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Richards’s booming announcer-voice is just as recognizable (to anyone living within a hundred miles of his station) as, say, the color orange. Gabe always snagged a seat behind Richards and his 16/262

cameraman, allowing Fred’s voice to narrate the footage he shot for
The
Eagle Eye
.

“… a rebound by Keyes,” Fred continues as I snag the ball, then launch into a lay-up. “Shoots and …
scores
for Fair Grove, giving the Lady Eagles a solid ten-point lead.”

On the screen, I jog away from the basket, chasing the ball with the rest of the team toward the far end of the court. Sweat soaks my jersey and the roots of my hair—not from physical exertion but from searing pain. Every time I watch this footage, I relive it all. And I know that at this point in the game, with less than five minutes to go in the third quarter, the me on TV is in such anguish that I’ve resorted to marking time like some fatty on a treadmill ten minutes into her New Year’s resolution.

The ref blows his whistle, waving his arms as he calls a foul on my team. Boos ooze from the crowd like thick black tar. When Beth Hardy, number sixteen, point guard for the Aurora Lady Houns, steps up to take her free throw, the me on TV closes my eyes. No one knows it, but I’m visualizing that two Lady Houns are causing the pain radiating from my very core. I’m trying to picture them standing on either side of me, taking turns tugging on a dual-handled, old-fashioned lumberjack saw that’s slicing through me. In an attempt to turn my pain into anger at the enemy, at the opposition, I try to imagine they’re cutting me in half.
Take it to the Keyes.
My heart starts to go haywire as Hardy misses and I turn and charge down the court. Theresa, our point guard, has snagged the rebound and dribbles down the court behind me, her long yellow French braid bouncing against her shoulder blades as fiercely as the ball against the floor.

Take it to the Keyes.

Like they always do at this point in the game, my eyes dart away from myself, away from the ball, and land on two boys arguing—front 17/262

row, far corner of the bleachers, just feet from the hoop. Pushing. Shoving. Not angrily, not like they’re really having a horrible disagreement, more like two brothers toying with each other. Which is exactly what they are—the Highful twins, Levi and Tucker, elbowing each other, eyes hidden by their filthy ball caps. Even though Brandon’s camera angle only shows their profiles, their stupid grins still leap out like name tags. Dopes, both of them. Morons in Fair Grove FFA T-shirts.
Elbow, elbow, nudge, push.

Levi’s holding an enormous soda. And every time Tucker nudges him, Levi spills a little more on the knee of his jeans.
Stop
, Levi mouths, and Tucker throws his head back. His shoulders ripple with laughter. Levi punches him in the arm.

But the Chelsea playing basketball doesn’t notice their horseplay. Now that her feet have landed inside the key, right beneath the basket, she pins her eyes on the ball as Theresa passes it. She opens her hands; when the ball hits her palms,
I
can feel it—the me sitting on the edge of my bed, I mean. Months after the game, I can still feel the skin of the ball, rough and bumpy as a hedge-apple. It smacks my palms so hard, my skin burns.

Shaking pom-poms, stomping feet on the bleachers. A frenzy explodes, our small town gymnasium transforming into an enormous outdoor arena the moment before some legendary, world-renowned band bursts onto the stage.

“… a pass to Keyes …” Fred announces, his voice high-pitched, the sound of pure adrenaline.

Nitro, Nitro, Nitro
… the crowd chants. But powered by explosives is the last thing in the world I feel. The Chelsea on the TV screen is being pulverized by spinning metal teeth in a blender. Her hips are being twisted and cracked. And Beth Hardy is no puppy—she’s a rabid dog, out to attack. Her defense is so mean, it has claws and blood-stained canine teeth.

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As the crowd screams, chants, stomps, I turn my crackling, fireconsumed body away from Hardy and I launch myself into a jump hook. But I know, even before I release the ball, that the shot’s all whopper-jawed. I’ve jumped too high to get the most power, and my body’s rotated all wrong.

“… Keyes shoots and …” Fred Richards narrates happily. But I wonder, as I always do at this point, how he ever could have thought my air ball, soaring wildly, would have landed anywhere near the hoop. How he ever could have expected to end his sentence with “…
scores!
”

In the bleachers, Tucker mouths an
ow
and reels his arm back to punch his twin. Levi tries to lean out of Tucker’s reach; as he twists to the side, Tucker’s hand makes contact with the plastic soda cup, knocking it out of Levi’s fingers. The cup flies toward the court, hits the floor near the end line, tumbles. The soda spills beneath the basket. The brown, bubbly shadow creeps across the glossy gym floor, spreading across the key.

I hit
pause
on the remote while Chelsea is still in the air. At this moment, I have yet to come down from my crazy, desperate jump. My feet have yet to hit the puddle of Levi’s spilled drink. I have yet to lose my balance and slide through the sloppy soda. My legs have yet to shoot out in opposite directions like a Fair Grove cheerleader doing the splits. My body has yet to slam against the brick-hard surface of the court. The me on TV has yet to be rushed to the emergency room, where a doctor will let his eyebrows crash together as he points to my X-rays, at the fracture that slices through my hip bone and makes me look like a cracked teacup. That doctor has yet to shake his head when I finally come clean about the pelvic ache, saying,
Your hip was surely already
weakened by a stress fracture, Chelsea. Overuse. You should have told
someone you were hurting.
I have yet to be sent for hip surgery, yet to be termed
out of commission.
I have yet to see my dreams of college 19/262

ball ripped to the kind of violent, life-altering shreds that usually fill a trailer park after a tornado.

I stare at myself, wishing I could have paused my
life
here. Wishing I could have dangled in the air forever, and never had to endure the excruciating pain that followed. Clint

minor penalty

Callmecrazy,”saysEarl,ownerofLakeoftheWoodsfishingresort, from behind the check-in counter. “I happen to think that a man on vacation wants … a vacation.”

I instantly feel deflated. I glance back up at the poster I’ve just thumbtacked to the wall of the lobby. It’s not a
bad
poster. In fact, I personally think the collage I’ve put together of the northern Minnesota landscape looks enticing. Whitewater rapids, kayaks on clear rivers, brown fingers of hiking trails—what could be better?
Give me a week,
I’ll give you the tools for the best body of your life!
my poster promises.
Lake of the Woods Boot Camp!

“It’s a good idea,” I say, trying to defend myself. But my words hesitate far too much to convey any real confidence. I clear my throat and decide to be more assertive. “It’s not like I’m forcing people into the gym. It’s intense outdoor activities—hiking, swimming, rowing—surrounded by our incredible scenery. Isn’t that why people come up here 21/262

in the first place? For the scenery? You don’t vacation in Minnesota to be
inside
.”

“I dunno,” Earl mumbles. “Most people like a little leisure with their time off. Hikes are strolls here, Clint. Kayak trips are sight-seeing adventures, not races. Swimming amounts to floating on an inner tube near the dock.
Vacation
, son. Rest. Relaxation. That’s what folks come here for. You should know that by now. The men fish. The women make eyes at the tour guides.”

“They don’t ‘make eyes’ at me,” I say, as the door to the dining room flops open.

“It’s all right, Clint,” Todd says around an enormous bite of a sandwich that reeks of vinegar. “Not everybody can be the stuff of fantasy. Just a select few of us.” He’s not really joking all that much. Here we are, on our first day of summer work back at the resort, and already he’s walking around in a Lake of the Woods T-shirt that’s too small for him, displaying all those hours at the weight bench for the girls on vacation. Usually, we don’t get too many eighteen-or nineteen-year-olds here at the resort, mostly families with younger kids. But Todd’s obviously hoping for the best. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and lets out a moan when he sees my poster. “What is
that
? What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just an idea,” I say.

Todd shakes his head. “No, no, no—no more ideas. You’re blowing everything.”

“Blowing what? I told you, it’s just an idea.”

“No, no, no,” Todd mumbles, finally swallows. “Look. I can understand you working hard senior year. Making up for lost time, maybe. Okay, sure. But last year—you, me, and Greg, away at school. Didn’t even have to deal with being in a dorm—we had our
own place
. No parents. The perfect opportunity. And you
studied
. For God’s sake, who 22/262

works so hard, freshman year of college? Huh? Do
you
know?” he asks, turning to Earl.

Earl just tugs on his steel wool beard, trying not to laugh.

“Really—who
studies
like that?” Todd shouts again, like I’m deaf or something. “You take—gym—you take—James Bond Movies 101—you take—freshman comp. Did you go to a single party
all year
, Morgan?”

I just stare at him. He knows I didn’t.

“You blew it. The freebie, gimme year. You
blew
it. And now, at the very beginning of the summer, when everybody takes a little breather, you’ve got
three
jobs?”

“I don’t have three—”

“Tour guide here at the resort,” Todd interrupts, holding up his index finger. “Working at Pike’s Perch,” he says, holding up his middle finger when referring to my parents’ restaurant. “And now,” he finishes, holding up a ring finger slathered in mayo from his sandwich, “
that
.”

He points at the poster, then shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth.

“Maybe you’re spreading yourself a little thin,” Earl adds.

“It’s not like my folks pay me or anything,” I protest. “Working at Pike’s is just kind of like helping around the house. And some extra cash on the side would really help with tuition next year. Not to mention geology textbooks—those things aren’t exactly cheap. Maybe you guys could sign up for my boot camp. Help a guy out.”

“No way,” Todd says, shaking his head. “Huh-uh. I’m not contributing to this
working
craziness. Working, studying,
jeez.
And another thing—if your parents don’t stop bragging about your A’s to everybody at Pike’s, I’m gonna kill you. My parents eat in there.”

“What about you?” I ask Earl.

Earl grimaces. “I’d rather get a whoopin’.”

“I’ll get somebody,” I insist, laughing now. “You just watch.”

23/262

“Speaking of watches,” Earl says, nodding once at the old wristband I wear. Old-fashioned, I guess, but I've never been into cell phones, which seem to be the only way anybody keeps track of the time anymore. Besides, around here, cells never really work all that great. Shoddy reception at best. “Think you’ve got a hiking tour waitin’ on you,” Earl finishes.

I glance at my wrist, slam my box of stick pins onto the counter.

“Bet you
both
a free dinner at Pike’s I get somebody before the week’s out,” I say as I rush for the door.

“Your folks sure aren’t gonna like you givin’ away their food,” Earl warns.

Todd laughs as he leans against the front counter, waiting, just like he always does, until the very last millisecond before heading out to his fishing tour. Which is just Todd’s style—he’s pretty much last-second about everything. Not that he’s some irresponsible moron; Earl wouldn’t let him get close to one of his launches if he couldn’t trust him. Todd’s just never been in a hurry in his life.

I’d shout some smart-ass stinger back at the two of them, but I’m already too far out the door for either of them to hear me. Outside smells kind of swampy, earthy. It’s familiar, like I guess it should be; Pop started taking me here to fish and hike when I was barely out of second grade.

A white launch putters across the lake, leaving a trail of ripples behind it. Greg is onboard, entertaining a load of noisy tourists, baiting lines and telling wild stories of fish caught by other vacationers. “God, it was big as a whale!” I think I hear him shout. He’s really worked up today, probably just excited to be back at the resort, his voice carrying across the stillness of the water. He’s really putting on the works, priming his first group of tourists for their own
Old Man and the Sea
adventure.

24/262

Greg and Todd and this resort: my three oldest friends. Their faces fill Mom’s family albums, in photos of Fourth of July picnics and birthday parties. But everything changes. We’re not here just to play anymore. Greg and Todd and I have all passed every requirement and certification known to man (or known to Earl, anyway) so that we could work as the fishing guides. So that we could steer groups of tourists out into a lake that spreads itself so wide, it sometimes seems as big as the Atlantic. And while Todd and Greg only want to work on the boats, I’m what Earl calls the floater. I take up the slack wherever it shows up. Fish, sure, but also take the tourists out birding, or hunting wildflowers. We go canoeing. Ride ATVs. It’s the second summer Earl’s given us these jobs. Sometimes I just can’t believe my luck. Little does Earl know, I’d pay
him
to work here.

“Come on, guys,” I say, waving at a clump of tourists gathered near the path behind the main lodge. They stop chattering long enough to look at my T-shirt, see the Lake of the Woods fishing resort logo embroidered across my left shoulder. They smile, one after another, realizing I’m the one they’ve been waiting on.

“Hope you guys all brought your cameras,” I say, holding the digital I’ve borrowed toward the sun. These people and I don’t know each other by our first names yet, not on this first hike of the summer. But we will. Soon they’ll be calling
Clint!
as they point out red blooms along the edge of the path, asking me what they’re called. By the time they leave, they’ll know all the Minnesota wildflowers by their first names, too. My calves go warm as I start up the incline of the dirt path. The late May sun beats especially hot on the back of my head, making me feel wet behind the ears for leaving my Lake of the Woods ball cap in the lodge.