“If you spear it in the middle instead of on one of the ends, you’ll have more luck with it staying on,” he instructs. He presses his lips together in a firm line as he focuses on securing the worm in place.
While he seems unfazed at our proximity, I’m glad I decided against the red swim coverup this morning. Nothing like avoiding a level of pit-stained embarrassment as my heart rate skyrockets to cardio levels. Having him this close is like the third lap around the middle school track right before you pass out.
“There!” he says, stepping back to admire his work. The worm hangs limply, impaled by the hook’s tip.
So, this is the teenage version of hunting for tadpoles.It’s kind of gruesome.
I watch Reed pick up his rigged-up pole and walk it confidently to the edge of the dock where he tips it back over his shoulder and casts it out into the still turquoise lake.
Well, he made that look easy.
Miles grabs a tackle box out of the shed while I follow Reed to where he sits.
Piece of cake, I think to myself, imitating Reed’s swift movement of tip, extend, cast. Only, that’s not what happens. Somewhere between the extend and cast part my fishing linespins around the end of my pole like a helicopter propeller, and it careens off the hook into the water with a plop. Reed howls with laughter, and I shrivel to the size of that decapitated worm that has now found a home at the bottom of the lake.
“Okay, that looked easier than it was,” I say as I pull the messy end of my fishing pole toward me.
“You’ll get it. It just takes practice,” he says.
I grumble. “Easy for you to say. If there were Olympic medals for fishing, you’d be earning gold.”
“Miles and I have been out here almost every day for four summers now,” he says.
Four summers. That’s how much I’ve missed between them.
“How did the two of you meet?” I ask.
“At the tackle shop in town. I’m sure you know Miles’s dad owns it. My mom thought we needed more hobbies than just boating. Everyone else, my dad and two brothers included, thought it was stupid. I was the only one who stuck with it. When I started hanging around the shop, Shep introduced me to Miles. He said he could use a friend, that loner.”
“I heard that,” Miles pipes in, and we both turn to look at him. He has an old hunter-green tackle box clutched in one hand and a fishing pole with a cork handle in the other. He’s traded his baseball cap for a fisherman hat, the brim hung low over his eyes like his old bucket hat used to. The sight makes my heart squeeze with nostalgia.
“I like your hat,” I say, even though I want to say, “Your hat looks good on you. It reminds me of the old one you used to wear.”
“Thanks.” His mouth turns up at the corners, but his eyes dart around nervously until they land on the end of my pole. “I can help you with that.”
He drops his tackle box and pulls the end closer to unwind the line. He doesn’t have his arms around me like Reed did, butit doesn’t matter. There’s something about the way he glances at me every few seconds that I feel all the way to my toes. My heart is like a Tilt-A-Whirl in my chest, doing all sorts of confusing things I’m not used to.
Miles finishes unwinding my line, and then lifts the lid on the cup of worms. He holds it out, and I follow the steps that Reed taught me and unearth one from the dirt. Miles sits down and casts his line a similar distance to Reed’s. They both smirk, waiting for me to try my own.
“We’ll close our eyes if you want,” Reed says.
“Okay, yeah. Please do that.”
When I’m sure they aren’t looking, I take a deep breath, tipping the pole back and releasing it forward. It does the wobbly thing again, but I get it far enough out there that it just whips the worm a few times on the end of the line before splashing into the water.
“See, I told you it would just take practice.” Reed nudges me, and a blush creeps up my neck.
He’s right. With time, it becomes more natural. Not just with fishing but being around both boys in general. We begin doing everything together. Some days we fish until we catch one large enough to eat. Then we use the timber from an overstocked wood pile near Miles’s shed and add it to our brick firepit on the patio. Miles skins our catch and we cook it over an open flame. It’s not half bad when it’s salted. My parents join us to make s’mores some nights, right about the time the bats swoop between the gigantic oak trees by the water. On lazy afternoons when I sketch, they swim. But Tuesdays?
Tuesdays are reserved for boating.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOW
“Teddy! Where have you been?”
My mom launches herself at me the moment I step through the door. There’s a desperate edge to her voice, and I shrink away in irritation within the cradle of her arms.
