Last Summer Boys(61)

“I’ll give you fair warning,” Will tells her. “We can play a little rough.”

Fast as a whip, Anna May springs forward and kicks one of her long legs out from under her skirt. Before Will can even blink, that old coffee can clatters away across the drive.

The rest of us bust out laughing. Will’s too surprised to be embarrassed. I run and grab the can again. We play a couple rounds, laughing, forgetting everything bad—the war, the riots, the fires, the floods. Eventually Pastor Fenton comes off the porch and calls his daughter; it’s time for them to leave too.

Anna May kisses Will on the cheek, ignoring our ribbing, and dashes across the driveway.

We watch their red taillights fade through the trees. “Man,” I say. “She’s pretty good for a girl.”

Will just sighs.

“John Thomas!”

Ma’s voice. Turning, I see her framed in the doorway.

“You know you’re not supposed to be playing outside! You’re still sick! Get on in here right now!”





This time, it’s Frankie who gets woken up by an idea.

He shakes me awake, whispering fiercely in my ear.

“Jack, I’ve got an idea!”

I’m half-awake and struggling to bring the other half around as he goes on. “I know how we can still make Pete famous and keep him from getting drafted.”

That does it. I sit bolt upright, shooting a glance to where my brothers are both sawing logs in their bunk.

“The barn,” I whisper.

We take the gutter to the porch roof. Roof to the yard. Up damp flagstones, two at a time. There Frankie finds the book of matches he’s hidden over by the sewing table that doubles as his writing desk.

He lights the candle.

“We need to make Pete famous, right?”

“Right.”

“And you figured finding that old fighter jet would do it, right?”

“Right again.”

“I been thinking about it all night,” Frankie says, “and this council vote is an even bigger story than that fighter jet.”

“How so?”

“Because it affects everybody,” Frankie tells me. “The people in town and the people who live outside it. Everybody has a reason to read the article.”

“But how does Pete play in?”

Frankie smiles. “Easy. We’ll get a quote from him at the council meeting. Then I’ll put that quote in the story. And we’ll have it!”

“Frankie, you’re a genius! Now we just need to win that council vote.”

“Mr. Halleck said all we had to do was persuade two council members to switch their votes,” Frankie says. “And how hard can that be, really?”





Chapter 19


STORM CLOUDS





Early and dark in the barn. The wax spills down our little candle and runs in cooling currents across the top of Grandma Elliot’s sewing table as Frankie types.

His fingers jab the keys, sending those little metal arms snapping out faster than I can see. They look like the antennae of some giant metal insect.

Outside, daylight is just beginning to paint its pale brushstrokes on the sky behind the pines. We been here all night.

“How’s it coming?” I ask through a yawn.

He frowns and shakes his head, and I understand that means I’m not supposed to talk.

Frankie had the idea to begin writing the story before the council’s vote and just leave space enough for whatever Pete will say and how close the final vote was.

I hope it ain’t even close. I want us to knock Kemper right out of the ring.

I shift again on the upturned pail that’s been my seat for the last few hours and go back to brooding. Pleased as I am with Frankie’s idea, there’s something about this whole council vote makes me nervous.

It’s a good plan, Gene, but it won’t be enough. Mr. Halleck’s words to Dad and Sam last night on our porch. Mr. Halleck knows more about councils and votes than anybody else. If he’s worried, that makes me worried.

“Ain’t there something I can do?” I finally ask.

“Yes, there is,” Frankie says. “And it’s a very important thing. Something critical. And it’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, Jack.”

“What is it?” I ask, sitting up.

“You can keep quiet and not say one single word until I get this finished.”

That metal insect goes back to snapping its metal arms across the page.

I go back to being quiet.

It must be nearly five o’clock in the morning. Early yet. And so I am surprised to hear a car turn off Hopkins Road and come up our lane. Peering through the barn’s cobwebby window, I see Sam’s truck cough its way into our drive. Dad comes out of the house, climbs in. Sam backs down the drive, and within moments the two of them are gone, the sounds of Sam’s tires eating gravel fading through the trees.

“Now, where do you think they’re going?” I ask.

Frankie looks at me.

“Sorry. I forgot.”

Frankie goes back to typing.

I go back to fretting.





All day long Ma is on the phone. She goes through each page of her address book and Christmas card list, calling friends and neighbors, telling each about the council vote. She keeps a pad of paper on her lap; she writes down the name of everyone who promises to come.