While they ate, Charlie made fun of the other customers, some of them locals, some tourists come for the fall colors. The customers, for their part, eyed Charlie-her buzzed head, her piercings, her dirty clothing-as if she were an animal who’d wandered out of the woods.
When they finished, Ren pulled out the money he’d taken from his mother’s purse and paid the bill.
Outside, the sun had settled on the tops of the distant Huron Mountains and the air was cooling fast with the approach of evening. Ren knew he should head back to the resort to help his mother with the man in Cabin 3, but he’d already wasted most of the day sitting by the man’s bed, and he wasn’t eager to return.
At that opportune moment Stash appeared.
“Hey,” he called out, and skateboarded across the street toward the cafe. Stash was never without his skateboard. Taller than Charlie and Ren, older by a year, he wore his dark hair long. He was dressed as usual in baggy jeans that rode low on his butt, a black T-shirt a couple of sizes too large, and Doc Martens. A long, thin chain connected to a belt loop hung against his thigh and disappeared into his back pocket where he kept his wallet.
“Dudes, I was looking for you. I’m heading to the river, thinking of smoking a little weed. Want to come?”
“I’m there,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, okay,” Ren agreed. “Hop on,” he said, indicating his ATV. “You can ride behind Charlie.”
Before they could mount up, three teenagers rounded the corner beyond the cafe and made straight for Ren and his friends.
“Circus must be in town,” the boy in the lead said. “Check out the freaks.”
“Ah, shit,” Stash said. “Greenway and his Nazis.”
“Be cool,” Ren said.
Charlie ignored him. “Make like a bee,” she said to Greenway, “and buzz off.”
The big kid smiled. Goose Jablonski and Kenny Merkin smiled, too. They all wore gold and blue Bodine Bobcats letter-man jackets.
“Yeah, and who’s going to make us?” Greenway said.
“Bite me,” Stash said under his breath.
Greenway turned to him. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Stash said.
Charlie stepped forward. “He said fuck off.”
“Whoa. The junior dyke’s flexing her muscles. What do you think?” Greenway said, addressing his buddies. “Maybe she really was born with balls.”
“Leave her alone,” Ren said.
“Shut your hole, Pocahontas. You’ll end up with your head split open just like your old man.”
Ren threw himself at Greenway with all the fury his small body contained. The larger boy stumbled back a step, then held his ground. He wrapped Ren in a powerful hug, flung him to the ground, and sat on him. He gave Ren a couple of hard open-handed slaps before Charlie kicked him in the ribs. Greenway toppled over, holding his side. Goose grabbed Charlie and gripped her in a headlock before she could dance away. He squeezed until her face turned red.
“Let her go, shithead.” Ren tried to get up, only to have Merkin pounce and pin him to the ground.
“Help her, Stash,” Ren hollered.
Stash stood frozen.
“Hey, hey, hey, break it up here.” Gary Johnson trotted up, waving his hands. He was an adult and built like a bulldozer. Johnson latched an enormous hand onto Goose’s shoulder. “Let her go, Goose.”
The kid complied, but unhappily.
“Get off him, Kenny,” Johnson said to Merkin.
Merkin lifted himself off Ren.
Johnson stared down at Greenway, who was still on the ground holding his ribs. “I’m more than a little disappointed, Dan. Big guys like you picking on kids, and a girl yet.”
“Bitch kicked me,” Greenway said.
Johnson shoved his ball cap back showing a high forehead. “Big deal. You get kicked all the time on the football field, and by guys with cleats, eh.” He turned to Ren. “That lip’s going to be puffy for a while. Better go on home and put some ice on it.”
“I’m okay.”
Johnson faced the three lettermen. “I’ve a good mind to talk to your fathers.”
“Screw off,” Greenway said.
“Or how about this, Dan? How ‘bout I talk to Coach Soames, tell him what a big man you are, how you and Goose and Kenny here like beating on girls? I could get you yanked from that starting position faster ’n you could say Brett Favre. I’ll do it.”
In addition to being the publisher and editor of the Marquette County Courier, Johnson covered all area high school sports. That carried a lot of weight in Bodine.
Greenway and the others exchanged surly glances but said nothing.
“Now go on.” Johnson gestured down the street. “I’m sure there are cats somewhere need torturing, eh.”
When the boys had gone, Ren said, “Thanks.”
Charlie said, “We were doing fine.”
Johnson laughed. “That’s exactly what Custer said, Charlie.” He turned his attention back to Ren. “Like I said, have your mom look at that lip. How is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Busy,” Ren said. “You know.”
“Sure. Tell her I said hello, eh.”
Ren nodded.
“Charlie, I swear I’m going to see you in the Olympics someday.” Johnson gave her a smile, then strolled away.
“Come on,” Stash said, stowing his skateboard under his arm. “Let’s get high.”
5
A hundred yards from where the Copper River spilled into Lake Superior, perched on a small rise among a stand of red maples on the west bank, stood an old stone picnic shelter. The shelter was part of the Big Cascade Wayside, a little park named for the stair step of rocks and churning water it overlooked. The shelter had been built during the Depression as a CCC project but wasn’t used much anymore. The locals and tourists preferred Dunning Park on the lakefront. More often than not, Ren and his friends had the place to themselves.
By the time they reached the river, the sun had set. The water as it dipped and swirled over the rocks was a reflection of a golden sky. Ren parked the ATV and the three kids stepped inside the shelter. The corners were littered with fallen leaves. A blackened fireplace dominated the back wall. The place smelled of old burn, dusty stone, rotting leaves, and faintly of piss. Stash stood on one of the two concrete picnic tables, reached up to a low rafter, and pulled down a cigar box bound with a thick rubber band. He sat down, slipped the band off, and lifted the lid to reveal a dime bag of weed, a package of Zig-Zag rolling papers, and a Bic lighter. His real name was Stuart, but Ren and Charlie had dubbed him Stash because he kept small caches of weed hidden in a number of places around Bodine. A hole in a tree in Dunning Park on the lake. Taped under the bleachers at the ballpark. In a disconnected downspout in the alley behind Linder’s Garage. He didn’t like to carry anything on him. He’d been stopped too many times and ripped off, he claimed, by the deputy constable.
As Stash sat on the table and rolled a joint, Ren eyed the inside of the box lid. Printed in bold magic marker: PROPERTY OF STUART GULLICKSON.
“You’re crazy, man,” he told Stash. “That’ll get you sent to juvie for sure.”
“So I get picked up. The old man springs me, gives me a lecture on disappointment and shame, yells about military school again. Only problem is there aren’t any I haven’t already been kicked out of.” He licked the seam to
