There Will Be Bears

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There Will Be Bears Page 13

by Ryan Gebhart


  “Thanks, Sis.”

  “You didn’t see her at all, did you?”

  “The bear? Nah, no luck.”

  “It’s a shame the bear had to die.”

  I nod understandingly, but what the heck? She’s wearing my belt with the rattlesnake buckle! I was looking all over my room for it this morning.

  She goes, “I’m really glad you and Gramps got to go on that trip.”

  “Nice belt.”

  “Huh?” She looks down. “Yeah, I think I look kinda cute with it.”

  The truth is, it does look good on her.

  I say, “You keep it.”

  “Really? I was going to ask you if I could wear it next weekend to Rock Springs.”

  “I also have a couple of flannels that don’t fit me anymore.”

  “Gee, thanks, Tyson. There’s nothing I want more than your disgusting old shirts.” She wraps her arms around me and sarcastically says, “Oh, how I love my big brother. He’s so generous.”

  “Gross. Get off.” I squirm away and open my door.

  “Old flannels. You’ve got such good taste. Come here!” She tackles me onto the floor. I’m laughing, and then she starts laughing, too, and wow, her breath reeks.

  I go, “Dude. You smell like McNuggets. Get off.”

  “Hey.” She playfully smacks me across the cheek. “That’s not nice.”

  My phone beeps.

  “Who is it?” Ashley says.

  “Nobody. Get out of here.”

  She snatches the phone from me. “You got a text? From a girl? Tyson!” She acts like this is the biggest deal. “Who’s Karen?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I shove her out of my room, lock the door, and hurry to check my phone.

  Karen wrote: We still on for karaoke?

  I message back: See you in ten, karenbear.

  I wait a minute for her to respond. My entire body tingles with anticipation. And then finally: lol okay tysonbear :)

  I grab my bike from the garage. For an early November day, it’s surprisingly warm and bright out. I’m wearing my Taylor Swift T-shirt untucked for a change, and it feels good having the breeze around me.

  Bright’s bike is locked up in front of Party Fiesta Karaoke, and I put mine next to it. There isn’t anyone inside except for him, Mika, and Karen, and an extra-large pizza, which is solid. But the stage is empty, which is not solid.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, and take a seat next to Karen. She’s staring at my elk ivory necklace. “You got supreme pizza. That’s totally yam.”

  Karen says, “You guys keep saying that. What on earth do ‘yam’ and ‘yamhole’ mean?”

  I’ve gotten much better at my sexy eyes. I say, “Whatever you want them to mean.”

  Unfazed, Karen responds with “Is that some Colorado thing?”

  Mika shakes her head. “No, it’s some Tyson and Bright thing.”

  I say, “We need to hurry up and eat, because at six o’clock, me and Bright purge.”

  “Now, what does that mean?” Karen says.

  “We’re each going to drink a jug of prune juice,” Brighton says sadly.

  After we finish our pizza, me and Bright take the stage and tell the deejay to put on our song: “Mean” by Taylor Swift.

  I say into the mike, “All right, ladies and gents out there, here’s a classic by Pizza Bear.”

  And then Bright says, “And Booger Bear Five Thousand.”

  When we get to the chorus, my voice cracks like someone just took a claw to my throat and sliced it open. I stop for a moment and my face gets warm, but Bright doesn’t laugh. He continues to sing as if nothing happened.

  We do two more songs together, and after convincing the girls for five minutes, we get them onstage, but they’re pretty much just laughing and blurting out random words.

  Karen slings her arm across my shoulder and then, just as the song finishes, something soft touches the corner of my lips. I don’t even know what just happened until a moment later when I look at her. Her eyes are so bright they seem to be smiling. And then it hits me — I just got my first kiss.

  What is it like to fall in love? I don’t know, but whatever this is, it’s pretty neat.

  So I’m thirteen, I just got kissed, and a grizzly bear practically mauled me, but I still don’t feel like a man.

  Six o’clock is fast approaching. Bright and I need to get to my home ASAP. So we race our bikes back, and I beat him by a solid fifteen seconds.

  He sits across from me at the kitchen table, huffing as he reads the label on the jug in front of him, an awesome hint of fear in his voice: “Country Orchard Prune Juice.”

  My fingers are rapping against the side of my jug and I’m staring at the bird clock above the sink.

  “Don’t back out now,” I say, because the look on his face says it all. “This is how you will pay for your crimes.”

  “But why would anyone do this?”

  “You can thank me later.”

  So in fifty-four seconds, it will be six o’clock.

  Tick.

  In fifty-three seconds, the Canada goose will honk.

  Tick.

  In fifty-two seconds, Bright and I will each be chugging a liter of prune juice to completion. Who will get to the bathroom first? Who will lock the door on the other?

  This is a done deal.

  The Canada goose honks, and I chug my liter down without even flinching. I slam my empty jug on the table, burp, and check the clock. It only took me thirty seconds. Bright, on the other hand, is gagging and forcing down his just deserts. He gives up about halfway through.

  “I don’t know how on earth you do that,” he says, making a face. “So now what?”

  “Now we watch Wheel of Fortune.”

  We go into the living room and he sits on the sofa, and I explain to him what’s about to happen. There will be some sweating, a little bit of crying, and a lot of toilet paper.

  I take a seat in Gramps’s reclining chair and turn on Wheel of Fortune.

  Bright doesn’t say much for the next hour. I can feel his fear. He’s barely paying any attention to Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy! Doesn’t he know that the whole point of pruning is to sit back and relax?

  So we both eye the clock again, waiting for the final-Jeopardy question.

  The category is: The Revolutionary War.

  The answer is: On April 18, 1775, Paul Revere warned his countrymen that the British were coming, prompting this battle, the very first in the American Revolutionary War.

  Before they even begin to play the final-Jeopardy music, I shout out, “What is the Battle of Lexington and Concord? Yeah, I win! The Americans defeat the British yet again.”

  “I really have to go,” Bright says. He’s clenching every muscle in his body.

  “Patience,” I say.

  When seven o’clock comes around, Bright and I both jump up and race to the bathroom. I stiff-arm him, holding him back as I close the door and turn the lock.

  There we go. Now I feel like a man.

  Bright is pounding on the door.

  “Come on, Tyson!”

  “Why don’t you stop by Mr. Privett’s place? I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “How long are you going to be in there?”

  “Dude. We have a new issue of Better Homes and Gardens in here. It’s going to be a while.”

  I hear him run away. I already know that after this he’s going to be a changed man. Maybe we won’t be ten years old again, but that’s okay. I can still find newer and better ways to have fun with him. Even if it’s at his expense.

  I’ve learned something. Something I’ll tell my kids, and my kids will pass on to their kids — revenge is a dish best served with prunes.

  roar.

  Thanks to my agent, John M. Cusick, for believing in and loving this story as much as I do; my agent’s agent, Scott Treimel; Brendan Rien and Mike Henry, for the ridiculous Wyoming adventure that helped inspire this story; and my beta readers: Sage Collins, Helen
Sedwick, and Michael Ware. A special shout-out to Rae Mariz for reading all my manuscripts (good, bad, atrocious) and never being afraid to throw some much appreciated punches in my direction. Thanks to the Musers, for always being a source of encouragement, motivation, and GIFs. And of course, my editor, Joan Powers, and the team at Candlewick Press for taking a chance on me and my little story.

  Here’s hoping that this book will score me a date with Taylor Swift. Just throwing that out there. . . .

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2014 by Ryan Gebhart

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2014

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2013946620

  ISBN 978-0-7636-6521-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-7636-7044-3 (electronic)

  Candlewick Press

  99 Dover Street

  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com

 

 

 


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