LITMIR.BIZ

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against the morning glare. Something was definitely off, but what? I ran down the driveway. Now I saw. The letters didn’t say T E DIPP anymore. They said DOPE. Someone had removed the T, put the E where the second P had been, and gone to all the trouble of buying an O to replace the I.

      Dirk the Jerk. I was sure of it. I could just see him, that mop-topped, freckle-frosted freak, prowling around Aunt Collette’s yard when no one was looking. DOPE. Did he really think that being captain of the basketball team entitled him to pull a stunt like this? “C’mon, Mem,” I charged into the street. “We’re taking a little detour.”

      “Why?”

      “We need to go to the hardware store.”

      “Why?”

      I scoped Dirk’s mailbox and the gold-and-black lettering that read A. DEMPSTER. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.”

      Mem’s face was getting red and twisted, so I knew an outburst was on its way. Sure enough, he planted his skinny little body in front of me and screeched, “But we’re going swimming at the lake! Johnny, I wanna go swimming. At the lake. I know how. I learned at school. We have a pool there. You prrrrromisssssed!”

      Great, a temper tantrum right out here for the world to see. Maybe even for Dirk the Jerk to see. Mem was acting two and I felt 99. “Okay Mem, fine, you’re right,” I said. “I told you we could go to the lake, and we will. It’s just that we can stay there longer if I get this errand out of the way first. You want to stay at the lake as long as possible, don’t you?”

      “Don’t you?” he said, his voice softer now. “Don’t you?” He started walking with me—not very fast, but at least in the right direction. “Don’t you?”

      Champlain Hardware is right next door to Niko’s. I hadn’t been there in ages, but when Mem and I stepped inside, it smelled familiar, like the paints and varnishes my dad used to keep in the garage, back in the good old days. Mr. Wizzly, the owner, greeted us from behind the counter. I asked him where he kept the letter decals.

      “Next to the No Trespassing and For Sale By Owner signs,” he said, pointing to the back of the store.

      Good, I could work in private there. So while Mem picked out the letters of his name, I racked my brains. Dempster, Dempster, what could I do with Dempster? It needed to be something really maddening—no, infuriating—but what? Then finally I had it. I took a U and a B—black on gold—and made Mem put his stack of letters away while I paid. I asked Mr. Wizzly for my three dollars change in quarters.

      “Ub?” said Mem on the way out. “Or is it bu?”

      “Neither.” I put the decals in my backpack. “I’ll tell you later. Maybe.”

      “Okay. Want some Juicy Fruit?”

      “No. Hey, let’s say hi to your mom while we’re here.” The 7-11 was right around the corner, and I figured it would fill up some of the blank time that was stretching out in front of us like a school day.

      “Yeah!” he shouted and started off faster than I’d seen him go in two days. He got there first. By the time I arrived, Aunt Collette was already pouring him a slushie the color of her lipstick.

      “Howdy, Johnny,” she said over the moan of the slushie machine. “Good timing, you two—I was about to die of loneliness.” She handed Mem his drink and started pouring my favorite, blue raspberry. “What’re you boys up to?”

      “We’re going to the lake,” Mem slurped. “We’re going swimming because I know how. But first we had to—”

      “Hey Mem, you know what?” I cut him off. “I’ll take a piece of that Juicy Fruit, after all.”

      He handed me a stick of stale gum and, thankfully, that was enough to make him switch gears. “Good day for the beach today, folks,” he channeled Martin the Meteorologist in all his squeaky enthusiasm. “Clear and sunny this afternoon, partly cloudy and cooler tonight. This is Martin the Meteorologist wishing you blue skies and starry nights.”

      “Sounds good,” Aunt Collette said, picking a People magazine off the rack and perching on her stool with it. “Now, what did you say brought you downtown?”

      Just then, the door sleigh bells jangled, and Niko walked in, although he looked more like a gangster than the perky pizza guy I’d always known. He was wearing the same grimace he had on when he caught me barefoot yesterday. His apron was stained blood-red with tomato sauce, and his sunglasses, roosting on his forehead, were like an extra set of beady eyes. “Two packs Gold Strikes,” he rasped when he got to the counter.

      Aunt Collette raised her eyebrows into triangles of surprise. “And hello to you too, Niko.”

      He made a weak laugh and smoothed his mustache. “I am sorry. It’s just that I—I need my smokes.”

      “I thought you quit.”

      “Today I am not quit. Maybe tomorrow.” He laid down his money.

      She frowned but got him his cigarettes anyway. “You okay, Niko?”

      “I am…tired.”

      “Now that I can appreciate.” She winked at Mem. “I wouldn’t mind a good night’s sleep myself one of these days.”

      “Sleep is good. Better than these.” He rattled the Gold Strikes boxes. “Well, I…” He kept his mouth open, but no words came out, and he finally turned to go. “See you.”

      Aunt Collette watched him leave and then wondered aloud as she closed the cash register, “Now, what do you suppose has gotten into him?”

      “That’s what I want to know,” I said. But before we could toss any guesses around, Mem was at the door begging to go to the beach. “C’mon, Johnny. You promised. Let’s go swimming at the lake! I know how! You promised!”

      “All right, all right,” I said, draining my slushie cup. “Let’s go.”

      “We’ll have supper when I get home,” Aunt Collette called after us. “Around seven.”

      • • •

      Only a few other kids were swimming when we got to the lake—no one I particularly knew—and a man and a small boy were sitting on a wooden raft about fifty feet out, fishing. The bass and pike really bite this time of year, and I could see the boy yanking something on the end of his pole. His father—or whoever the man was—leaned over and helped him with the reel, but the fish got away.

      I wondered what my own father was doing right now. Not thinking about me, that’s for sure. Even when he lived with Mom and me, he spent all his free time hiding in his basement workshop. It never would have crossed his mind to spend a morning at the lake with me. I wondered if that kid on the raft knew how lucky he was, even if the stinking fish did get away.

      Mem and I picked a spot on the sandy-stony beach and spread out our towels. Okay, I supposed as I took off my shirt and lay down, this should be tolerable. Dull and friendless, but tolerable. Mem kicked off his—I mean my—flip flops and ran straight into the water, which was still freezing cold at the end of June. He lasted about three minutes, then bolted back to his towel and gobbled a couple of Twinkies guts before going shell-hunting. I dug my Sports Illustrated out of my backpack and escaped into an article about yacht racing. I had to admit, this was kind of all right. Mem was entertaining himself, and I could chill. Yes, this was working out okay.

      Okay, that is, until Mem disappeared a half-hour later. One minute I could hear him crunching around on the sand, and the next minute he was gone. I sat up to inspect the thin strip of beach—nothing. I stood up to scan the lake—nothing. I ran knee-deep into the water and called his name over and over, louder and louder—nothing. The other kids were gawking at me, and I think the man on the raft was too.

      I didn’t know what to do. What if he were drowning right this very minute? What if he already had drowned? It would be all my fault. Visions of police cars and lake-rakers

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