by M. D. Lee
“Fisher!” My teacher’s voice pierces my brain and I drag my gaze from the window. She looks hard at me from the front of the classroom. She is not smiling. She’s wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, and her hair’s wound up in a bun that seems painfully tight. The dress she’s wearing is boring blue: like she’s working for the prison system. I’m her inmate.
“What is the answer to number seven, Fisher?” I look blankly at her, then at the other kids. Are any of them going to help me out? Or are they just going to let me hang? They let me hang. I have no idea what we’re even talking about, and I’m only vaguely aware that I’m in social studies.
She stares hard at me with cold eyes while tapping her pencil on the desk. “Do you even know what we’re discussing today?” she growls. I say nothing. The other kids don’t laugh, or blurt out the right answers; they’re just glad she’s picking on me and not them.
“Fisher Shoemaker, you really need to pay more attention. I know you don’t think so, but social studies is important. It’ll help you evolve into an adult who is more aware of the world around him.”
An adult? I’m really not worried about becoming an adult. At least, the thought has never occurred to me before. Why should I worry about it now? There’re better things to think about. All I’m really interested in is getting out of this dang classroom so I can work on my hideout. It’s down by the beachhead near Goosewing Rock. My bike is right outside, in the schoolyard, waiting to take me away from all this.
But I can’t stop thinking about what the teacher said. This is the first time the idea of becoming an adult has ever been brought to my attention … and I don’t like it. What does it mean? Am I going to have to go out and get a job soon to support myself? Is my dad going to tell me I need to move out of the house? Will I still like building forts and hideouts, or is that just not allowed? Damn that teacher for even mentioning it.
“Fisher, I want you to read chapter three again tonight and answer the four questions at the back of the chapter to turn in before class tomorrow. Do you understand?”
I nod my head yes, knowing full well I am never going to look at chapter three. I’m just going to have to suffer the consequences tomorrow. Somehow I think she knows this as she stands up, looking madder than I have ever seen her. With her yardstick pointing straight at me, she barks, “Fisher! …”
Suddenly, from the back of the classroom, “PTHHHHHH!” It’s loud, like someone just cut one! The whole classroom erupts in laughter.
“Class! Class! Stop this laughing at once!” the teacher shouts. But it’s too late; she’s lost control. Seconds later the bell rings and, in an instant, social studies and chapter three are just fading memories. Thank God.
As the room empties, Tommy Goodwell yells over to me, with a sly grin on his face, “You owe me one, Shoemaker.” I salute back to him. Tommy Goodwell makes the best fart noises―the whole school knows it. He just saved my butt.
My trusty Schwinn five-speed, with a deep blue paint job and locked to the bike stand closest to the trees, is right where I left it. My bike takes me everywhere―over to friends’ houses, to the corner store in town, to the docks where I watch the lobstermen, to the ball-field, and just about everywhere else my mom doesn’t feel like driving me. It’s more than just a bike to me. It’s my freedom.
As I’m turning the dial on the combo lock, Jimmy Hinns calls from where his bike’s parked. “My brother just got the new Led Zeppelin album. Want to come over and listen to it on my dad’s stereo? He’s not home now, but he’d go crazy if he heard Led Zeppelin coming out of his new speakers.” He smirks.
Jimmy’s one of those kids whose parents let him do anything. Like band members on the back of album covers, his hair’s long. He even gets to wear bell-bottom jeans to school. Not me. I have a short haircut and “school clothes.”
“David Small’s coming over, too. He’s gonna bring those two girls from science class,” Jimmy says.
Hanging out with two girls doesn’t sound like all that much fun to me. Most girls really only want to talk about clothes and other boys. For the most part, they’re just plain annoying.
“No thanks. I’m gonna go work on my hideout instead.”
Hopping on his bike, Jimmy just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
Besides, as far as I can tell, I’m not what most girls my age find interesting. I’m only about the size of a large grade-school kid, and my dad still cuts my hair. The result looks like he used a bowl with dull hedging shears. He’s no barber, but he’s able to save a couple of bucks doing it himself. Honestly, in the end, I really don’t care what I look like.
Trent Harbor, Maine. It’s where I live. It’s like almost every other small town on the East Coast. Everything in it is about lobsters and summer tourists; that’s how almost everyone here makes their money. They catch lobsters, then feed them to the summer people. There’re probably a dozen lobster boats moored in the harbor, and there are almost as many seafood restaurants. And if the lobsters don’t catch the tourists, there are plenty of gift shops that’ll try to lure them in.
What the tourists don’t like, when the wind direction is just right, is the pungent odor of bait cooking in the summer sun down at the town dock. It wafts up Main Street, giving the town a very powerful fishy smell. Honestly, some days I don’t like it either, and it’s all I can do to keep from tossing my lunch. But it’s not always like that. Sometimes the wind blows the other way, and there’s nothing but fresh sea mustiness. I sort of like it.
At the end of Main, beyond all the shops and restaurants, is a dirt road that leads to the town dock. The lobstermen use the dock to offload their catch. Half of it is taken up by walls of lobster traps stacked high. Nearby is a pile of colored buoys. Below the tall wooden pilings, floating docks move up and down with the tide and are lined with small dinghies people use to row out to their boats on moorings.
To get to my hideout I have to pass by the sailing club. It’s just a little past the town dock where most of us kids hang out in the summer. Only after passing the tests can we take a sailboat out on our own. I’m a pretty good sailor, if I do say so myself. I’ve advanced all the way through, passing my solo test, and I’m one of the few younger kids allowed to take a boat alone. Next summer I’ll probably take my instructor test. But it actually seems like too much bother, when I can just as easily take a boat out whenever I please and not worry about teaching someone else.
The sailing club is actually just an old garage at the water’s edge covered with cedar shingles. It’s perfect for holding sails, life jackets, and a few other odds and ends that go with a sailboat. Inside, the hard cement floor’s always damp from wet life jackets drying out, and has a permanent smell like something rotting in soft black dirt. In the back is an office. It’s actually just an old desk with an overhead light where the older boys pretend to be doing some sort of work, but are really just looking at girls in swimsuit magazines. Outside, a neat little patch of grass is used by the instructors; in the morning for lessons and for folding sails in the afternoon.
Because all I can think about is finishing up the roof, I’m anxious to get to my hideout. First, though, I stop at the boat ramp to see who’s going sailing; but only for a second. At the gate I get off my bike to have a look around. There’re only two younger kids, who I really don’t know because they’re two grades behind me, setting up a boat,. There’s no reason for me to hang out here any longer. I turn back to my bike to go.
“Fisher!” A girl’s calling me from the far row of boats. I hadn’t noticed her before, and now that I see her I secretly wish I hadn’t stopped at the club. I lower my head pretending not to hear.
It’s Sara Banks. She’s about my age, yet I really don’t know her because throughout the years she’s always been in a different class. Growing up, I thought she was kind of weird because she had scraggly hair, and she wore her older sister’s clothes that look a size too big and a few years out of style. As far as I can tell she doesn’t have too
many friends, either, because she always seems to be by herself. Today though, when I look at her, there’s something different about her. For some reason she doesn’t look as weird as she had before. Maybe it’s because her brown hair’s in a neat ponytail, or her clothes actually seem to fit her. I really don’t know what it is.
“Are you going sailing today?” she calls out from the last sailboat that’s sitting up on the ramp.
“No. I’m going down to my …” then I stop myself and squirm a little. I don’t want to tell her about my hideout because she’ll think I’m too old to be playing in forts and hideouts. Besides, a hideout’s a secret and I don’t want anyone, especially a girl, knowing where it is. “No, I’m going home to watch some TV.” It sounds dumb coming out of my mouth, especially since my house is in the other direction.
She looks at me strangely, probably knowing I just made that up, and then says, “I need someone who’s passed their solo test to go sailing with me. I saw your name on the list; do you want to go?” She gives me a little smile then she walks over closer to where I’m standing.
“No, I really can’t. I have things to do,” I say, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave it alone.
“But it’s such a great afternoon for sailing. Just take me out for a little bit. I really need the practice,” she says.
She’s right. It’s a nice afternoon, but today’s the day I’m going to put the roof on the hideout. I’ve been collecting wood from all over town and I finally have enough to start the job. I’ve been planning on this for a long time, and I’m not going to let some dumb girl stop me.
“Not today, maybe some other time,” I say, shifting back and forth anxiously on my feet.
Sara gives me a little poke on my shoulder. “Oh, come on. Just go sailing with me for a little while. There’s nobody else here who can take a boat out on their own.”
I don’t really hear the last part she said because I’m thinking about how she just touched me on the shoulder. In my mind I know I should be grossed out that a girl like Sara Banks has touched me on the shoulder, but I’m not. I feel strange.
Why can’t she just leave it alone? I really don’t want to sail today, and I’m certainly not going to let her keep me from putting the roof on my hideout. And on top of all that, I’m suddenly feeling strange about being near her. I need to leave … now!
I wave her off and swing my leg over the bike, “Tomorrow we can go for a sail. I promise.”
I pump the pedals hard like a bike racer on the starting line. Damn …why did I say that? What if I don’t get the roof done this afternoon and need to work on it tomorrow?
I’m still riding my bike as fast as I can, sweat beginning to build on my back, when I get to the edge of town. I turn left down a road no one uses much anymore, where weeds push up through cracks in the pavement. After a mile or so, I come to the dead end and lift my bike over the rusty lock and chain meant to keep out intruders like me. Two tracks, overgrown with grass and littered with twigs, lead down to the water’s edge. There, a narrow path angles off toward a grouping of large rocks and boulders, just above the high tide mark, that looks as if a giant has stacked them. It’s between these rocks where I’m building my hideout. No one knows of this place.
All good hideouts need protection. I came up with several systems that should keep the bad guys out. Several yards away from the entrance door I have two smaller pine trees bent down and held in place with a light line. If I look out the peephole and see someone I don’t like, I simply cut the line. The pines will explode, whipping across the path, sending the bad guy into the next county. If they get past that, I’ll use the backup booby trap. Above the door I have a crate filled with heavy rocks. All I need to do is tug on the rope that hangs by the door, and the rocks will flatten anyone standing there. Don’t mess with me.
But that’s not all. If I’m being attacked from the ocean side, I have several slingshots by the window opening. Next to the window I have a pail of small round rocks ready to fire. I’ve been practicing. I should be able to nail anyone coming at me from that direction.
The hideout looks out over the rocky harbor where many boats are kept on their moorings. Past the mooring field is a scattering of smaller islands with nothing more than a few tall pines and a couple of large boulders. Beyond that’s open ocean. I can see white splashes of water shooting into the air from the lumbering swells hitting hard rock. Also, there’re many sea birds and gulls all screeching as they search the shore for food. This is the perfect place for a hideout; at least that’s what I think.
My lumber’s stashed away, stacked in a neat pile just off to the side in some tall grass, so should anyone walk along the shore’s edge they’d never see it. I pull a few pieces out and begin measuring. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me and only a few hours before I need to be home for dinner.
The daylight begins to fade and soon the damp sea air creeps in, almost unnoticed. I need to head home for dinner. Looking over the day’s work, I realize I’ve only nailed down two roof planks. Am I being lazy? Maybe. I wish I’d gotten farther, but I’m pleased with how it’s turning out. I must’ve been doing too much daydreaming and not enough work. Well, it’s my hideout, I’m in charge, and I can work as slow as I please and no one can tell me otherwise. I just sigh. I’m going to need to keep working on it tomorrow, but I promised Sara I would take her sailing. Time to go.
It’s probably too dark for me to be riding my bike, but the town’s pretty quiet and there are no cars on the road. I think I’m safe riding in the fading light. In the darkness, lights inside homes are coming on and I can see families are getting ready for dinner. I better hurry.
Just before turning right on Main Street is the steepest hill in town. It’s almost impossible to ride up on a bike, but I’ve done it before. I already have my bike in the lowest gear, and need to pedal standing up if I’m going to make it to the top. There’s a sense of pride being one of the few kids who can get there without having to give up and walk.
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 th
e 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!”
