The Boat Thief Read online

  My dad looks up from the piece of meatloaf that he’s just cut, and continues, “Fisher, you’re thirteen this summer, and I think it’s a good idea for you to have a summer job. It’s time for you to learn about making money. If you aren’t going to play baseball, then you should at least have a job.”

  That gets my attention! “Why do I have to get a job?” I protest. “None of my friends have jobs.” The first thing that goes through my mind is my hideout. My big summer plan just got flushed down the toilet. A summer job will just not fit at all into my plan.

  “I arranged for you to talk to Mrs. Fennel tomorrow, after school,” my dad says. “You know Jack Fennel, her son. I think he’s in your grade,” he says, taking a bite of meatloaf.

  So if he already made arrangements tomorrow for me to talk with Mrs. Fennel, he knew I wasn’t going to play baseball this summer. I put my knife and fork down. This isn’t fair!

  The Fennel family owns a local restaurant called the Sea Side. It’s not all that fancy, but it’s where all the summer tourists go for a Maine lobster dinner and fried clams. Everyone sits on bench seats with newspaper spread across the tables. The newspaper makes it easy for the waitresses to clean up, because eating lobster is such a mess. It’s a really busy place in the summer.

  I push the peas around my plate, making little rows of green.

  “But Dad,” I protest. “I don’t have time for a job this summer.”

  He chuckles and takes a bite of mashed potatoes, then says, “How can you possibly not have enough time? That’s all you’ve got in the summer, is time. Mrs. Fennel is doing me a favor by taking you on in the restaurant. Tomorrow after school you need to stop by there and talk with her.”

  I start to object, but he puts his hand up and says, “Tomorrow she’ll tell you when you start, and what you’ll be doing. Remember, tomorrow after school.” To emphasize his point, he waves an empty fork at me.

  In some hot kitchen doing dishes on a sunny summer day is the last place I want to be! I hate doing dishes. I’m going to have to try to figure a way out of this one, but I know it’s probably pointless because when my dad makes up his mind, that is that. Tomorrow I’ll have to talk to Mrs. Fennel, like it or not.

  Chapter 4

  First Time

  My summer’s started, but it’s not the way I planned it. Last week I stopped in to talk with Mrs. Fennel at the Sea Side, just as my dad instructed me to do. She seems nice enough, and is happy I’m going to be starting as a dishwasher. I wish I was as happy. School ended a week ago, so tomorrow is going to be my first day on the job. Lucky me.

  I’ll be starting my job as a dishwasher and, if everything goes well, they’ll train me to be a busboy. I have to admit, being a busboy actually sounds promising because Mrs. Fennel says if I hustle, and do a bang-up job, the waitresses have to split some of their tips with me. Tips? I hadn’t thought about that when my dad told me about the job. But a little extra pocket change means I might be able to buy a new bike sooner than I thought.

  Damn that Owen Scaggs.

  Before school ended, I was able to finish the roof on my hideout. I’m excited that I got it done, but I doubt that I’ll be able to spend any time there now that I’m employed.

  Today, however, as promised after I accidentally lost her overboard, I’m going to take Sara Banks to see my hideout. I’m meeting her by the sailing club. I still am not sure that’s a good idea, but she was crying and wet at the time; what was I supposed to do? But I’m proud of the way it turned out, so I’m kinda looking forward to showing it to someone, even if it’s only Sara Banks.

  Stretched across two of the large boulders, wooden planks make up the hideout’s roof. Even on the rainiest days it’s as dry as any house roof. When I was done building, I’d found an old picnic table, which, after a fresh coat of paint, fit perfectly inside. Also, through what I call The Window (but is really just a big opening), there’s somewhat of a good view of the harbor. But the real treasure is the old, small sofa. I scavenged it from the dump. A borrowed wheelbarrow made it easy to get it to my hideout, and, with a good brushing, and airing out, it is perfect. Part of me secretly can’t wait to see what Sara thinks about the hideout.

  Sara’s waiting for me right outside the fence by the club, just as we’d decided. She gives me a little wave and a smile. “Hi Fisher,” she says.

  Today she looks different from how she usually looks in school. Not too bad, actually. Her hair, which is sandy brown, is not in a ponytail or anything; it’s just sort of flowing. At school I’ve never seen her wear her hair like this. And she even has on a new pair of jeans instead of hand-me-downs. Honestly, she doesn’t look like the Sara Banks everyone knows at school. I kind of like it.

  As we’re walking, we don’t say much. She comments on what a nice day it is, and I agree with her. Then Sara tells me about a friend of hers at school who did something funny at lunch with her sandwich, but I’m not really paying attention. For some reason, I’m feeling a little self-conscious about the way I look, yet Sara doesn’t seem to mind. I can’t understand why I really care how Sara thinks I look, but for some reason I do. It’s strange. I promise myself next time I’m going to look a little better; maybe even comb my hair. All my friends are starting to comb their hair, maybe I should, too.

  The hideout’s only about a fifteen-minute walk from the sailing club, yet it’s tucked away down a path nobody ever uses. Arriving at the old rusty chain across the overgrown road, I lift it up so she can pass under it. Attempting to be funny, I act like an English gentleman holding a door open for a lady. It’s actually pretty lame, but she smiles and says, “Thank you, kind sir.” As she passes under, she gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

  Down toward the water’s edge we’re almost at the entrance to my hideout. I hold my hand up for her to stop. “Take a look around, do you see it?” I ask.

  “See what?” she says.

  “My hideout. You can’t see it from here, can you?”

  She looks harder, then I point right at the opening. “I still don’t see anything,” Sara says.

  “That’s perfect. I don’t want anyone to know it’s here. Come on,” I say, as I almost grab her hand; but stop when I realize what I’d almost done. I almost held her hand!

  The entrance to the hideout is an actual door I found alongside the road, but I cleverly nailed pieces of pine branches to the front of it so it looks more like a tree than a door.

  “Whoa! That’s so cool.” Sara says. “No one will ever know it’s a door to a hideout.” She looks it over until she’s certain that I hadn’t missed a spot with a pine branch. “I like how you have all the branches laid in there just like a real tree.”

  I swing the door open. She steps in and inspects the table and bench I’ve cleaned up and painted; she bangs on it twice with her fist. When she sees the old sofa in the corner by the window she laughs. “I can’t believe you have an old couch in here. How did you get that thing in here?”

  She looks around with satisfaction, putting her hands on her hips, and says, “I know what this place needs.” Sara goes over to the far corner, where I had put all my empty Pepsi bottles, grabs one, and places it in the center of the table. Next, she goes back outside for almost a minute before returning with something in her hands that she keeps me from seeing.

  As she places a bunch of daisies in the Pepsi-bottle vase, I realize that she hasn’t been in my hideout for more than a minute, and already she has flowers in it. Girls! I feel like I should be more upset than I really am. The daisies aren’t all that bad, and they do make the place look a little nicer, but I sure the hell am not going to let her know that.

  “Get those things out of here,” I say, but not very forcefully.

  “Nope,” she says in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  “This is such a great place,” she says. “What are you planning on doing with it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a place to hang out. Now that I’m going to be working at the
Sea Side I won’t be able to get here as much as I thought I would.”

  Her eyes go wide, “You’re working at the Sea Side? What are you doing there?”

  Scratching at the ground with a stick, I say, “I’m just a dishwasher. But after a while I’ll be training to be a busboy. That’ll be cool because then I’ll get some of the waitresses’ tips.”

  “Maybe I should work there as a waitress,” Sara says, smiling.

  Why would anyone want to work on summer vacation if they didn’t have to? It doesn’t make sense “I think you have to be older to be a waitress. And I think they hired me as a favor to my dad.”

  I sit down on the sofa and put my feet up on the bench. I’m starting to really like my hideout.

  Sara and I don’t speak for a minute or two. It just seems nice hanging out in a place all my own with nothing to do. This is how I always pictured my summer vacation.

  Minutes later she turns around, and says, “How come you’re not riding your bike anymore? I don’t think I ever remember seeing you around without your bike.”

  Sometimes I wish she wouldn’t talk. I was just getting over thinking about my bike, and had convinced myself I needed a new one anyway. But now I’m feeling sick to my stomach all over again remembering how Owen Scaggs simply took it. I put my hand to my head and begin rubbing my temples. I mumble, “I lost it.”

  “How in the world did you lose your bike?”

  I’ve nothing to lose by letting her in on it. “Don’t tell anyone, but do you know that dirtbag Owen Scaggs? He took it from me.”

  Her eyes widen, and her expression is disbelieving as she sits down next to me on the couch. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did it happen?”

  I close my eyes. “Do you really need to know?”

  “Of course I need to know,” she says. “I’m your friend, aren’t I?” She looks at me with concern.

  “Well,” I hesitate. “I was riding home from here and it got dark. I was going up the big hill just before Main Street when he sort of jumped out of the dark and took it. Now it’s his.”

  “Just like that, you let him take it from you?”

  “Just like that,” I said. “Nobody messes with Owen Scaggs. You know he was sent to juvenile prison, and everyone says it was for stabbing some kid with a knife?”

  “You don’t know that’s true,” she says. “For all anyone really knows he went away to summer camp.”

  “Well, I wasn’t about to find out for myself. Besides I was thinking of getting a new bike.”

  “You were not thinking about getting a new bike.” For the first time, she doesn’t try to ask me any more questions about it, and just lets it be.

  Once again we’re both silent, and it’s kinda nice hanging out with her even though we aren’t saying much. Finally I break the silence with my own question. “Why’d you want to see my hideout so bad?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, looking around. “A hideout sounded kind of cool. It’s a lot better than hanging out at my house after school, especially because my sister Elisabeth usually brings a bunch of friends over to smoke in the basement. I can’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke, and my mom pretends not to notice. I don’t know why she pretends they aren’t smoking.”

  “Maybe she really doesn’t know,” I offer.

  “No, she knows. She’s just more interested in watching her TV programs than yelling at my sister.” Sara pauses for a moment, staring hard out the window, then runs a hand through her hair. “She actually isn’t my real mom; she’s my step-mom. My real mom died when I was little.”

  She looks at me, but I don’t know what to say. There seems to be a little quiver in her face, but she attempts a weak smile. I’m not too sure I should ask her because I don’t want to make her cry.

  “My dad tells me she died in a car wreck. I don’t know too much about it. But I don’t want to know much about it; not yet, anyway. Maybe someday.” While picking imaginary lint off her jeans, she’s gazing down at the floor like she’d just stubbed her toe, but is pretending it doesn’t hurt.

  Changing the subject she smiles a little, and says, “So, Fisher Shoemaker, why do you like building forts? I’m sorry . . . hide . . . outs.” A smirk grows on her face as if forts are for little kids, and hideouts are for gangsters.

  “No real reason,” I answer. “It’s just something to do.” That seems to satisfy her, at least for the moment.

  “So, tell me a dark secret about yourself,” she asks.

  I wonder; do all girls ask this many questions? Because if they do, I’m going to avoid them as long as I can. Just to keep her quiet, I make something up.

  “Last winter, when I was in Webster’s Drugstore, I was buying some Milk Duds and when I got to the register the lady had to run to the back for a second. The thing is, she left the cash draw open. I made sure no one was looking and I grabbed a twenty dollar bill and shoved it in my pocket before she got back.”

  Sara looks at me; I notice she has brown eyes. A grin grows across her face, like she thinks I’ve done something really cool. Then, without warning, she gives my shoulder a hard shove and says, “You did NOT! You are such a liar.”

  “I don’t have any dark secrets, are you happy?”

  “What about your dad? Do you get along with him?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I get along with him okay. He keeps telling me I’m lazy, though, and I get tired of hearing that.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I lazy?” I make a sweeping gesture with my hands around the hideout. “I built all this, didn’t I?” I pause, then say, “I think he says that because when he gives me chores, they aren’t that much fun, so I usually find something better to do. Then he gets mad because they aren’t done and calls me lazy. I don’t think I’m lazy; I’d just rather have fun, that’s all.”

  “Why? What kinds of horrible things does he ask you to do?” she asks in a mocking tone.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The usual stuff; cut the lawn, take the trash out.”

  “That doesn’t sound so hard,” Sara says.

  The daylight is beginning to fade, and in the distance the islands are starting to shadow. The lobster boats resting on their moorings glow orange from the setting sun.

  “We should be going soon or we’ll be late for dinner,” I say, glancing at my watch.

  “This is so pretty watching the sunset from here,” she says, smiling. “We can go in a few minutes. So you’re a little late for dinner, big deal. My mom probably won’t even notice that I’m not there.”

  I don’t disagree, so we watch the sky turn dim as the islands evaporate into the dark with the rest of the world. There’re lighted dots of red and green from the running lights of boats. The seagulls have grown quiet for the day.

  “So. Is there anyone at school you like?” Sara asks, breaking the silence. When she turns to look at me, the expression on her face puzzles me.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “I guess I like hanging out with Johnny Binder. He’s kind of funny.” Sara rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she gives me a soft poke with her finger. “I mean are there any girls at school you like. You know . . . do you have a crush on anyone?”

  Why do girls always want to know stuff like that? Of course I don’t have a crush on anyone because they’re always asking dumb questions like this.

  Before I realize what’s happening, Sara leans over, putting her lips to mine. What in the world? I pull away quickly. “What WAS that?” I gasp.

  Still smiling, she says, “What, you didn’t like it?”

  I have no idea. My brain’s on overload. “I guess it was okay. But . ...?”

  “But what?” she says, and leans over to kiss me again.

  This time I don’t pull away. She’s all over me.

  Finally she stops to catch her breath and says, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  My mind’s spinning a hundred
miles per hour, and I’m not even sure I hear her talking. It was sort of tingly and her lips were kind of soft. Was I doing it right? This time I lean in to kiss her back and she doesn’t stop me.

  I honestly have no idea how long we’ve been on the old sofa making out, but in the dark I look down at the little glowing hands on my watch.

  “Holy crap! I’m in huge trouble! I’m so late for dinner my dad is going to kill me. We gotta get going!” I grab Sara’s hand, yanking her up from the sofa and make for the door. It’s pitch-black outside but I still know the route like the back of my hand.

  “Slow down,” she says. “You’re not going to be in any less trouble if you get back ten minutes sooner.”

  She’s right; my dad’s not going to be any less mad if I get home ten minutes sooner. I give her hand a soft squeeze and slow down to enjoy the walk home with Sara.

  With all the wonderful things that’ve just happened, as we walk hand in hand, my mind begins to wander. Now it seems my hideout suddenly has a whole new purpose, one that I would never have thought of; it’s now a make-out place. Also, I feel like I’m instantly much older than all my friends because I’ve just made out. It’s funny how fast things can change.

  Chapter 5

  The Body

  Walking to her house, I’m happily holding Sara’s hand. I’ve never thought being with a girl would be like this. In fact, most of the time I try to keep as far away as possible from girls. But the funny thing is, at the same time, I hope and pray no one will see us. Me and Sara Banks holding hands; if my friends ever found out, it would be all over school. I don’t know if I’d like that or not. I keep telling myself to let go of her hand, but I just don’t want to.

  When we get to her driveway I’m a little disappointed that it’s over for the night. What a night! Then, as if we had been doing this all summer, she turns and gives me one last kiss. “See you tomorrow,” she says, smiling, and then turns and walks to the front door.

  “Mmuhm,” I mumble. I just stand there, watching her head toward the house, and finally think to give her a slight wave. She smiles again. My mind’s fuzzy and my world’s spinning. It’s a good spin. I think. And I can’t wait for the next time I can kiss her. Maybe tomorrow?