by Tricia Goyer
Sam winced. “Dude, ouch. You’re hurting me. I can do it.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Get along now,” the produce manager called again. The man had paused just outside the side door, standing with his shoulders back as if that green apron was a suit of armor. “Don’t you see the sign? You know you can’t be here,” he added with a wave of his finger.
Sam glanced at the sign. He stood up and began to hobble away. “Man, it says no solicitations,” he muttered. “Bet he doesn’t even know what that means. He should go back to school and get a real job.”
Paul and Jake walked by Sam’s side as they made their way to the school.
“This place is so stupid. If you had any idea what the real world is like, you wouldn’t be able to stand it here. You have no idea what you’re missing in the world out there,” Sam said without looking up, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, watching for more black ice. “I’m sick of it. All of it. I’m blowin’ this joint.”
Paul nodded. “Totally, there must be a better place to skate.”
“Yeah, how about behind Fabrics and Fun? Isn’t that lady your great-grandma or somethin’?” Jake added.
Sam smirked. He wasn’t going to try to explain himself— or the fact that he was talking about much more than skateboarding. They’d find out the truth soon enough.
He glanced back at the lame grocery store with the lame guy in the green apron one more time.
They’d all find out.
Chapter Five
Charlotte watched from the window, and it seemed Christopher’s feet didn’t touch the ground as he propelled himself down the snowy driveway. His red backpack bounced on his back, and Toby bounded toward him, barking. There was nothing as natural as a boy meeting up with his dog at the end of a long day.
Emily lumbered behind Christopher at half speed. Charlotte watched the bus door, waiting for Sam to exit. But when Emily got ten feet away, the doors closed and the yellow bus rumbled off—the one spot of color over the flat, gray horizon.
Christopher’s feet pounded up the steps, then the door swung open. A whoosh of cold air swept in along with a smiling boy.
“Guess what, Grandma?” Christopher slid his shoes off and then his socks, leaving them on the soggy mat as he padded into the kitchen with bare feet.
“Let me guess, good news about your science project?” Charlotte set the potato peeler on the bottom of her chipped sink, rinsed off the last potato, placed it on the cutting board, then rinsed off her hands.
“Nah, we’re not going to hear about that for a week at least, remember?” His cheeks were red, and he puffed as he slid off his backpack. He unzipped it and handed her a crumpled paper—the same bluish green color that they used to print the cafeteria menus on.
“We have a new school newspaper. It just started up, and in the very first issue they have my poem.”
“Your poem? Really?” She glanced on the first page and spotted a story about 4-H winter activities and a column written by the eighth-grade class president concerning preparing for high school. Turning the page over, Charlotte spotted a poem about butterflies and flowers. She was just about to ask Christopher if he was sure he had the right paper when she noticed his name at the end of the poem.
“Christopher, did you write—” The squeak of the door opening interrupted Charlotte’s words, and Emily clomped inside. She only wore a thin sweater over her shirt despite the new winter coat that hung in her closet upstairs.
“Hold on, Christopher, I need to talk to Emily for a sec.”
Emily paused, dropped her purse on the floor, and glanced up as if she were five and had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“Did I, uh, do something wrong?”
“No, at least I don’t think you did.” Charlotte folded her arms over her chest and gave Emily a fake scowl. Then she winked at her granddaughter. “I was just wondering about Sam. He wasn’t on the bus. Did he have to work today?”
Emily shrugged. “I don’t think so. He said he was getting a ride home with Jake, but he didn’t say why. Maybe they’re skateboarding or something.”
“In this weather?”
Emily headed upstairs. “I never accused them of having any brains,” she called back.
Charlotte pushed worries of Sam out of her mind and turned back to Christopher, noticing a look of expectation and excitement on his face.
“Well, it’s a great poem,” she said. “Where did you come up with the idea?”
“You mean about the butterflies playing chase through the flowerbed?” Christopher moved to the refrigerator and pulled out the jug of milk then poured himself a glass. He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just came to me.”
“Really? Is it a common thing to have poems pop up in your head? Or—” Charlotte paused. She had a sinking feeling that Christopher didn’t understand what it meant to submit a poem to the school newsletter. Maybe Christopher thought submit meant to copy something that he liked. Maybe the teacher hadn’t made it clear.
“Christopher, I don’t know how to ask this, but—” Charlotte bit her lip.
Christopher turned to her. His eyes were wide with questions. “Yes, Grandma?”
She read the poem again, deciding that maybe it was better if she just let it slide. Christopher was creative. He was a good writer … Then again, she couldn’t imagine him being interested in flowers and butterflies. It didn’t seem typical that a ten-year-old boy would want to write about that.
Charlotte approached where Christopher was standing and leaned back against the counter. “So, what were the guidelines for submitting a piece to the paper?”
“Guidelines?” Christopher scratched the top of his blond head.
“Yes, you know, the rules. Did the teacher give you rules on what to turn in—or what not to turn in?”
“Um, it had to be something we wrote. I’d get in trouble if I copied something—” He took a big drink of his milk. The glass covered his face, and when he lowered it any hint of excitement was gone.
“But you just said a minute ago that you were supposed to write about something that you are interested in.”
“I thought about that.” Christopher scratched his chin in a way that reminded Charlotte of Pete—and of Bob.
Charlotte hid her smile. “And, what were you thinking?”
“Well, I like spaceships and tornados and stuff like that. But all the editors are girls.”
“So?”
He lifted a finger into the air. “So, I thought I’d send in something that would interest them.”
Charlotte read the poem again. “And you realized girls like flowers and butterflies and knew your best shot to get in was to write about that?”
Christopher glanced around the kitchen. He pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.” Then he grabbed an apple off the counter, took a big bite, and headed up the stairs. “And if you don’t believe I wrote it, I can prove it.”
“Oh, I believe you—I’m just surprised.” Charlotte had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She felt bad. She hadn’t meant to accuse her grandson.
Christopher called from the stairs. “Hold on!”
Thirty seconds later he jogged back down with a half-dozen wadded-up pieces of paper in his hands.
“These were under my bed.” He had a shy look on his face. “I, uh, kind of stuffed them under there the last time I cleaned my room.” He unwadded them and spread them on the table. Charlotte glanced at them, and sure enough, they were various stages of the poem, from first attempts to the finished piece.
“Wow, I’m impressed. When did you get so smart?”
“Gee, Grandma, don’t sound so surprised.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. The poem is so good—I’m just amazed!” She patted his cheek. “But I do think you’re too smart for your own good. And too young to be thinking about girls and poetry.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not thinking about them like that. Ick!” He grabbed the newspaper and hurrie
d upstairs. “Emily, look!”
Charlotte chuckled to herself, remembering when Pete was that age, and she realized that Christopher would be thinking about girls in that way before she knew it.
The side door opened and a whiff of cold air blew in. Bob’s cheeks were red. He shut the door behind him and then rubbed his hands together. Even though it was below freezing outside, he wore his overalls and plaid shirt without a coat.
Charlotte wrinkled her nose at him, and she could tell from the guilty look on his face that he expected a lecture.
“Just going between here and the barn,” Bob mumbled under his breath. “No use getting all suited up for that.”
Charlotte was just about to reply when she heard the sound of a vehicle coming down the driveway. It sounded like it had a broken muffler—or maybe was hiding a jet engine underneath the hood. The roar seemed to rattle the windows. Before she could open her mouth to complain, Bob stalked out the door.
She hurried to the window and watched as Sam slowly climbed out of the passenger side of the car. From his awkward movements, she could tell he was injured. She considered running out to see what was wrong, but Bob was already busy talking to Sam’s friend Jake.
From Bob’s hand motions, she guessed that Bob was telling the youth that he needed to get his car checked out. As if Jake didn’t know that already.
Sam didn’t stick around to listen to his grandpa’s mechanical advice. Instead, he tucked his skateboard under his arm and walked stiffly to the house. From the look on his face, she could tell Sam was trying to hold his emotion in. Whether it was tears, or harsh words, she couldn’t tell.
Sam kicked the door open. It took every ounce of willpower not to hurry over to him. Charlotte lifted her chin, eyeing his ripped shirt underneath the jacket he was struggling to take off. “You okay?”
Sam’s lower lip quivered, and the look in his eyes reminded Charlotte of the little boy he used to be.
“Fine.”
“Did you fall?”
He shrugged. “I’ve done that trick a hundred times.” He mumbled something Charlotte didn’t understand. Then his voice rose. “Man, I hate this ice.” He held his side as he moved through the kitchen.
“Did you hit the ground?”
“No. The edge of a cement ramp.”
“May I look?”
“I’m fine, Grandma,” he said.
Still, she moved toward him, and he leaned his skateboard against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
Charlotte lifted his shirt and noticed a large bruise forming on his rib cage. She tried not to show her anxiety. “Your ribs could be broken, Sam. We should see the doctor.”
“And what’s he going to do, wrap them? Tell me to take things easy?”
“Maybe tell you no more skating in winter. With all the black ice out there you’re lucky if it’s only a few cracked ribs. You could have really gotten hurt.”
Charlotte’s words were interrupted by the door opening and Bob marching in, finger pointed. In three long strides he reached Sam.
“You need to tell your friends that if they want you to ride with them, they best take better care of their cars. Did you hear that knocking in the engine? The car could break down in the middle of nowhere. There are some places you’d have to hike for a few miles to get help, and in the cold, well, hypothermia shouldn’t be messed with.”
Sam dropped his shirt. His face immediately transformed from pain to anger. “Don’t you think I know that?”
Sam turned and stomped up the stairs. “I’m the one who’s always complaining that we live in the middle of nowhere. The Arctic has to be warmer and more populated than Bedford. Who would even choose to live in this place? People who don’t know any better, that’s who.”
At the top of the stairs he headed into his room, slamming his door.
“Well, I never …” Bob crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What’s got into him? These kids have no understanding of the dangers out there.”
Charlotte turned and moved back to the sink, taking out a cutting board and knife, trying to figure out the best way to calm her husband without being disrespectful herself. She grabbed a few potatoes out of the bin.
“Yes, that’s true. Sam’s friend doesn’t need to be driving a car that could break down any moment. It’s harsh weather out there.”
“I wasn’t talking about Sam’s friend. I’m talking about Sam.” Bob moved to the dining room table and picked up the ag report. He stared at the page, but she could tell he really wasn’t reading it.
The knife clicked, clicked, clicked against the chopping board as she cubed the potatoes and tossed them into the stockpot on the stovetop. “Did you notice how banged up he was?”
“Who?” Bob mumbled, turning the page.
“Sam. He fell skateboarding. Said he hit the edge of a concrete ramp. He must have hit hard too, because there’s a nasty bruise. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a few broken ribs.”
“Humph.” Bob folded the paper and placed it on the table. “It’s plumb foolishness to be riding that board this time of year as it is.”
“Yes, that’s true, but maybe you should look at his injury.”
“Me?” Bob readjusted his John Deere cap on his head. “Why me?”
“Well, you’re the one who figured out Pete’s arm was broken that one time, and not just sprained. I agree that Sam does do a lot of foolish things, but that doesn’t mean we let him suffer when he’s injured.”
Bob rose and moved to his recliner. “Well, if Sam wants me to, then I can look at it. But you have to remember he’s a teenage boy, Charlotte. Teenage boys goof around. They get hurt. Sam doesn’t need to be coddled.” Then Bob clicked on the television, which made it clear he was done with the conversation.
CHARLOTTE SCOOPED fluffy mashed potatoes onto each plate and then topped them with brown gravy as she glanced from Bob, to Sam, to Christopher, to Emily.
“So anyone got anything exciting to share about their day?” She offered chicken to Bob, ignoring Emily’s upturned nose as she passed the plates.
“Yeah, I’m a published writer.” Christopher pulled the school newspaper from his back pocket and waved it in the air.
Christopher handed it to Emily. Her face brightened as she read it. “Ah, I think it’s cute. I like that. It sounds like a greeting card or something.”
Sam swiped it out of his sister’s hands.
“Let me see that.”
“Sam, that wasn’t nice.” Charlotte plopped a piece of chicken on her oldest grandson’s plate.
“Let me see it please,” Sam said as he opened the paper.
“Back page. On the bottom.”
Sam turned the paper over and snorted. “Do you mean this sissy poem? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Yeah, well, it got published, didn’t it?” Christopher jutted out his chin.
“Enough.” Bob put down his fork with a thunk.
“Did you read it?” Sam tossed the newspaper in Bob’s direction, and it landed just an inch shy of Bob’s plate.
“Hey,” Christopher protested, his voice wavering. “You’re gonna get gravy on it, Sam. Be careful.”
“Guys can write about flowers, Sam,” Emily interjected. “And butterflies are insects. Right, Grandma?”
Charlotte nodded her answer, but her eyes weren’t focused on her granddaughter. Instead, she watched Bob. Charlotte could tell from the look in Bob’s eye that Sam was about to lose his dinner privileges. She put down her fork and quickly tried to think of a way to change the tide of the conversation.
“Speaking of flowers, Emily, are you going to be buying a flower for anyone? The fundraiser is coming up quick.”
Emily tucked a stand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Weren’t you the one who told me that dating at my age wasn’t a good idea?”
Charlotte wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I wasn’t encouraging you to date. I just thought maybe you’d like to give one to a friend. Like Ashley.”
>
“Grandma,” Emily’s blue eyes widened. “I don’t want to waste five dollars giving my friend a flower. I’m saving up for some new shoes, remember? Besides, it’s totally lame when someone gives someone else a flower just because they’re friends.”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Charlotte glanced at Emily. “I’ve gotten flowers from my friends before, and I like it. It’s a nice reminder that someone is thinking about me.”
“Speaking of friends,” Sam said, sitting up straighter in his chair. He kept his eyes on his plate though. “I’ve been asked to stay over at Paul’s house next Friday night—a week from tomorrow. I hope it’s okay for me to go.”
He glanced at Bob, and then to Charlotte, holding her gaze. The hardness of his look softened. “Maybe hanging out and playing the Wii might help, you know, cheer me up.”
Sam’s eyes locked with Charlotte’s and they looked hopeful.
“Does Paul have Super Karate Fight Machine 2?” Christopher stuck his feet under his bottom and leaned on the table. “I heard that’s the best.”
“Chris, even if he did, it has a T rating, and besides, you’re not invited.” Sam smirked.
“That’s not fair,” Christopher whined.
“Christopher,” Charlotte said, “Paul is Sam’s age. Just like Sam doesn’t hang out with your friends, you don’t need to hang out with his. Did you say Friday, Sam?”
“Yeah, we’re just going to chill. Do guy stuff, you know.” Sam leaned back from the table, wincing slightly as he stretched his arm.
When they finished eating they all waited while Bob pulled out the story Bible. He opened it to his marked spot. “Let’s see what encouragement God’s Word will bring us today,” he said, clearing his throat and looking at each one of them around the table. “Lord knows we need it.”
Yes, indeed, Charlotte thought, glancing at Sam out of the corner of her eye. Maybe a fun birthday and time with his friends will be just what Sam needs to turn him around, to point him to the right path.
Chapter Six
Emily sniffed the air as she descended the stairway into the kitchen on Saturday morning. Her grandma was there, peeking into the oven, checking on something she was baking. Something that smelled good.