A Boy Called Duct Tape Read Free Page B

“Only a fool pretends to know tomorrow.”
    “I remember,” I said, recalling my father’s words almost as if he’d spoken them yesterday.
    “Kiki might surprise you.”
    “But where will she sleep?”
    “Kiki will sleep in your bed,” Mom said. “I’ll make a place for you on the couch.”
    I breathed a big sigh and rubbed my face. It was definitely a sad beginning to my summer vacation.
    “What did the website say about the coin?” Pia asked, gazing down the road for the school bus early the next morning. A clap of thunder rolled in from the south.
    “It said the coin was worth some money,” I said. “Provided it’s in Very Fine condition.”
    “Huh? What’s that mean?”
    “It’s the way coin dealers judge a coin’s value—like if it’s worn smooth or not,” I explained. “The better the condition, the more a coin is worth.”
    “So, how much is it worth?”
    I didn’t hesitate. “Sixty dollars.”
    If I told Pia the truth, everyone in town would know about it before lunch. I’d tell her later. Maybe. Besides, I still had some doubts about the true value of the gold piece. A GUIDE TO U.S. COINS might be wrong. I’d have to do more research.
    “Sixty dollars! Awesome! Maybe that will help fix Mom’s car!”
    “Maybe,” I replied.
    Mom’s 1995 Buick Skylark was in bad shape. Something about a cracked block.
    As Pia and I waited for the bus, it began to sprinkle. The raindrops made little moon craters in the dusty road that ran in front of the Ozark Mobile Home Park.
    “Is it still hidden?” I asked.
    “Is what hidden?”
    “The coin! Duh!”
    “Yeah, and I’m not telling where,” Pia announced.
    “I don’t care where. Just don’t lose it, that’s all.”
    I glanced down at my sneakers. One side of my left sneaker had blown out again, and I had added a fresh strip of duct tape that morning. I hoped I didn’t run into Jimmy. It was bad enough that I had to wear sneakers wrapped in duct tape. It was doubly bad when Jimmy broadcast it to the whole world.
    “Wait for me as soon as you get home from school today,” I said. “I have an idea about finding more coins.”
    “What idea?”
    “Just be at the trailer. I’ll tell you then.”
    “Tell me now,” Pia argued.
    “Just be at home, okay?” Sometimes Pia could wear me down.
    The school bus rounded a curve and came into sight, a plum of purple fumes sputtering from the rusty exhaust. The bus was just in time because the rain was pouring in big, cold drops.
    “And don’t tell anyone about your coin,” I cautioned.
    “You think I’m stupid or something?” Pia asked, using her backpack as an umbrella.
    “No, you just like to talk a lot.”
    Pia made a smug face. “All women like to talk a lot.”
    Pia and I met at home that afternoon. It was the last day of school and we had been let out early. We quickly changed into swimming suits.
    My idea for finding more gold coins in James Creek was simple. All we needed were a couple of inner tubes—there were several hibernating under our mobile home—and two drinking glasses. We grabbed them and set off on the 15-minute bike ride to Harper’s Hole. The weedy trail began at the edge of our trailer park and twined its way through the forest to James Creek.
    My plan was simple: float down the river on the inner tubes, the drinking glasses partially submerged in the water. By looking through the drinking glasses, we could see images on the river bottom. I was sure there were more coins in James Creek.
    By that afternoon the morning rainstorm had moved north, and the skies were dotted with puffy white clouds. Pia and I splashed through the mud puddles as we sped down the path on our dirt bikes. When we reached Harper’s Hole we laid our bikes against the cottonwood tree and hiked upstream for a half-mile or so, the inflatable tubes in one hand, drinking glasses in the other.
    “Do you really think we’ll find more coins?” Pia asked, the inner tube dragging through the