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

collected like puddles. The river seemed not to care where the raft went, or why it was going where it did. The image of Bread’s dad hitting the floor came back to Fish, the way that blast filled the room like lightning, left it ringing and silent. The man crumpled forward so easily. It was as if there hadn’t been anything in him in the first place that kept him standing. But there had been something in him, and the bullet ripped it out of him, and it had mattered. The world had spirits in it. When that sow bear came, Fish had rarely felt such triumph. Something good is. Something evil is, too. It mattered that that sow saved her cub. It mattered that Fish killed a man. It mattered that Fish was a liar. But what mattered most right now to Fish was that Bread stay alive, that he keep inside of him whatever it was that bullet tore out of his dad. It mattered to Fish that Bread keep going, even if he didn’t know why, or to where.

Fish rose to his knees and looked at his friend. Bread was hip-deep in water, pushing a section of the raft to shore that hadn’t been completely wrecked. It looked to be about five or six logs wide. It floated, sort of. They could ride it. Between the two of them, they still had a flint, a knife, a gun, and four rounds. They could keep going.

Fish stood and made his way toward Bread. He stumbled. His stomach hurt and his legs tingled, but he found a way to totter forward and splashed into the water beside Bread. Without speaking, Fish leaned into the raft with both hands and pushed it. With both boys pushing, the raft moved easily. The logs were still bound together loosely, waterlogged but floating.

“We got more rope?” Fish asked. On the beach lay a pile of logs Bread had already collected.

Bread nodded, looked at Fish warily. “There’s some tangled rope on them logs. There’s no way to rebuild it like it was.”

“This will do,” said Fish.

The boys stooped lower to push the raft up to the beach. As the raft nudged onto the sand, Bread shook his head in disbelief. Then a grin broke through.

“What?” said Fish.

Bread rolled his eyes. “What, he says.”

Fish brushed sand from his hands, worried that he was no longer welcome in this.

“You’re a yo-yo, Fish,” said Bread.

“You’re a yo-yo,” said Fish. “I’m a beaver.”

Bread grinned, handed the barlow knife back to Fish.

It was good to see Bread smile. It made the world feel less wrong. Fish unfolded the blade and wiped it on his jeans. He decided to wait until the raft was rebuilt to tell Bread the truth about his dad. That way, if Bread abandoned him, at least Bread would have a boat, a way to get out of the woods. Fish moved toward a tangle of logs and began freeing rope.

The boys worked in the steady rain for a couple of hours. The time went quickly. They had only seven logs to tie together, and the waterlogged rope, though it was heavy, was more limp and easier to work than when it was dry. While they heaved and tugged and sliced, Bread talked about whether he’d rather be a tank driver or a tank gunner when they got to the armory, and Fish let him dream. This might be the last day on earth Fish knew the joy of a friend. And if he was going to lose it soon, he wanted this moment to take with him into exile. Bread went on and on. Firing the gun had its obvious merits, but so did running the tracks. Both boys knew how tank treads worked independently of each other, how tanks could spin on a dime, crush bunkers, jump trenches. Eventually Bread decided that he’d like that best, having those giant treads in his hands.

“Giant robot feet,” he said. “That’s what driving that tank will be like.”

While he talked about it, Fish got the sense that Bread knew they weren’t actually going to drive any tanks, that he knew he was running toward a lie. At first the thought scared Fish. How much did Bread know? Fish stood still in the rain and watched Bread out of the corner of his eye. Did he know his dad was dead, all the stories Fish had made up for all these summers, all the excuses about his dad having another deployment? Bread had to know. But then, why was he here? With that thought a new hope dawned in Fish’s mind. Of course Bread knew. Only a fool would believe otherwise. Which meant Bread, too, was fighting some vague fight for something unseen, unknown.

Bread stopped working. “What?” he asked.

Fish bit his lip and then scowled at the ground. He felt tears coming into his eyes. If Bread did know about his dad all this time, then his silence was too great a kindness. Bread stood there dripping wet, concern on his brow, already great. He had a bad father and was still this good. Fish’s grandpa was right about him.

“What?” Bread asked again.

“I just—” said Fish. “I’d love to be the tank gunner, if you want to run the tracks.”

The concern fled from Bread’s face and he nodded, as if a solemn decision had finally been sorted out. Fish wiped his eye on his soaked shoulder, folded his knife into his pocket, turned his attention to the diminished but completed raft.

“What do you think of her?” asked Bread.

The raft was about ten feet long and six feet wide. It looked tippy compared to the prior craft. It also looked tired. The ropes were soggy and frayed. Strips of cedar bark hung like a wet beard in the water. Fish stepped on it with his foot. The whole thing wavered a bit. They hadn’t secured a ridgepole this time. It was just seven logs woven alongside one another. Near