Raft of Stars by Andrew Graff (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

next would be important and grave and perilous. His grandpa breathed through his nose awhile. I know I don’t talk about it, Fischer, because I don’t know if I should or shouldn’t, said his grandpa. I’m just an old man. And I know that life is both good and cruel. He released his grip on the wheel a bit. And it’s been cruel to you, Fischer. But listen to me now, hear this—it also gave you your dad, and your dad was good. When you were real little your dad used to scoop you up and tell you he loved you from your heart to the sun. Fish couldn’t remember it, but he could see it somehow, and when he did, he saw sunlight. He’d point to your heart, and then he’d point at the sun, and you’d smile and laugh and make him say it again. And he always would, as many times as you asked him. Bread’s grandfather looked out at the road. He took his hands off the wheel and rubbed his palms on his jeans. Fish felt a tear roll down his cheek. And just because he’s not with us doesn’t mean you don’t have him. You have a father. Do you understand? Fish nodded. His grandpa wiped his eyes, and then he sighed. Minuscule particles of hay dust floated and sparkled inside the silent cab. I gotta go back inside. I have to apologize to that woman. I’ll be back. He started the motor so the heater would run, and after a few moments of profound absence, he drove Fischer home and made him pancakes. They did no work that afternoon. Fish’s grandpa slept upstairs the remainder of the day, his work boots unlaced in the kitchen. That was their last Sunday at church. From then on they stayed busy on Sundays instead.

Bread snorted and startled himself awake. Fish hadn’t noticed his friend had nodded off. Without comment, Bread smacked his lips, took another bite of beans, and stared at his mess tin until his head slowly dropped again. Fish was tired too, tired of remembering. He was tired of thinking about his dad and grandfather, and what it meant to lie to his friend about his father’s life, ask him to run toward something that wasn’t there. He liked the beaver life better. Out here with the trees and rocks for fathers. But when he looked at Bread, he couldn’t help wondering if his dad ever told him he loved him, ever pointed at his heart. Fish felt again the awful weightlessness of raising the revolver, that shattering report that filled the room with smoke and deafness. Fish’s tired mind swam between visions of his father’s hand pointing from his heart to sunlight and of Bread’s father choking his son on a linoleum floor. Fish felt accusation rise in his heart, guilt, shame. He closed his eyes and opened them. Forget it, he told himself. At least for now. That’s something his mom used to tell him when he couldn’t sleep and worried about not sleeping. You have permission to forget it, she’d tell him. Just for a minute, just enjoy your pillow, just rest, let it go. Close your eyes and sail away from troubles on a raft made of stars. And then she’d pray and hum.

Fish looked out at the bending river grass. He didn’t need to cut cedar branches for beds tonight. The wilderness was soft enough. They could cut down some push poles tomorrow before shoving off. Tomorrow would be perfect. Just like everything else. Just like the sunset. Like the river. Just like the raft and the crickets. Fish closed his eyes. Bending down and down, he thought, like river grass. Like cattails.

“Boys!”

Fish spilled his bean tin from his lap with a clatter. He looked out at the river. The far bank stood quiet with its reeds and brush. The shadows sat still. The air didn’t stir. He spun where he sat to look back at the interior of the island. Bread slept soundly. Had Fish dreamed the voice?

“Boys!”

He heard it this time. It was a man’s voice, off to his right, not very distant. Fish crouched and clawed through the river grass to where he could get a good view of the opposing shoreline. The first thing he saw was a riderless horse standing on the riverbank, eating grass. And then he saw a black and white dog sniffing along the mud. Fish crouched behind a windfallen tree, peeking over the stump. He didn’t see the sheriff until the man moved. The man appeared like a deer appears, seemingly from nowhere despite its lack of camouflage. The sheriff moved through chest-high grass. Fish’s hands felt numb. The sheriff looked right at him.

The two locked eyes for what seemed to be minutes. Fish couldn’t tell if the sheriff could see him or not, but it sure felt like he did. Fish felt the same way when he stumbled across a wild animal in the woods. He could remember it happening only a handful of times, but when he’d come upon a fox or a deer, it made him feel like a creature too, the surprise of it, not knowing at all what to do and certainly unwilling to make a move to find out.

The sheriff moved first, and Fish let out a rattling breath. The sheriff looked up and down the length of the island. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He slapped his hat against his leg. He now stood in the exact place where the boys had crossed, where they jumped in like cannonballs and swam. How did that already seem so long ago, tramping in there with their packs and bikes, cutting down trees with pocketknives, like children. Fish didn’t feel like a child anymore. The raft was finished, and that made him feel capable. But that was all in danger now. Fish remembered the bikes—Bread had left them behind.