“So when the sun is out,” he continued, “they like to stick to the shade—deep in the weeds. Especially Muskies, because they are such large fish. Very difficult to get them to bite during the day; better off in the evening—or, better still, in the morning.”
“See?” Reggie smiled, patting his son on the back. “Morning is better anyway.”
“Morning is better,” Baird confirmed.
“Well, then,” Gregory said, “Baird, why don’t you help the boys bring our gear up to the campsite while we go check us in?”
When Baird failed to respond, Reggie gave his son another friendly shove. .
“Go on, Baird. Go help your friends.”
* * *
“Can’t you carry anything else?” Tyler grumbled.
“I’m carrying as much as I can,” Baird huffed.
Kent looked over at him. The chubby boy was clutching a fishing pole in each hand, trying desperately to balance them so that the tips didn’t stick in the dirt. Tyler, on the other hand, had his black bag over one shoulder and was trying to wrap his arms around Kent’s obstinate sleeping bag. Sergio was also carrying his fair share: a tacklebox in each hand, and a tent draped across both arms. As Kent watched, Tyler’s stretched fingers finally managed to grasp the backside of the sleeping bag, and he squeezed it to his chest and stood.
“You’re fucking cold-blooded,” Tyler grumbled. “Maybe that’s why your arms are so fucking weak.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Baird corrected him. “I’m a mamm—”
“Maybe that’s why your dick is so small, too.”
Sergio laughed, and Kent couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. Tyler’s inane comments always had a way of getting to him, which was probably why they were such good friends despite their glaring differences.
One of the fishing poles in Baird’s hands snagged in the dirt and he stumbled, barely catching himself before falling.
“I don’t think—”
Kent shifted the two bags that crisscrossed his sweat-soaked shirt.
“Let’s just get the stuff to the campsite, okay?”
6.
The campfire shone brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark night. Thick, flat clouds had rolled in after dinner, blanketing the campers and the moon in a mild chill.
Kent rolled his marshmallow slowly over the open flame, relishing at how perfectly brown and bubbly the sugary outer layer had become.
Nearly perfect.
He took a break from admiring his own roasted marshmallow and turned to Baird.
What the fuck?
Not only had Baird lit his entire marshmallow on fire, but his stick was also alight.
“Jesus,” Baird muttered, shaking his stick back and forth. Bits of flaming marshmallow whipped about the campfire like confetti.
“Baird!” Reggie shouted, reaching to stop his son, while at the same time leaning away from him in an attempt to avoid being splattered by the scalding sugar shower.
Baird seemed not to notice, too obviously worried about losing one of his last marshmallows, and continued to shake the stick violently. Thankfully, for the sake of their skin, the charade didn’t last long as the boy’s stick suddenly broke and the flaming half, with the marshmallow still burning like a medieval torch, fell into the fire.
Baird whined.
“Baird, why don’t you look at what how Kent is doing it?”
Kent rolled his eyes. It was like watching a three-year-old frustrated with a one-thousand-piece puzzle; no matter how hard they tried, the patience or mental capacity eluded them.
Reggie reached into the bag of marshmallows at his side; it was nearly empty. Despite having already polished off at least a dozen by himself, Baird was no better at toasting them now than he had been with his first.
Reggie handed his son a marshmallow and again indicated to Kent with his chin. Kent nodded proudly and rolled his marshmallow a third time, the now crispy exterior a good three feet above the furthest licks of the fire.
“Take your time, son.”
Baird snatched the raw marshmallow greedily and then looked around for a replacement stick.
Sergio, who for some reason hated marshmallows—who hates marshmallows?—was sitting on a log with his father across from both Kent and his dad. All of them save Tyler were wearing long-sleeved shirts and jeans.
“I thought it was supposed to be warm this weekend. It’s the dead of summer,” Nick Salvados muttered, rubbing his thighs.
Gregory Griddle looked at his friend.
“It was warm,” he said. “It was blisteringly hot—so hot that it melted my shoes.”
“Well it’s downright freezing out here now.”
“Bah, it’s not that bad,” Gregory replied, reaching into his own bag for another marshmallow. “Right, son?”
Kent didn’t notice anything going on around him; he was completely transfixed on his marshmallow. Now it was perfect: the surface was completely brown, just dark enough to form a crust, some charred sugar to crack with his teeth, but with an interior that was undoubtedly warm and sticky.
“Kent? Kent, I’m talking to you.”
A small bubble of caramelized sugar rose on the surface before deflating slowly.
Someone suddenly grabbed his roasting stick partway between his hand and the perfect gem of a marshmallow.
“Yeah, Kent,” Tyler said, wrenching the stick from Kent’s grasp. “Your dad is talking to you.”
“Hey!” Kent cried, but it was too late.
In one smooth motion, Tyler reached down, grabbed the still bubbling marshmallow, and shoved it into his gaping mouth.
“Tyler, what the—?” Kent stopped himself before dropping the F-bomb.
Even though his mouth must have been on fire, his upper pallet just screaming from the intense heat, Tyler smiled. He looked eerie, the campfire light illuminating his entire face save the scar; it looked like his face was split in two.
“Tyler! That was—”
“Here, Kent,” Gregory said calmly, and then passed his son the half-empty bag of marshmallows.
Kent, still leering at Tyler, missed the bag, and five or six of the white cylinders spilled onto the ground. Baird, who was searching desperately for a new roasting stick, heard the bag fall and immediately chimed in.
“Guys! Don’t waste any—we don’t have many more left!” He was still clutching the half-full bag that his dad had given him moments ago.
Sergio chuckled, and even Sergio’s dad, not known for being the most humorous of men, lit up with a smile.
“You ass—” Kent began, his face beginning to redden, but Gregory spoke up in a tone that suggested he should drop it.
“Give it up, guys,” he said.
Kent continued to glare at Tyler, but said nothing more.
You asshole!
“No sticks!” Baird said, from somewhere in the brush behind them.
“Let’s try something else, shall we?” Gregory offered, reaching behind the log and pulling out his acoustic guitar.
“Yeah, let’s,” Tyler said eagerly. He smiled, a halfhearted, pained expression, no doubt a reflection of his burning mouth.
Good. Serves you right.
Kent knew that in the morning the inside Tyler’s mouth would peel away like a layer of film on a tub of gravy left in the fridge overnight, and this thought offered him a modicum of satisfaction.
Serves you right.
To facilitate an end to the whole fiasco, Gregory strummed his guitar.
“What do you guy want to hear?”
“Metallica,” Tyler answered predictably. He clucked his tongue in an attempt to remove the thick layer of sugar that clung to the roof of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Sergio said.
Gregory rolled his eyes.
He began plucking away at the strings. “How about this one?”
It only took a couple of chords before both Kent and Tyler recognized the tune. But Kent, still furious with Tyler, cont
inued to sulk, even as his father broke into song.
“You got what I need.”
Now it was Tyler’s turn to scowl.
“Terrible song,” Sergio’s father muttered, which just made Greg sing louder.
“I know, right?” Tyler said.
Reggie buried his face in his hands, while Baird looked on as if he had never heard the tune before. The chubby boy took a break from scrounging around the campfire for a roasting stick and stared at Gregory’s fingers as they moved hypnotically across the strings. Although it was clear from his expression that he had no idea what the song was, his lips moved slightly as if he were looking for a place to join in.
“You got what I need,” Gregory sang. “Come on, everyone, join in!”
Reggie reluctantly pulled his face out of his hands and grumbled a few lines. Nick joined in next, and Sergio hummed along with his father. Tyler resisted, his thin lips tightly pressed together. Even Baird started to sing now, though it was clear that he didn’t know the words. Finally, when he could resist no longer, Kent found himself muttering the words to the catchy tune.
The song ended in a loud cacophony that echoed off the trees surrounding the campsite. As the laughter erupted, even Tyler couldn’t keep the scowl etched on his face, and he eventually joined in as well.
Although Greg had only played one song, it had been a long drive and it seemed best that they retire on a joyous note.
“That’s it,” Gregory exclaimed with a laugh. “I’m done!”
As if to back up his words, he reached behind the log on which he sat and grabbed his guitar case.
“No Metallica?” Tyler asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Not tonight, Tyler. Tomorrow night—I promise.”
Tyler nodded. Despite his obvious detestation of the song, he too was wrapped up in the collective joviality.
As Gregory put his guitar back into his case and the rest of the group began collecting their things, Baird just stood there looking lost.
“One more marshmallow?” he asked.
Reggie answered immediately.
“No, son, time for bed.”
Baird nodded slowly, his expression grim.
“Tyler, why don’t you help me put out this fire?” Gregory asked. “Oh, and maybe it will be fun for you boys to share a tent?”
Kent’s eyes flipped up and he looked at his father—he was always the one his dad asked to help put out the campfire.
Gregory looked away and continued hurriedly.
“Kent, you stay with Baird and—”
“I’ll stay with Sergio,” Tyler said quickly. It was clear that Gregory wanted Tyler to join Kent and Baird, but seeing the crooked smile on Tyler’s face, he relented and nodded slowly.
“I guess that means I’m with you two goons,” Gregory said, indicating Reggie and Nick with the head of his guitar just before he closed the case.
“Gonna be a tight fit,” Reggie noted, but despite his comment, he seemed game.
“Go get some water from the lake, Tyler,” Gregory repeated. “We better put out this pathetic excuse for a bonfire.”
* * *
Kent was alone in his tent when someone scratched at the fabric.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Gregory said softly. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
The tent unzipped and his father’s face filled the opening, his blue eyes scanning the interior of the tent.
“Where’s Baird?”
“Brushing his teeth,” Kent answered curtly.
His dad nodded, and then eased his body partway into the tent.
“Listen,” he began in a soft voice, “I want to talk to you about something.”
Kent folded his sleeping bag under his arms and stared at his father. Although he was still annoyed by the way his dad had failed to back him up when Tyler had grabbed his marshmallow—his absolutely perfectly roasted marshmallow—and how he had asked Tyler to help him put out the fire, Gregory Griddle wasn’t a particularly emotional man, and his unexpectedly somber tone broke down Kent’s guard.
“Listen, you know why I’m so nice to your friend Tyler, don’t you?”
Kent nodded slowly, confirming the man’s words without really understanding them.
Tyler? Why does he want to talk about Tyler?
Greg lowered his eyes for a moment, and he picked at the zipper on Kent’s sleeping bag. A second later, he looked up again and stared directly into his son’s eyes before continuing.
“I knew his father once,” Gregory began. “He was—well, he was a troubled boy who grew into a troubled man.”
Kent thought he saw his dad shudder. Gregory looked away again, this time as if he were remembering something, his attention drawn to the crisscrossing poles at the apex of the tent.
“And his mother, well—you know his mother; she has some problems, too.”
This time, Kent nodded more obviously. Tyler wasn’t one to have company often, but he had been to his friend’s house a few times after they had been out drinking and he didn’t want to come home and risk getting caught by his own family. Although they had gone through extensive measures to sneak inside without being noticed—special ops-type measures—their efforts had been unnecessary; Tyler’s mom was always passed out on the couch with the TV blaring. And each time, there had been a half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table, sitting beside a matching half-empty jar of pills. Indeed, Mrs. Wandry had some problems as well.
“Yeah,” Kent said softly.
“So I just—I just want to give the kid a chance. An outlet, somewhere he can feel safe and welcome, you know? And I think… I think he needs some structure, rules to keep him straight. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Kent nodded again. The fact was, he thought he knew where his father was coming from, and in some weird way he was proud of him for expressing himself so openly. Still, it hurt that one of his father’s rare emotional moments had nothing to do with him.
“I get it, Dad,” he replied softly.
Any seriousness in Gregory’s face vanished, and was immediately replaced by one of his famous side-mouth grins.
“Good. And you know that you are—” He reached into the tent to tousle Kent’s hair, but Kent lay down quickly and the man’s arm fell short.
Gregory’s smile grew.
“Well,” he laughed, “you know you’re my champ, right?”
Kent nodded again.
“Hey, listen, you want to stay in this tent with Baird, or do you want to switch with Tyler or Sergio?”
Kent stared at his dad. It was clear that the man wanted to do right by him, to include him in some of the decisions, but he was torn. Gregory had already divvied up the sleeping arrangements, and besides, who was to say that Tyler and Sergio weren’t already asleep?
It was the sleeping bag fiasco all over again—trunk or backseat?
Make up your damn mind, Kent.
“Kent?” His father looked on.
Just as Kent opened his mouth to answer, someone stumbled outside the tent, and Gregory leaned his head out.
“Baird’s back,” his dad said, tapping Kent’s knee through his sleeping bag.
That was it; the decision had been made—and once again, Kent hadn’t made it.
“Goodnight, champ.”
Kent nodded.
“’Night, Dad.”
“Sleep well, boys,” Gregory said to them both as he pulled himself out of the tent.
* * *
Kent lay awake long after his father had left. It was Baird: the boy’s snoring was a terrible assault of wet, bubbling pops followed by breathless gasps.
Jesus Christ.
Twice, he had shaken the boy awake to get him to roll over in an attempt to put an end to the obnoxious noise. And while this worked for a minute or two, just when Kent’s eyelids started to droop, the snoring would start again and he would be wide awake. How he regretted not telling his father that he wanted to sleep with Tyler, Sergi
o, or the goddamn boogeyman instead of sleeping with Baird.
Goddamn it, why can’t you just make up your mind?
He was about to wake Baird again, but then he heard a noise outside the tent and he lay there, trying to pick out the sound amidst the noise from the slumbering manatee beside him. His heart was racing.
Then he heard what sounded like a stumble, followed by a curse, and his heartrate returned to normal; it was only Tyler.
Baird snorted loudly and his eyes popped open.
“What? What happened?” he practically shouted, the boy’s retainer making the words nearly unintelligible.
The tent suddenly unzipped and Tyler poked his head in.
“Shut the fuck up, Baird,” he said, then winced and sat inside their tent, rubbing his foot. “Stubbed my goddamned toe.”
“What’s up, Tyler?” Kent asked, pulling himself onto his elbows.
Tyler smiled.
“Looky looky what I got!” he exclaimed, his smile spreading. He abandoned rubbing his foot and pulled the half-empty bottle of vodka into the tent.
“What is that?” Baird asked, his eyes wide.
Tyler made a face at the sounds that came out of the boy’s retainer-filled mouth and ignored him.
“How ‘bout a nightcap, then we go exploring?”
He sloshed the liquid provocatively in the bottle as he spoke.
Kent was torn—he wasn’t really that tired, and midnight exploring was a prospect he had been excited about prior to leaving for the trip. On the other hand, his dad would be pissed if he found out they’d left the tent to go wandering around in the dark.
One look at Tyler’s face and he knew that he would be pissed if they didn’t go.
“Well?” Tyler asked, unscrewing the top of the bottle. “Make up your mind, Kent.”
Doomed if you do, doomed if you don’t.
Thankfully, Baird spoke up before things got awkward.
“I don’t think we should go tonight.”
Tyler’s smile faded.
“I think—” Kent started, but Tyler cut him off.
“Fine,” he said petulantly before taking a swig from the bottle. Despite his attempts at looking tough, he grimaced as he swallowed. “I didn’t want to go tonight, anyway.”
Insatiable Series Omnibus Edition (Books 1-3) Page 30
