reading

Find a full list of our authors and

titles at www.openroadmedia.com

@OpenRoadMedia

For Jean and Cliff Gehrt, dear friends always, and my neighbors in spirit wherever they live

“That’s one broken-down old boat,” Corby said. He hoped Buck Miller wasn’t going to want to go for a ride. “Anybody can tell that boat would sink like a rock.”

“It would not,” Buck retorted. “Where’d you learn so much about boats?”

Corby said, “At camp,” and then wished he hadn’t. He’d met Buck less than an hour ago, and already they were talking about things Corby didn’t want to talk about. Or even think about.

“My dad knows everything there is to know about boats,” he added quickly. “He goes sailing with his boss. On the ocean!”

Buck hopped off the little pier into the rowboat and stood with his feet wide apart, rocking from side to side, showing off. “So where’s your dad now?” he demanded.

“Home,” Corby said. “In Santa Barbara. He couldn’t come here with my mom and me because he has to work.”

Buck rocked the boat harder. Then he pointed across the river. “See that farmhouse over there? That’s the Millikens’ place, and they’ve got five Lab puppies. We can row over there and see them if you’re not too chicken.”

“I’m not!” Corby snapped. Why had Buck said that? He wondered if being scared of stuff stuck out for everyone to see, like freckles or big ears.

“Well, I’m going,” Buck said. “And you’d better not tell anyone. Got that?”

Corby got it. He understood that Buck wasn’t supposed to row across the river. The boat was probably just as rickety as it looked.

“You can pick wildflowers for your mama, little boy,” Buck added, waving an arm at the field behind them. “Unless you’re afraid of bumblebees.”

Corby crouched at the edge of the pier, his heart thumping. He wanted to see the puppies, maybe even persuade his mom to buy him one. Mostly, though, he wanted to show Buck that he wasn’t afraid. If they were going to be friends while Corby was in Wisconsin, it had to start now. He stepped down into the boat.

Buck loosened the rope that held them to the pier and dipped the oars into the water. “They’re really neat puppies,” he said, sounding more friendly. “I know because we got one of our dogs from the last litter.”

The space between the boat and the pier began to grow. Corby was glad he knew how to swim. He wasn’t fast, but it had been one thing he’d done as well as most of the other boys at Camp Macaho.

He wished he could forget he’d ever gone to camp. Until this summer it hadn’t mattered much that he was the smallest, skinniest kid in his class. He and his two best friends knew more about computers than anyone else—even more than their teachers. The three of them collected baseball cards and insects and miniature cars, and everything had been great until his mother heard about Camp Macaho at a PTA meeting.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” she’d said. “You have to try new things if you want to be well-rounded, Corby. Think about all the fun things your father did at camp when he was a boy in Wisconsin.”

Corby didn’t care a hoot about being well-rounded. But when his dad said, “Camp is probably a good idea,” and “Just be a good sport, Corb,” he knew he was on his way.

Things had started going wrong the very first day at Macaho. There was that rocky cliff behind the mess hall, Corby remembered. His dad might have thought climbing the cliff would be fun, but Corby couldn’t make himself try it, even when the other kids scrambled over it like monkeys. Why take a chance? One slip and you could get yourself killed.

He’d hated horseback riding, too. Any horse, even the oldest and laziest, felt as big as an elephant when you were on top of it. And he still had nightmares about that so-called bridge over Macaho Creek. It was nothing but a single plank that quivered and bucked when the boys ran across it. Corby had gotten halfway across just once, and then his legs wouldn’t take him any farther. He’d had to back up on his hands and knees till he reached the shore.

Camp Macaho had been the worst thing—the only really bad thing—that had ever happened to him.

“I’m going to camp next summer,” Buck said suddenly. “Which one did you go to?”

“It’s in California,” Corby said. “There’s lots of just as good ones here in Wisconsin.” He didn’t want Buck to go where anyone would remember Corby Hill.

The boat was in the middle of the river now, jerking from side to side because Buck wasn’t a good rower. Corby sat still, with his arms wrapped around his knees, and wondered if the last part of this summer was going to be any better than the first part. He’d hardly had time to unpack his suitcase and turn on his computer before Grandpa Hill had called from Berry Hill to say he needed help taking care of Grandma. She’d had a heart attack and needed lots of rest.

His mom had started planning right away. “Your father will feel better knowing we’re taking care of his folks,” she said firmly, when Corby looked glum. “By the time school starts, I’m sure Grandpa and Grandma will be able to manage on their own again.”

A harsh, grating noise interrupted Corby’s thoughts. Buck whooped and dug an oar so deeply into the water that the boat swung around.

“What’re you doing?” Corby yelled. He saw water in the bottom of the boat.

The grating sound came again, followed by an ugly crrrunch. “What do you think I’m doing?” Buck panted. “I’m trying to move us. We’ve hit a rock or something!”

Corby stared at the crack opening up at his feet. “How deep is the water here?” he asked hoarsely.

“How do I know?” Buck said. “I can’t swim.” There was a quiver in his voice.

The crunching and scraping went on. “If there’s rocks, maybe it’s shallow here,” Corby said. “Stop rowing. I’ll see if I can stand up.”

He stepped over the side while Buck leaned the other way to keep the boat from tipping. To Corby’s relief, his toes touched rock right away—smooth, slippery, and solid. It was going to be all right! Then he took a step toward shore and the rock ended. Before he could take a breath, he’d plunged straight to the bottom.

When Corby came up sputtering, Buck was still sitting in the boat, but the water was up to his middle. The sides of the boat were just a couple of inches above the water, so he looked as if he were in a wide wooden bathtub.

“Listen, you hang on one end of an oar and kick with your feet,” Corby said. “I’ll hold on to the other end and swim, okay?”

He grabbed an oar and pushed the paddle end toward Buck, just as the boat slurped and slithered beneath the surface. Then he started to swim, towing the oar behind him.

It was hard work. He splashed a lot and gulped big mouthfuls of the river. After a few strokes, he let one foot drop, feeling for the bottom. Nothing!

He swam a few more feet and tried again. This time his toes touched the bottom. It was muddy and unpleasant, but it was there. He started walking to the shore, with Buck clinging to the paddle and splashing noisily behind him.

When they were back on the riverbank at last, they pulled off their shirts and sat shivering in the sun. Corby looked for the spot where they had gotten snagged on the rock. There was no sign of the boat. The second oar drifted slowly down the river.

“Hey, man, you saved my life,” Buck said, when he’d caught his breath. “That was really cool! You’re a great swimmer.”

Corby realized that Buck didn’t know he had walked most of the way to the shore. “You’d have been okay,” he said modestly. “We could have waited there on the rock till somebody saw us, I guess.”

But Buck shook his head. “No way! We don’t want anybody to know we were out there. My dad would blow his top.”

“It was nobody’s boat,” Buck said. “Just a junker. But we can’t tell, just the same. I’m supposed to stay away from the river till I learn how to swim. If my dad finds out, I’ll be grounded for the rest of the summer.”

Corby sighed. He would have liked his family to hear he’d saved his new friend’s life, but he knew Buck was right. His own mother would be frightened and angry if she heard what happened. Even worse, Grandpa Hill would probably say something like, “Your father would never have gotten into a leaky old tub like that.” Or, “Your father swam across the river every day when he was your age. It’s no big deal.” If he didn’t say it, he’d think it, which would be almost as bad.

“Listen,” Buck said, “I bet you learned a lot of other stuff besides swimming at camp, right?”

“Once.” Now what? Corby wondered. Buck Miller was turning out to be a bundle of bad ideas!

“The reason I’m asking,” Buck explained, “is because there’s a place I want to go to, but it has to be at night—at midnight. Otherwise it won’t work.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Just wait! The guys in my class are all too chicken to go at night, and that’s why I’m asking you. You’re no chicken.”

Corby blinked. He was glad Buck had changed his mind, but he could see how that might be dangerous, too. Being brave Buck-style would mean taking chances.