Legends of the Ghost Pirates (20 page)

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.

Tr
ent 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 li
ttle 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.