Near the top of the hill, I realize there’s someone walking in the street. Because I’m concentrating hard on keeping the bike moving, I hadn’t noticed him before. Suddenly he turns around as I’m about to pass him.
“Shoemaker!” With a sick feeling, I recognize the voice about the same time his hand lashes out, grabbing my hand brake and bringing me to a violent stop.
“Ooof!” I grunt as I launch off the seat abruptly, straddling the crossbar in an extremely painful way.
Standing before me wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, with a half cigarette hanging out of his mouth, is Owen Scaggs.
His greasy, long hair hides all the oozing pimples on his face. His eyes are dark, like a snake, revealing little about himself. He’s only a little bigger than me, and surely he’s stronger, but I don’t want to find out. Nobody at school really knows much about him, and there’s a rumor that he once was sent to juvenile prison. Nobody really knows for sure.
He flicks an ash and enjoys the look of terror on my face. For some reason, I can’t speak and it feels like hours before Owen finally says something. “How much money do you have on you?”
“None,” I say, wishing I had at least some change, or something, to give him, just so I can escape without getting hurt.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, and with one quick shove I’m on the ground with my bike on top of me. “I really don’t understand,” he continues. “This happens all the time. I ask stupid kids like you nicely for some money, and you think I’m so dumb that if you tell me you have no money, I’ll just go away. That’s not how this game works.” He stands on my hand, pinning it in place.
With pain shooting through my hand, my face scrunches up tight as he presses even harder with his foot.
“Let me ask you again; how much money do you have on you?”
I’m glad none of my friends can see me, because I think there may be tears running down my face. At this point I don’t even care.
“I told you the truth. I don’t have any money on me,” I say through clenched teeth. Oh, the pain; Owen Scaggs steps even harder on my hand.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, grinning hard, and thinking about what I said. “I’m really sorry; I thought you were lying to me.” He lifts my bike off me. “Here, let me help you up.” He even puts out his hand to help me off the ground, but the smirk never leaves his face, which makes me feel like this isn’t over.
Again we stand facing each other, not saying anything. He cautiously takes a look around to see if any of the neighbors are watching.
“This is a really nice bike,” he says, finally. “What is it―a Schwinn? I think I’ll take this instead of the money. I don’t really like the blue; maybe I’ll spray paint it black.”
Suddenly, all in one move, Owen Scaggs swiftly swings his leg over the bike, then sidekicks me to the stomach. For a second time I hit the ground.
“If you’re smart, you won’t tell anyone I took your bike. You know I’ll get you if you do. And I might not be as nice next time.”
Before I can even stand up he’s already flying down the hill on the bike that I bought with my own money. What am I going to do now? How am I going to get around? What am I going to tell my parents? If I’d left my hideout just a little sooner, I might’ve missed Owen Scaggs altogether. I throw a rock at the stop sign . . . but miss. “Damn it!”
Chapter 2
Splash
Because I had to walk the rest of the way home last night, it gave me some time to think. I decided I can’t tell my dad my bike was stolen because he’ll be mad that I didn’t stand up for myself. But it was Owen Scaggs. No one messes with Owen Scaggs. Sooner or later, though, Dad’s going to ask about the bike. I have no idea what to tell him. Luckily, I made it to the dinner table on time last night, so there was no reason for him to notice. I’m just going to have to forget about the bike until I save enough for a new one.
Today isn’t starting out great. Without a bike, I’m forced to either ride the bus to school or walk. I decide to walk. If my dad sees me waiting for the bus, I figure he’ll ask me why I’m not riding my bike to school. The problem is, it’s taken me longer to walk than I thought, so now I’m late, and earn myself an after-school detention. It’s not a big deal. The detention’s only a half hour, but yesterday I promised Sara Banks I would take her sailing today. If I’m a half hour late, maybe she’ll give up waiting and go home. If she doesn’t, at least maybe by that time no one will be around to see me sailing with Sara Banks. I’m hoping she’ll just leave because then I can finish up the roof on my hideout.
Once again I find myself in front of the sailing club, and there’s Sara waiting patiently by the boat. She’s carefully rigged the sails, and two life jackets sit in the cockpit. I let out a sigh and look around to if see any of my friends are around to see me. The only person who notices me is Sara.
“Fisher, what took you so long? I got the boat set up while I was waiting.” She looks at me as if expecting me to say something, but I’m not in the mood.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” I say.
“How do you think I did setting up the boat? I’ve never set one up by myself, but I’ve helped others a lot,” she says with a proud smile.
I look over her work. The jib’s hanked on to the forestay and stacked in a neat pile on the bow, and the jib sheets are attached with clean bowline knots. She’s also done the same thing to the mainsail, flaking it neatly to the boom. She’s coiled all the extra lines in the cockpit in neat circles, paying particular attention to keeping them from knotting up on each other. Not bad for a girl, I think.
“You did alright, I guess.” I point to one of the lines, “You probably should’ve put a stopper knot in the end of that one so it doesn’t get away.” That doesn’t discourage her as she quickly puts a figure-eight knot onto the end.
“Can we go now?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, and I’m actually beginning to feel better about the day. After all, it’s better than being in school and it’s a sunny clear day with a building sea breeze. Sailing a boat is always better than sitting at a desk.
Both of us grab hold on either side of the sailboat and, in one move, slide it off the wooden ramp and into the water. Sara hops in first, and I give the boat a little shove from the dock, hopping in, too. I turn to her and say, “You take the tiller and steer us away from the dock.”
She looks at me with surprise and then beams. “I’ve never done that before,” she says. “But I know I can do it because I’ve practiced it a lot out in the harbor.” She grabs hold of the tiller and mainsheet and concentrates on the job at hand. That leaves me tending to the jib, making sure the sail is trimmed properly.
The wind’s light, but it’s still enough to push the little boat through the water. When the breeze fills the sails, the boat heels over, tipping to one side. To help balance out the boat, we both sit on the high side. As she steers around the moored boats, frowning slightly as she concentrates, I can see she actually knows what she’s doing. Once out in the open harbor, clear from anything that can get in our way, Sara eases up a bit and begins to looking around.
“This is such a great place to sail. Look at all these islands and things we could explore.” She’s right; there’re lots of islands we can explore. But growing up here I guess I never paid too much attention to the idea of exploring the islands, or anywhere else, for that matter. People have built homes on some islands, but there’re many other smaller ones that are deserted. “Maybe we can have a picnic on one of them someday,” she says, smiling.
I’m not so sure about that idea.
When we’re out farther, past the last entrance buoy, the wind’s a little stronger. The boat begins to heel more; yet, without me having to tell her, Sara eases the traveler car down so the boat will flatten out a little nicer. Not bad, I think. She’s paying attention to what she’s supposed to be doing.
Now that we’re out in the bay, I’m able
to sight along the shore to where my hideout’s situated. Just as I’d hoped, unless someone knows right where it is, no one’s going to be able to spot it.
“What are you looking at?” Sara asks, breaking my daze.
“Nothing,” I say.
“You know, you don’t talk very much. I’m going to start thinking you’re one of those weird boys who always seem to get shoved into school lockers. You’re not, are you?”
I look at her, not saying anything. Maybe she’s right, but who is she to judge when she doesn’t even know me? I take a quick second glance just to make sure I still can’t see my hideout out here on the water.
“There! I saw you. You are clearly looking at something. Don’t tell me you weren’t, Fisher Shoemaker.”
I suppose I can trust her . . . maybe. But she’s a girl, after all, and will surely blab to all her friends about my hideout. But I’m sick of all her questions, so I give up. Raising my hand, I point to a big rock far off in the distance near shore. “There, see that large rock, just to the left of the tree that looks like it’s falling over?”
Sara glances quickly in that direction while trying not to take her eyes off the direction we’re sailing. “I think so,” she says.
“That’s my hideout, tucked in behind that rock.”
She takes another quick look, and then faces me.
“You have a hideout? I don’t see anything,” she says. I roll my eyes. Girls!
“You’re not supposed to see anything, that’s why it’s called a hideout.”
“Why don’t you show it to me after we’re done sailing,” she says with a smile.
Crap. I hadn’t thought she’d want to see it. I can’t let her near it; she might show it to someone. I look at the jib and make some adjustments to the sail, pretending I don’t hear her.
“What? Are you afraid I might show someone your little fort?” she says, grinning again. How does she know that? Are all girls like her?
“No, I just can’t show it to you, that’s all,” I say, knowing she isn’t going to let it drop. The last thing I want is to have Sara Banks hanging out at my hideout. Before I know what happened she’ll probably have all her friends there, too.
Suddenly I reach out for the tiller and pull it hard to starboard. “Watch out for that lobster pot,” I scream. There’s no lobster pot, but I need to get her mind off my hideout.
I must’ve pulled the tiller harder than I thought. The boat rounds up sharply, heeling it almost on its side as water comes rushing in over the splashboards. In the same instant, I see Sara’s feet go straight up in the air as she plunges backwards, splashing into the water. The boat quickly leaves her behind in its wake. Damn! Now I’ve done it. I’ve lost Sara overboard.
Part of the test to take a sailboat out by myself was to practice and pass the man-overboard drills. I’d passed the test perfectly, retrieving the life ring the instructor tossed overboard, which was supposed to be a person. Picking Sara out of the water shouldn’t be any harder.
Without Sara controlling the mainsail it’s flogging violently in the wind, making a loud racket. Quickly grabbing hold of the mainsheet, I pull it tight, bringing the sail back under control. With the tiller in hand, I steer the sailboat back around, as I’ve practiced a hundred times before, so I can pluck Sara out of the water.
The little boat swings around in a big circle just a little downwind of her, and I can easily see the life jacket holding her head above water. Sara isn’t in any real danger, but she’s not smiling either. With the boat pointing directly into the wind, it glides to almost a stop right alongside her. I’m able to get a hand on the life jacket to pull her aboard. Plop! She hits the floorboards, leaving a big puddle of saltwater around her. She’s in a wet heap, and her sopping clothes cling to her skin. Sara lies there for a moment as she catches her breath. The water’s cold this time of year, and she begins to shiver a little.
Her wet hair’s matted to her face when she gets up off the floorboards. “You big turd!” she screams with fire coming out of her eyes, and slugs me in the shoulder. “Why’d you do that? There was no lobster pot in the way, and you know it.” Her eyes have turned from raging mad to hurt, like someone just told her that her dog died. I can’t look at her. My stomach feels uneasy.
Finally, I say, “I wanted you to stop asking me about my hideout.”
“Why?” Her face is beginning to quiver, and then tears begin to roll down her wet face. “I thought you liked me, and maybe someday you’d show me your hideout.” She wipes back some of the tears with the back of her soggy shirt sleeve. It doesn’t help much.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking down at my feet. It’s a horrible moment. Why didn’t she just let it drop? She could clearly see that I didn’t want to show it to her. But her tears are getting to me. I need to fix this. I think about it a second longer, then look at her and say, “I’ll take you there when I’m done with the roof.”
She squints her eyes hard at me and says, “Okay, you better, or you’ll be in big trouble, Fisher Shoemaker.” She still looks hurt.
“We better head back. You’re going to freeze if we don’t get back soon.” With that, I turn the sailboat around, tighten up the sails, and sail back to the club, which is now about a mile away.
Chapter 3
Vanishing Vacation
Without a bike it now takes me a lot longer to get home from the sailing club. I still can’t believe that scumbag, Owen Scaggs, helped himself to my bike. But what was I going to do? Only a dumb kid would try to stop him. And worst of all, at some point I’m going to have to face my dad. He’s going to ask me where my bike is. Maybe I’m better off without it. But I know that’s not true.
The long walk’s given me time to wonder about Sara. I feel really bad that she ended up in the water. Now she’s mad at me. By promising to show her my hideout maybe it’ll make her less mad. Why’d she want me to take her sailing, anyway? There’re plenty of other boys at the sailing club.
I arrive home just in time. I can see in the dining room Mom has the table already set, and parked in the driveway is my dad’s big four-door Chevy Caprice Classic. Dad is home.
He loves that big car! It’s push-button luxury. Secretly I wish he had something cooler; something like the dark green Mustang Steve McQueen drove in the movie “Bullitt.” Now there’s a cool car. But honestly, I really can’t see my dad driving a dark green Mustang to work. He’s an accountant for one of the law firms in town, so a car that oozes luxury and practicality is more his speed. In any case, no matter how many times I picture it in my head, I just cannot see him pulling into his work space in a shiny dark green Mustang with an engine sounding like it’ll tear apart anyone who gets in the way. It’s just not him. Besides, his Sears business suits just wouldn’t go with a cool car. My dad’s a hard-working, practical guy and he drives a car that a hard-working, practical guy should drive.
He’s also one of those guys who has all kinds of practical sayings. “A penny saved is a penny earned.” And the one I don’t understand: “Brains not brawn.” What the heck does that mean? Why can’t he just say what he means?
But, for the most part, he’s a pretty good guy. Most of my friends like him. The trouble is, he thinks I’m lazy. If I’m sitting around, maybe watching television, he feels obligated to give me something to do. Unfortunately, it’s usually chores around the house. It can be anything from cutting the lawn, to painting the old shed in the back. Sometimes I wonder if that's because when he was young there was no television where a kid could just sit and enjoy watching a favorite program. I think maybe they had radio to listen to. Spending the summer at my hideout is going to be the answer for avoiding my dad and all his crazy chores.
The hideout’s going to be such a useful place; no one will be able to find me and put me to work. It’s my summer vacation, and I want to spend it my way. Besides, what’s the point of having summer vacation if I have to do a bunch of work, like weeding the garden? If that’s the case,
I think I’d almost rather be in the classroom staring out the window.
On the stove a pot boils, and through a cloud of steam my mom calls out to me, “Get washed up for dinner, and call your sister out of her room.”
My mom still looks like June Cleaver, and refuses to wear any of the cool seventies clothes my other friends’ moms are wearing. No lime-green pant suits for her. For as long as I can remember, she’s always worn a house dress, usually accompanied by her favorite pale-pink apron that’s stitched in flowers. Her hair, short and sensible, never in her face, always has that straight-from-the-parlor look. In fact, it’s styled in such a way that I’m not even sure her hair moves.
We all sit down at the dinner table, with me and my sister sitting across from each other. My mom sits at one end, and at the head of the table, like the captain of his ship, sits Dad. He’s still in his tie, but at this point in the day the jacket came off hours ago, and his long sleeves are rolled up. His eyeglasses are the good old black plastic, not the stylish wire-rimmed glasses everyone else is starting to wear. He says he doesn’t want to look like that hippie, John Lennon.
“I saw you walking down Newbury Street this afternoon,” my dad says before digging into his dinner. “How come you weren’t riding your bike?”
I slouch in my chair, sigh, and give the spoon a little spin while I think up an answer other than “it was stolen.”
“I let Tommy Olin borrow it. He was late for baseball practice, and needed to get across town fast.”
“How come you aren’t playing baseball this summer, Fisher?” Dad asks, instantly forgetting about the bike.
Here we go. He’s going to start up with all the questions he already knows the answers to. Not really realizing I’m doing it, I thump my fingers on the table.
“I don’t know. I just don’t feel like it.”
“What kind of a boy doesn’t want to play baseball in the summer?” he asks with a scowl on his face, the kind where it looks like his eyebrow is going to curl up and fall off.