Lisa and her love letters.
“Jack!”
He squinted and spotted Teddy Shay on the steps of his rambler, munching on a candy bar. Teddy was the tagalong of the town. His parents owned the sweetshop, which was why he had a serious sweet tooth. He was a year younger than Jack and a candy-ass to top it off. Throw in the lisp, the candy-striped clothes, the curly butterscotch hair, and the retainer, and it was no surprise that he was the follower of the bunch.
Jack paused at the bikeway as Teddy hopped down the steps. “Hey, Teddy. What’s the word?”
“Tryin’ out the new Nethle Crunch.” Teddy tore off the wrapper and shoved it in his pant pocket. “What the hell’th the point of white chocolate anyway?”
“Beats me. You’re the candy man.”
“Well, if it’th chocolate, it’th thmooth, thweet, and brown. White chocolate’th like black ithe. Don’t make thenth.” He looked up from his candy bar and knitted his brows. “What the hell’th on your head?”
Jack refused to be ridiculed by a lisping idiot. “A hat, you Pixy Stick.”
“You know what I mean. What’th it called? You get thomethin’ from that hermit every week.”
“His name’s Willard and the hat’s a porkpie.”
“Porkpie?” Teddy’s toffee eyes widened and he busted out laughing. He then clamped his hand on his mouth as he nearly lost his retainer. “That’th the funnieth thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Guess you’ve never listened to yourself then.”
“Bite me, Jack. If it wathn’t for thith retainer…”
“Keep telling yourself that, Teddy.”
A gunshot bang had the boys whirling. Next door, Bobby Blue flew out of his front door on his Schwinn Sting-Ray. He tore through the mistletoes that crowded the steps and barreled across the yard.
The Sting-Ray never failed to make Bobby look like he was rolling a tank. He crouched behind the ape hangar bars like they were turrets as he pushed the gunmetal-gray bike to its limit. The glitter grips, banana seat, and chrome fenders sparkled like shrapnel. Bobby cranked the handlebars and the back wheel skidded through the grass before Jack and Teddy, spraying them with dirt.
“At ease, men!” Bobby flipped out the kickstand and dismounted. He saluted the Sting-Ray, then spun and faced his comrades.
Bobby was as gung ho as they came. His father was a bluejacket stationed in California for the summer while his mother ran the market. Bobby was Jack’s age and dressed as if he was going to war. His shirt and pants were camouflaged and a black beret hid his crew cut. He was the only kid Jack had ever seen ride a bike in combat boots.
Bobby clasped his hands behind his back. “Ready to bite the bullet or what?”
“What’s the plan of attack today, Blue?” Jack knew Bobby had something in mind. There was always a plan.
“I ain’t shopliftin’ from your mama’th thtore again.”
Bobby shook his head. “How long have you lived in this war zone? It’s D-Day. The nineteenth. We’re seeing Skelt tonight if I have to arm the infra-red scope.”
“Who’th we? I got a curfew. My folkth won’t let me out patht midnight.”
“You can take your candy-ass to Mack’s house, Shay. Nail up another two-by-four while you’re at it. Jericho, don’t let me down.”
“I’m with you, Blue. When am I not?”
“Operation: Skeleton Man assigned! And Lieutenant Jericho, what’s that sorry excuse for a helmet on your dome?”
Teddy grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Jack. What kind of hat ith that?”
Jack turned on Teddy. “A jawbreaker, if you keep it up.”
“What the hell’re you babies whinin’ ‘bout now?”
All three friends spun to see Charlie Harmon approaching from up the street. He was a smart-mouthed eighteen-year-old, the rotten apple in the orchard. He wore a leather jacket with the skull-and-crossbones on the back and ripped blue jeans with kneeholes. He kept his greased black hair in a ponytail, save for the spit curl on his forehead, and always had a
“Jack!”
He squinted and spotted Teddy Shay on the steps of his rambler, munching on a candy bar. Teddy was the tagalong of the town. His parents owned the sweetshop, which was why he had a serious sweet tooth. He was a year younger than Jack and a candy-ass to top it off. Throw in the lisp, the candy-striped clothes, the curly butterscotch hair, and the retainer, and it was no surprise that he was the follower of the bunch.
Jack paused at the bikeway as Teddy hopped down the steps. “Hey, Teddy. What’s the word?”
“Tryin’ out the new Nethle Crunch.” Teddy tore off the wrapper and shoved it in his pant pocket. “What the hell’th the point of white chocolate anyway?”
“Beats me. You’re the candy man.”
“Well, if it’th chocolate, it’th thmooth, thweet, and brown. White chocolate’th like black ithe. Don’t make thenth.” He looked up from his candy bar and knitted his brows. “What the hell’th on your head?”
Jack refused to be ridiculed by a lisping idiot. “A hat, you Pixy Stick.”
“You know what I mean. What’th it called? You get thomethin’ from that hermit every week.”
“His name’s Willard and the hat’s a porkpie.”
“Porkpie?” Teddy’s toffee eyes widened and he busted out laughing. He then clamped his hand on his mouth as he nearly lost his retainer. “That’th the funnieth thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Guess you’ve never listened to yourself then.”
“Bite me, Jack. If it wathn’t for thith retainer…”
“Keep telling yourself that, Teddy.”
A gunshot bang had the boys whirling. Next door, Bobby Blue flew out of his front door on his Schwinn Sting-Ray. He tore through the mistletoes that crowded the steps and barreled across the yard.
The Sting-Ray never failed to make Bobby look like he was rolling a tank. He crouched behind the ape hangar bars like they were turrets as he pushed the gunmetal-gray bike to its limit. The glitter grips, banana seat, and chrome fenders sparkled like shrapnel. Bobby cranked the handlebars and the back wheel skidded through the grass before Jack and Teddy, spraying them with dirt.
“At ease, men!” Bobby flipped out the kickstand and dismounted. He saluted the Sting-Ray, then spun and faced his comrades.
Bobby was as gung ho as they came. His father was a bluejacket stationed in California for the summer while his mother ran the market. Bobby was Jack’s age and dressed as if he was going to war. His shirt and pants were camouflaged and a black beret hid his crew cut. He was the only kid Jack had ever seen ride a bike in combat boots.
Bobby clasped his hands behind his back. “Ready to bite the bullet or what?”
“What’s the plan of attack today, Blue?” Jack knew Bobby had something in mind. There was always a plan.
“I ain’t shopliftin’ from your mama’th thtore again.”
Bobby shook his head. “How long have you lived in this war zone? It’s D-Day. The nineteenth. We’re seeing Skelt tonight if I have to arm the infra-red scope.”
“Who’th we? I got a curfew. My folkth won’t let me out patht midnight.”
“You can take your candy-ass to Mack’s house, Shay. Nail up another two-by-four while you’re at it. Jericho, don’t let me down.”
“I’m with you, Blue. When am I not?”
“Operation: Skeleton Man assigned! And Lieutenant Jericho, what’s that sorry excuse for a helmet on your dome?”
Teddy grinned from ear to ear. “Yeah, Jack. What kind of hat ith that?”
Jack turned on Teddy. “A jawbreaker, if you keep it up.”
“What the hell’re you babies whinin’ ‘bout now?”
All three friends spun to see Charlie Harmon approaching from up the street. He was a smart-mouthed eighteen-year-old, the rotten apple in the orchard. He wore a leather jacket with the skull-and-crossbones on the back and ripped blue jeans with kneeholes. He kept his greased black hair in a ponytail, save for the spit curl on his forehead, and always had a