The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island Page 6

  “Makes sense,” Randy said, and he quickly changed the subject. “How fast can this boat go?”

  “It can go faster than you think. Wanna see?”

  A look of distressed washed over Brian’s face as his swollen hands continued to grip the side of the boat. He stammered to protest, but Randy interjected.

  “Yeah, I wanna see!”

  Without asking Brian if he was OK with it, Tony pulled the starter cord and the boat roared to life. He fully throttled the motor, the boat quickly picking up speed, and the front of it tilting upward again as we flew across the glassy surface of the lake. We quickly approached Sometimes Island and the information Tony just shared with us rushed through my mind. I thought of the jagged rocks just underneath the water’s surface, ripping through the hull of our boat as we went over them, sending all of us into the air, then splashing into the cold water.

  “AYY-YAA-AAAH!” Brian screamed, as the boat got closer and closer to the island.

  “Yee haw!” Randy called out.

  Tony turned the boat to the right while Sometimes Island flew past us on our left, the buoys demarking an imaginary line that boaters shouldn’t cross without certain disaster, coming close but not quite hitting the side of our boat. I could hear Tony laughing behind us as he steered out into the open water at the center of Canyon Lake. Of course, he wasn’t going to steer the boat over those rocks. Why would he do something like that and risk his job and the lives of four middle-schoolers?

  But for one brief moment, it almost seemed like he would. Brian huffed and puffed his anxiety out from deep in his chest. I patted him on the back as we cruised across the lake to the other side for more places of interest to investigate on our lake tour.

  7.

  After a couple of hours on the water, we spent the rest of the day on land—to the satisfaction of Brian and Miguel; me and Randy not so much—doing the type of fun things most kids expect to do on a camping trip. We played a rowdy game of horseshoes down by the picnic area in a grassy patch next to the picnic tables. Randy was the winner, of course. Then we hiked around in the wooded area southwest of the campgrounds, hoping to find something worth bringing back to the camp to show Brian’s parents and keep as mementos. We did find an old, weather-beaten copy of Playboy and a couple of unopened cans of Pearl lager beer, but figured they probably belonged to Tony and didn’t want to defile his hidden stash. We even shot at a few empty beer cans that we lined up on a tree stump with a BB gun Miguel ganked from his older brother, Rogelio, but we only were able to shoot it about a dozen times with the amount of BBs it already had in it because Miguel didn’t bring the canister of extra BBs to reload it. Pretty lame, if you’d asked me, but it was still fun for a brief moment nonetheless. We felt like rebels out there in the woods with a ganked BB gun, even if we really couldn’t hurt most living things with that poor excuse for a pistol. Plus, possessing Rogelio’s personal property was an additional thrill for all of us. After shooting the beer cans, Brian showed us his remarkable talent for tying various knots, all of which he would need to exhibit whenever he finally took his Eagle Scout test, the date of which remained mysterious. He always reminded us that he was going out for it, but never seemed to tell us exactly when it would happen. The thrill of preparing for the illustrious Eagle Scout designation seemed almost more exciting than finally receiving it in some ways. Funny how things are like that for you when you’re in middle school, right?

  Once the sun started to set, we hoofed it back to the campgrounds and sat around a campfire Mr. Johnson made for us. We ate a chili dinner that Mrs. Johnson heated up from cans of Wolf Brand Chili with beans, then listened to a spirited debate between his parents—instigated by Mr. Johnson, of course—about whether Texas chili should contain beans in its recipe or not. He claimed that Texas chili should never be made with beans; it should be simmered with beef and spices only. Mrs. Johnson didn’t have any ax to grind or skin in this game; she admitted to not even reading the labels on the cans when she bought them at the grocery store, a simple act she wished she had done to avoid such a silly argument with her obnoxious husband (her words, not mine). Mr. Johnson huffed as he dug out then flung the beans over his shoulder with his spoon. We concluded dinner with roasted marshmallows and s’mores for dessert, a finer meal we couldn’t have wished for.

  When it was time to hit the hay, Mrs. Johnson reminded us to zip the tent closed this time, unless we wanted our faces to be the meals for a new batch of hungry mosquitoes. We immediately zipped the flap shut after being reminded of this unfortunate incident from the night before.

  My three friends seemed to doze off rather quickly as I lay on my blanket on the ground, my towel rolled up under my head as a pillow, and their phlegmy snores interrupting my drowsiness. Through the din of their gurgled inhalations and wheezy exhalations, I could hear an owl hooting somewhere, its unwavering rhythmic call telling me that it knew I was in the tent listening to it, hoping I would give it clues as to where its next meal would be scurrying to. Hoo huh hoo, hoo huh hoo. I marveled at its tranquil song until it finally serenaded me to sleep.

  The next morning, Brian’s mother woke us by quickly unzipping the tent flap and tossing Pop Tarts inside, her go-to breakfast for the trip. We were pleased to see that our faces were not chewed into hamburger by mosquitoes, but having our breakfast tossed at us was not a pleasant way to wake up. She commented about not wanting to see us without our clothes on, a curious statement that baffled us while we ate our second breakfast of strawberry Pop Tarts.

  “What does she mean: naked?” Randy quizzed Brian, who was too embarrassed to respond and quickly stuffed his mouth with breakfast pastry, a simple yet effective ruse so he wouldn’t have to offer an answer. Miguel and I snickered.

  After we finished our breakfast, Mr. Johnson instructed us to take down our tent, pack it up, then put it in the back of the camper along with all our belongings. While we dismantled the tent (actually, while the three of us watched Brian dismantle the tent), I noticed Victoria walking over, so I elbowed Randy, who then elbowed Miguel. Brian didn’t notice, being that he was too busy with the tent. She stood in front of us, a clipboard in one hand, and a can of Dr. Pepper in the other.

  “You guys leaving?” she said, then took a swig from her soda.

  “Unfortunately,” I said. “We have school tomorrow. It’s our last week.”

  “Bummer,” she said, then took another swig. “Maybe you will come back later this summer.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Hopefully!” Randy blurted, barely containing his excitement. It was embarrassingly obvious he liked Victoria, even though she had a boyfriend. Randy wasn’t good at playing it cool. “May-be...” He awkwardly ran his fingers through his hair, then looked out at the lake. Victoria rolled her eyes, then read something on her clipboard.

  “We’ll probably come back,” Brian said. “My parents love coming here.”

  “Cool,” Victoria said, then jumped with surprise. “Oh yeah, Tony wanted me to let him know when you guys were leaving. He has something for you.”

  “For us?” I said, surprised.

  “Yeah. Hold on.” She reached for her back pocket and pulled out a walkie-talkie. She squeezed a red button on the side. “They’re getting ready to leave.”

  A few seconds of awkward silence passed before Tony answered.

  “Be right there,” he said, his voice muffled and staticky. “10-4.”

  “You don’t have to say that. You know?”

  “All right,” he said meekly. “Tell them I’ll be right over.”

  “He’ll be right over,” she repeated to us, then slid the walkie-talkie back in her rear pocket. “Is your dad around?” she asked Brian. “I have a receipt for him.”

  Brian popped his head up from dismantling the tent.

  “Yeah, he’s by the camper,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder, then sneering at us. “Are you guys gonna help me or what?”

  The three of us laughed that it to
ok him so long to notice. Victoria went to find Mr. Johnson while we helped our friend. It was the least we could do for Brian, for hosting such a fun weekend. He attempted to explain the puzzle of putting the tent back into its bag, but it was useless. We didn’t get it, and just watched him do it. Eventually, we saw Tony trotting over from the marina. He panted from the trek, standing in front of us with his hands on his hips.

  “Heading out, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah,” we all said in unison, dejected.

  “Bummer,” he said, echoing Victoria’s sentiment. “If you guys want to come back, then give me a ring,” he said, then handed each of us a business card. On the card, it said, Canyon Lake Marina, along with the address, phone number, and his name handwritten at the bottom in blue, ballpoint ink.

  The four of us looked at the business cards, a little stumped as what to do with them. I don’t think any of us had been handed business cards before, and it seemed I was the only kid with a wallet. I instinctively pulled it out and placed the card in there; the others just held onto their cards.

  “Will do,” I said, putting my wallet back in my pocket, feeling slightly more sophisticated than my other three friends.

  “I could even come pick you up, if your parents are too busy and all,” he said, the suggestion mystifying us. Never had an older teenager offered to give us a ride before. “It gets boring out here sometimes.”

  He stood there—rocking back and forth on his heels and the balls of his feet—when Victoria came back over, having given Mr. Johnson the receipt for their stay.

  “Check ya later,” Tony said, draping his arm across Victoria’s shoulder.

  “Later,” I said.

  Tony and Victoria walked away.

  “Later!” Miguel mimicked, his voice higher pitched and more annoying than mine. I elbowed him in the ribs, then the three of us helped Brian finish packing the tent so we could all go home.

  The ride back to Converse was quieter and sullener than the ride to the lake a couple of days before. The trip home after a vacation can be like that, like a hangover after a night of partying and overindulging alcohol. Brian’s parents were noticeably quieter. Their Texas chili argument had dampened their amorous mood. Brian and Miguel lay on the camper floor—dehydrated and dozing off—while Randy and I occupied the rear bench. Randy leaned against the window, his towel rolled up as his pillow on the foggy glass. Out my window, I watched dark grey storm clouds gather on the distant horizon, slowly consuming the mimeograph blue sky as they grew in strength. For the first time in a few days, I thought of the backpack I stashed behind the vent in my bedroom closet and the wads of money and marijuana inside it. Kids have a way of forgetting about things like this—illicit things that would keep any normal adult up late at night—and I wasn’t any different than most kids. Even when I pulled the wad of twenties from my pocket to pay for the gas for the boat ride, I didn’t as much as ponder the idea of the backpack hidden in my room or what would happen if Bloody Billy found out I had it. And why would I? I was having fun with my friends. The thing furthest from my mind was what Bloody Billy would or wouldn’t do to me or my friends concerning his backpack.

  But as the storm clouds muted the sunny afternoon—bringing an ominous and palpable feeling of dread—my exhausted mind turned inward and I was consumed with what Bloody Billy might do to us (to me!). All the dreadful things I had heard about the Thousand Oaks Gang seemed at that moment to not be just horrible rumors, but possible consequences for being so stupid. What would they do to us? I thought. Wait for us after school so they could beat us up? Follow us home like they did to Brian’s house and beat up our parents? The oppressive dread coming across the horizon with the storm clouds was now inside my chest and consuming my heart, choking out the mirthful feelings from the last couple of days and replacing them with grief and regret. What I didn’t notice was Randy watching me.

  “Hey,” he said, sitting up, rubbing both eyes with his rolling fists, then setting his towel on his lap. “You OK?”

  “I was just thinking about the... backpack,” I said, my voice trailing off. My gaze returned to the dark clouds. The light blue sky was mostly gone, retreating behind some green and granite-colored hills way off in the distance.

  “Oh,” he said, his posture stiffening. A sigh escaped between his pursed lips. “That.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, still looking out the window. “Maybe we should give it back to them.”

  “No way, man. If we give it back, then they will know we took it. They’ll beat the shit out of us.” He sighed again. “I mean, I’m tough, but I’m not that tough to take them all on.”

  “I know,” I said, depressed even more. The predicament I was in became more and more apparent with every passing minute, second, even nanosecond. It was excruciating. “I guess I’m just worried. That’s all.”

  “Worried? Worried about what? Screw those guys. Screw the Thousand Oaks Gang.”

  His response caught me a little off guard and I turned to him to see that he didn’t look miffed at all. In fact, he looked quite pleased, happy even. It was weird.

  “But—”

  “No buts,” he said. “Nevermind what I said before. Fuck those guys. What’s the worst they can do?”

  Whenever Randy cussed, it sent an energy through me like static electricity, a quick shock then a tingly sensation throughout my body. It was rare that any of us said the “F” word, so the profane pronouncement carried more weight than the usual blustery, meeker curse words. He was serious, and meant it.

  “They could beat us up.”

  “Maybe, if they can catch us. Good luck with that. We haul ass on our bikes, plus we can go off-road. They can’t go off-road in their sports cars. They’d bust an axle.”

  “True,” I said, chuckling at the idea of Bloody Billy ditching his white Camaro in a patch of mud while trying to catch us through the woods after school. It was a really funny day dream.

  “Yeah, screw the Thousand Oaks Gang,” Brian said from the floor. He sat up and smiled.

  “Screw them,” Miguel agreed, also sitting up.

  I thought they were sleeping on the floor, but they must have been quietly listening. Hearing the three of my friends rebel against the Thousand Oaks Gang was a sign of solidarity that I needed—that I wanted, even. We had power when we stood together, even when it seemed like the odds were stacked against us.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Fuck ‘em!” I clenched a defiant fist.

  “Boys!” Mrs. Johnson said from the front seat. Her sudden interjection startled us. “Watch the language!”

  We clamped our mouths tight, repressing laughter into snickers, although Mrs. Johnson didn’t think it was so funny. Her eyes blazed her contempt for foul language back at us.

  “I can’t believe what I am hearing from your innocent mouths. It’s disgusting!” She turned around and looked out the windshield, obviously peeved. “I’d tell your father to pull over so we could leave you by the side of the road. Too bad there’s a storm comin’. It saved your hides.”

  Even though the storm was upon us, the storm clouds around my heart evaporated. Being with my friends would do that. They could ease my worries and my fears. A good group of friends can do that for anyone. A good group of friends is the best medicine for whatever ails you. And Randy changed the course of our conversation the best he knew how: with jokes.

  “Hey, guys. Guys! Did you hear about the man who drank five gallons of tea?”

  Randy waited briefly for us to answer, even though he knew we wouldn’t. It was part of his shtick. We leaned toward Randy, eagerly waiting for the punchline.

  “He drowned in his tepee!”

  We all laughed and laughed, and Randy brazenly continued his routine, telling dumb jokes that got us all in better spirits. Even Brian’s parents perked up. It made the ride home more enjoyable, despite the rain. Not all storms are depressing. Sometimes, they just make things a little dark before they pass.

  8.

&nbs
p; The last week of school was supposed to be a joyous time for all the students and teachers of Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle School. While the teachers were daydreaming of cruise ship vacations in the Caribbean or road trips to Port Aransas for weekend beach vacations, the students were chattering about their own summer plans. Many bragged about going to a water park in New Braunfels called Schlitterbahn (a silly sounding name which means slippery road in German, a nod to the German heritage of the region of Texas) to ride the infamous water slides, or even tubing down the frigid water of nearby Guadalupe River. Others confessed of their desire to visit AstroWorld in Houston, so they could ride the mind-bending Greezed Lightnin’—a coaster that flew forward then backward through a single vertical loop—or take the equally long trip to Six Flags Over Texas in Dallas for a gut-twisting ride on the Texas Chute Out, a 225-foot-tall parachute-drop ride. Both rides were guaranteed—it was rumored—to make a kid hurl chunks, which was the perfect dare for any of the students at F. D. R., most of which wanted to come back to school in the fall with bragging rights of barf-free coaster rides or free-fall drops. The only kids not enjoying this final week of school were Randy, Miguel, Brian, and I. We spent that last week—like idiots—running for our lives or riding our bikes for our lives to be more precise, rather than making summer plans. How could we have been so stupid as to agree to keep Bloody Billy’s backpack hidden in my closet?

  Every day after school during that last week, we took the Thousand Oaks Gang on a variety of wild-goose chases through the wooded areas surrounding the Thousand Oaks and Hidden Oaks neighborhoods or rode our bikes down the cement ditches—coursing through our neighborhoods like a concrete circulatory system—to escape their souped-up sports cars. We even hid in the local fire station—pretending our impromptu visit was a trip down memory lane when our third-grade elementary class visited for a field trip—by convincing the station captain that we really, really wanted to examine the top of the fire engines for educational purposes. But when Thursday came around, Bloody Billy and the Thousand Oaks Gang had our number. We had grown cocky as the week closed and decided that we could evade them anywhere and anytime, even stopping at a 7-Eleven after school for Slurpees, Cheetos, and candy. The 7-Eleven was a popular hangout for the middle-schoolers and the Thousand Oaks Gang patiently waited outside by the bike rack, which was parked around the side of the building and out of sight from the front windows. So, when we came outside, already drunk with a sugar buzz from 24-ounce Slurpees and mouthfuls of gummy bears, they ambushed us, dragging us around to the back of the building. Without mincing words, they beat the crap out of us. I literally only remember pushing the glass door open for Randy, Miguel, and Brian, then someone grabbing my arm and dragging me behind the building. By the time I figured out who was dragging me—and not knowing what happened to my friends, although I could hear them screaming—I witnessed a firework display that was unparalleled in my experience, before or since. When the fireworks dissipated and the ringing in my ears stopped, I remember looking up at Bloody Billy from the hot asphalt.