching the sun. Bryan glared at him. Kyle just blurted it out, asking her name. Why didn’t he just go ahead and tell her that he was the popular class clown, and that he and Bryan were the best on their hockey team? Kyle wasn’t exactly Mr. Bashful.
“Chelsie,” she said, climbing the ladder, goosebumps rising on her arms. “Chelsie Retting.” She waved the camera away. “Don’t.”
Bryan looked from the girl to Kyle, who held the video camera on his shoulder, still filming. Bryan’s tongue was a thick ball of cotton.
“I’m Kyle and this is …”
Suddenly, swearing bulleted the air.
Bryan spun toward shore. A tangle of teenagers rolled toward them down the dock, cursing, fists swinging.
“Stupid rat!” one kid in jeans shouted. “Why don’t you just go home?”
Chelsie stood on the dock. “Oh no!” She wrapped her arms around her waist as though she were suddenly ill.
A boy not much older than Bryan, wearing blue swim trunks and white sneakers, fell out of the circle onto his elbow. Laughter pelleted the air. The boy scrambled to his feet and flailed at the other boys with his arms. His punches looked pathetic.
Grabbing the boy by the wrists and ankles, two teenagers lifted him off the dock.
“Let … me … go!” the boy shouted, twisting.
The lifeguard blew her shrill whistle.
The teenagers ran awkwardly with the boy down the dock, nearly bowling Bryan over, and began swinging him back and forth over the edge. “One, two …”
“I… can’t… swim!”
“Let him go!” Chelsie yelled. “He can’t swim!”
“Yeah, right!” one of the teenagers said. “Three!”
Flying through the air, the boy flipped and smacked the water with his stomach, then disappeared below the surface like a skipping-stone.
The lifeguard’s whistle shrieked three times.
Howling, the teenage boys took off down the dock.
Bryan glanced from the water to the lifeguard. She was hurrying down her platform ladder. Almost everybody in Minnesota knew how to swim. That kid was old enough to know how. She was wasting her time.
“Where is he?” Kyle said.
Bryan scanned the dark, rippling water. “Uh, I don’t know.”
Gasping, the boy shot up for air, sputtering and wheezing. “Hel …” he choked out, thrashing like an injured bird. He dipped below the surface again.
At the shore end of the dock, one of the boys, taunting, blocked the lifeguard’s path. “Hey, Leah, wannna go out Friday?”
“Out of my way!” she yelled.
Bryan looked back worriedly where the boy had gone under. It would be risky to jump in to rescue someone. He’d be putting his own life in danger. But if he waited much longer, the lifeguard might not be able to find the boy in water nearly as dark as root beer. He watched the rippled surface. The kid was gone.
Bryan’s heart beat harder.
“Somebody help him!” Chelsie screamed. “Where is he?”
Bryan scanned the water, the edge of the dock, the shore. Wasn’t the kid going to surface again? He’d disappeared so fast! Bryan couldn’t just stand back and watch.
He plunged in.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bryan swam to the spot where the boy had last surfaced. Was this a joke? Had the kid swum away underwater? He hesitated, treading water. He didn’t want to be the butt of someone’s prank.
He looked down into the darkness and spotted something white below the surface. With a gulp of air, he dove below.
In the cold darkness, he opened his eyes and groped at the white shape. He touched it—a shoe, then an ankle. He grabbed hold and reversed his position, dragging the boy up and up. Harder. Pull harder. His lungs ached, burned, ready to burst.
Bryan broke the surface. He drank in air.
“C’mon!” Kyle shouted.
The lifeguard stretched out a long hooked pole. With one hand, Bryan grabbed the pole, with the other, he held fast to the boy’s ankle.
The lifeguard leaned over and pulled the boy’s limp body closer to the dock. Kyle and Chelsie helped lift him up.
Shaking, Bryan swam a few strokes to the ladder, grabbed it, and climbed. He hurried over to the boy.
The lifeguard was kneeling. “He must have choked down water,” she said. She rolled the boy on his side, letting water spill from his mouth. Then she pushed him onto his back, tilted his head, and poised her lips above his open mouth. She inhaled, then blew, her mouth firmly sealed against his and one hand under the boy’s chin.
Bryan was glad she had made it in time for this part. He didn’t want to give mouth-to-mouth—not to a boy, anyway.
The boy started coughing, like a car engine sputtering reluctantly on a frozen morning, and pushed away from the lifeguard. He rose to his hands and knees, slowly crawled two feet away, and threw up over the edge of the dock. His body was ghostly white.
�
�Bry,” Kyle said, patting Bryan on the back. “He might have died if it wasn’t for you!”
“Yeah, good job!” exclaimed a man in red trunks, part of a gathering crowd.
“Thanks,” the lifeguard said to Bryan. “They blocked me. I couldn’t get …” She stopped and bit down on her trembling lip.
Bryan was stunned. One minute, the boy was in the middle of a fight on the dock, the next he was in the water, drowning. One minute, Bryan was stumbling over how to speak to a girl, the next thing he knew he was a hero.
The boy stood, wobbled, then doubled over again, his knobby spine protruding.
Chelsie put her hand reassuringly on the boy’s heaving back. “You’re gonna be okay, Cam. You’re gonna be okay.” With her other hand, she reached over and grabbed Bryan’s wrist.
“Thanks for savin’ my brother,” she said. Her hand was warm. “I froze. I hate myself.” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and let out her breath. “I didn’t know what to do.…”
She looked away and removed her hand from Bryan’s arm.
“Your brother?” Bryan could still feel the warmth of her fingers against his wet skin.
Chelsie nodded.
“Somebody call the newspaper,” a lady in pink shorts and top said. “That boy should have his picture in the paper.” She pointed at Bryan. “He’s a hero!”
“Wait,” someone else called out. “I saw Nancy Benton on the beach. Maybe she has her camera with her.”
Picture in the paper? A hero for rescuing a rat? Wouldn’t Dad love that! No, better to slip away quietly. He hadn’t meant to get in the middle of anything. But Bryan couldn’t move.
Kyle looked at him and frowned. “Bry? Are you feeling all right? You look awful.”
Bryan let out a ragged breath and gazed across the lake at the silhouetted pine trees. He wished he could skip the country and disappear into Canada, which lay on the opposite shore.
“Yeah, I’m okay, I just …”
A woman in a sleek brown swimsuit tapped him on the shoulder. “I got it all with my zoom lens from shore,” she said, extending her hand.
Riot (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 2