In the uncluttered mind of a 12-year-old boy, few things in life compared to a summer vacation from school. Kyle McCann awoke early on the first official day of his summer recess. By sunrise he had already sprung out from beneath his bedcovers and scooted into his favorite pair of tattered dungarees. It made little difference to him that the pockets to these jeans were nearly torn from the rear. Boys his age didn’t typically fuss about the details of such attire, especially on occasions designed for play.
After tugging a lemon-colored T-shirt over his head and sweeping his fingers across a mop of dirty-blonde hair, Kyle stood in front of his bedroom mirror and winced at his reflection. In terms of appearance, there was nothing to smile about while wallowing through the awkward stages of preadolescence. His freckle-faced cuteness no longer served him as an ally in the company of strangers.
By nature, Kyle was a slender, pasty-skinned boy. His legs and arms were disproportionately oversized for his torso, and his head seemed to sprout from his shoulders like a balloon knotted to a narrow rail. According to his mother, this transformation could be properly blamed on a phase that most boys his age endured without the slightest quibble. But Kyle was bright enough to understand that he stood virtually no chance of accumulating any popularity before the seventh grade if puberty didn’t complete its alteration sooner rather than later.
None of this worried Kyle to the point where he stayed up at night brooding. The few insults slung at him on the school bus became nothing more than innocuous fodder after awhile. Besides, he was currently more preoccupied with catching fish in Shade Tree Pond than he was the eye of any would-be admirer. Still, in his thoughtful moments, he wondered how much longer his childhood would last. The age of insecurity was forming like a blemish beneath his skin. In time, he’d inadvertently join the ranks of those who questioned their worth among their peers.
When Kyle exited his bedroom with his tackle box and fishing pole in hand, he immediately smelled a scent of something buttery wafting in the air from downstairs in the kitchen. Evidently, he wasn’t the only one who decided to rise with the first rays of day. His mother, Linda McCann, had been preparing for this occasion almost as long as he was, although for slightly different reasons. She took the liberty of concocting one of her morning delicacies—homemade waffles.
Similar to many boys his age, Kyle may have occasionally neglected to compliment his mother for such favors, but he genuinely appreciated her commitment to the family. He was well aware of the fact that she suspended her career as a teacher after he was born in order to stay home and take care of the domestic responsibilities. Perhaps the most telling aspect of Linda’s good nature was that she never sought praise from those whom she loved. It was more than enough for her to know that her husband and son relied on her far more than a few trite words could accurately express.
Waffles and freshly squeezed orange juice sounded like a feast at some breakfast tables in the neighborhood, but this fare had become common at the McCann’s residence. Linda took a certain pride in her accomplishments in the kitchen, and this was another fairly uncommon attribute in the climate of today’s career-minded world.
Linda was a svelte-bodied, attractive woman with auburn hair and eyes the color of spring bluegrass. Although nearly forty, she still had a supple complexion that rivaled those ten years her junior. She sometimes credited her youthful appearance to four factors: a modest amount of make-up, plenty of sleep, exercise, and never allowing her competition to scrutinize her during the brightest hours of daylight.
As Kyle’s nose piloted him toward the kitchen, he smiled with boyish delight while his mother toiled over the steaming waffle iron. She was dressed in a blue bathrobe and slippers, the ones Kyle had reluctantly purchased for her the previous Christmas. Mixing bowls and droplets of spilt batter peppered the countertops. By the time Kyle sat down at the breakfast table, his mother had delivered a hot stack of waffles dripping with melted butter and gobs of raspberry jam.
“Mom,” Kyle chimed as his eyes leveled upon the feast. “You didn’t have to wake up so early and make all this stuff.”
“Oh,” Linda countered assertively, “and I suppose you would’ve handled the waffle iron with greater ease.” She took a moment to scrape her fingers through the roots of her son’s tangled hair before saying, “I know how you kids get this time of year. You’re always in a rush to be someplace else.”
Rather argue with his mother’s logic, Kyle shrugged his shoulders and started to devour his breakfast. He figured he better eat quickly; his father had developed a taste for these early morning treats almost as much as he did. Within seconds, Kyle had already cut into the meal and crammed more food into his mouth than seemed humanly possible.
His mother laughed as she watched him try to consume the whole stack of waffles in record time. “Hey, slow down,” she advised, giggling into her hand. “You might even get a chance to taste some of it.”
Kyle swallowed hard before saying, “Sorry, Mom, but like you said, I’m sort of in a rush.”
Linda casually directed her eyes to the tackle box and fishing pole leaning against the counter. She then said, “I believe the fish can wait until you finish your breakfast.”
Kyle forced himself to eat at a slower pace by reaching for a glass of orange juice. At the same time, Linda opened the morning paper and scanned the headlines. She knew the answer to her next question but decided to ask it anyway. “You going fishing with Robby?”
“Yeah. He knows where all the good spots are around here.”
“I’m sure he does,” Linda sighed with a touch of sarcasm. After a thoughtful pause she asked, “Just where do you boys plan on going fishing today?”
“We usually end up down off of Adler Lane, near Shade Tree Pond.”
“That’s nothing but an old swamp, isn’t it?”
Kyle gulped the last traces of his juice before correcting, “Mom, it’s not a swamp, not yet anyway.”
“They aren’t any fish in there,” his mother quipped.
“Are you kidding me?” Kyle exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and holding out his hands fifteen inches apart in front of his mother’s face. “Robby just pulled a catfish out of there last week—at least this big.”
Linda found it difficult to stifle a chuckle. “Oh, Kyle, you know Robby Taylor better than most. He’s prone to a little exaggeration at times.”
“Not this time,” Kyle disagreed.
“Did you actually see the catfish?”
Kyle paused reluctantly before muttering, “Well, not exactly.” His tone quickly became more adamant. “But Robby wouldn’t fib about something like this. For once, I believe him.”
“If you say so,” Linda giggled, trying to mimic her son’s straight-faced expression.
Linda did not wish to sound like an overbearing mother, but she couldn’t resist the urge to pry into her son’s activities, no matter how harmless they may have seemed on the surface. After all, twelve-year-old boys acquired a knack at getting themselves into trouble. Sometimes such behavior unavoidably culminated in danger. Since Kyle was her only child, she refused to let him run heedlessly off into the woods without at least issuing a warning.
“How long do you boys plan to be over at the pond?” Linda asked tentatively.
Kyle cleared the last traces of food from his plate with his fork before responding. “Maybe a couple of hours or so.”
“I want you to call me as soon as you’re finished, understood?”
“Come on, Mom,” Kyle griped. “I’m not a baby anymore. We’re just going fishing.”
“Fishing involves water,” Linda reminded her son. “And if I remember correctly, you aren’t exactly the best swimmer in the neighborhood, are you?”
Kyle’s cheeks blushed slightly as he paced over to the counter to retrieve his equipment. “Okay,” he grumbled, “I get your point. I’ll call you as soon as we get back to Robby’s house.”
“Fair enough.” Linda then tapped her index finger against her cheek and p
layfully asked, “I know you’re not a baby anymore, Kyle, but are you too old to give your mother a kiss goodbye?”
Kyle rolled his eyes and leaned across the table toward his mother’s awaiting cheek. He pecked her quickly near her left ear, depositing a quarter-sized waffle crumb in her hair. “See you later,” he said, striding toward the door leading from the kitchen to his backyard.
Linda waved her hand in front of her face before dislodging the sticky morsel from her hair. As Kyle scampered out the back door to fetch his bicycle, she turned her eyes to the morning newspaper. According to the headlines, it was going to be another scorching day in town—the fifth day in a row where temperatures soared above 90 degrees. Summer had truly arrived, and all but the young welcomed the heat and humidity that sometimes accompanied the season.
Chapter 2
Songs of a Peach Tree Page 2
