Josh Anvil and the Cypress Door: Josh Anvil

1 SWAMP SECRETS

Stupid thing!

Fourteen-year-old Josh Anvil growled in frustration as he tossed a rusted old fishing reel behind his head. It landed on a pile of other dead reels and broken fishing poles. His lower right eyelid twitched three times, and he noticed his tongue sticking partly out of his tilted head. But he didn’t care because he was running out of time.

He grabbed some old fishing line with his scarred left hand. Easy, he snapped at himself, feeling impatience swell up inside. I can do this. He growled yet again, took a deep breath, and held it.

His right hand slowly guided the discolored line to the top ferrule of an old, rust-covered pole. He sighed with relief, but, as he pulled the line taut to attach a hook and sinker, the line snapped.

With gritted teeth, Josh bent the tip of the pole, and, of course, it broke with little effort, giving him two halves of a useless nothing. Mathematically he’d achieved the impossible, ichthyologically the fish were still winning. He threw them into the pile with the others, then rubbed his short dark hair and scalp.

Great start to my morning.

The old Casio watch barely hanging onto his right wrist read half past eight. He looked up at the muggy, smoke-filled Louisiana sky: another scorching August day on the way.

Junior, the Anvil family’s black American longhair, stalked out from the tall yellow grass, and ground whiskers-first against the back of his sweat stained shirt, a fluffy shadow vying for attention. As his fingers massaged Junior’s neck and side, Josh began whistling his favorite tune, Fishin’ in the Dark. That song always seemed to soothe his nerves.

A cat’s petting threshold is different each time for reasons only a cat would know, and consequently for reasons only a cat would understand. Exactly seventeen rubs in, Junior had had enough and sprang over a small bush, pouncing after a butterfly.

Josh leaped up and brushed off his old blue jeans and weather-worn white t-shirt. He made his way to a small whitewashed shed that stood next to yet another pile of fishing relics. Inside, a few cobwebs floated in front of him, barely attached to the wooden door.

Heavy dust motes drifted between shafts of sunlight. Josh flipped a switch; a single hanging light bulb lit the tangled shed. At the center of the earthen floor stood a large, disorganized pile of old oars, broken tackle boxes, loose fishing string, life jackets, and fishing poles. Two halves of a broken, light-green canoe sat against the right wall.

Of the five fishing reels and poles he could see, one stuck halfway out of the heap. He carefully pried it loose and took it outside to better examine in the light. This rod was the best he had seen all morning, and the pole looked almost new. On the end of the line was a blue-green lure that gleamed like a tiny star.

With a sudden burst of hope, Josh looked at the long stretch of yellow grass ahead of him. Maybe it would be a good day to go fishing after all.

With a strong swing he cast out the line, sending the lure singing beautifully into the air. At the same time, Junior reemerged from the tall grasses, and in the direct path of the lure. The hook stuck fast to his back leg, and the cat disappeared into the taller grass with a snarl.

Whoa! Junior! No! COME BACK!

Josh instinctively popped the reel closed and wound up the fishing line as fast as he could. The line grew taut, but there was no sign of his black, long-haired feline. With rod in hand, Josh made his way over to where the cat disappeared.

Suddenly there was a terrific pull, and Josh, with a yelp, found his hands reeling in the line harder despite himself. Still, he was relieved; the fight meant the hooks hadn’t hurt his four-legged friend who, admittedly, had some attitude issues.

Junior, come on! Let me get you un—

The line tightened until it wouldn’t reel in anymore. Concern quickly returned to being just plain ticked off.

Great. Now the lure’s stuck!

It had to be a branch, Josh reasoned. He knew he should put the pole down and follow the line out, but he was in a hurry and his time was almost gone. So with a strong jerk, he yanked his fishing pole behind his right shoulder. At the same time, a loud meow erupted from the tall grass, followed by hissing. A hissing that dopplered right for him.

Junior sailed right at wide-eyed Josh, hit him hard in the chest, and stuck fast. Then the lure, along with some black cat hair, came loose and tore across his face.

OW!

Junior, still clinging to Josh’s chest, sank his claws deeply into his skin.

NO! Junior!

A bull, when weight is applied to the tender spot of its nose, immediately reacts by bearing to the ground to relieve the weight. So too did Josh double over instantly in hopes of relieving the searing pain in his chest. Unfortunately, a cat, when aboard a sinking ship, reacts immediately by looking for high ground before abandoning it altogether. In most cases, admittedly, the ship doesn’t scream in pain as the cat climbs over its back, bites its neck, hisses for good measure, jumps clear, and then beats feet.

Frustration already welled up within him; pain was now throwing jet fuel onto the fire, and his self-control just wasn’t up to the job of dealing with this load of garbage. Josh hurled his pole hard enough to wrench something in his shoulder and sank back to the swamp’s spongey ground, covering his face with his hands.

Little more than swaying grass and floating tufts of cat hair marked Junior’s passage by the time Josh recovered well enough to survey his surroundings. His skin still crawled and burned in distinct paw prints felt but not seen; the rest of it tingled hot and acrid, from the wealth of the manifold bug bites and weed rashes customarily visited upon visitors to the swamps of Louisiana. Yet it was dazing cattails and the lack of a particular cat tail he considered.

Junior would likely stay sore at him and not come back for at least a month.

Suddenly a clump of nearby grass rustled.

Junior! Josh called softly, easing forward. Come here, Junior!

The cat meowed softly from the safety of a stunted magnolia tree bole; there it calmly gave itself a bath and weighed its options. Sulking did have its merits, true, and one never came when bidden as a rule, but the red-faced, bedraggled boy desperately making come-hither motions just beyond reach looked to have suffered enough.

Josh kneeled and waited as the long-haired feline came back to him—at his own pace, not Josh’s—now purring softly.

The youth crouched low to the ground, carefully looking Junior over. He gently ran his hand through his soft fur. As he did so, Junior touched Josh’s nose with his.

Sorry, Josh apologized. This day is not going well for me. He found a spot on the hind end of Junior’s left leg, now devoid of most of its fur. Fortunately, there was no blood, and Josh sighed in relief. Maybe I should go back to bed before anything else happens.

He looked to where he threw his pole: it lay in two pieces at the base of an elm. Josh clapped his hands over his scalp and groaned.

Man, I can’t get a break!

He jumped up and ran back to the shed, now fuming. Four poles remained in the tall pile, and, for a brief second, Josh thought the mass might have shifted in his direction. He gave another pole a strong tug. With an audible crack he tipped backward and, not even so much as uttering a whoop of panic despite the cold shock of fear all people feel when falling, inadvertently executed a ninety degree sweep from vertical to horizontal of such delicate yet definite geometric perfection that not even the fact that he was still clutching the short end of the rod upon impacting the pile would’ve resulted in a point deduction from the East German judge.

For a while there was the peace of the swamp. Little peace for those with the ears to hear and eyes to see. Croaking of bullfrogs and burr of damselflies flitting aimlessly across emerald waters. Burrow of beetles and earthworms through centuries of rotting plant atop rotting plant. Teeming life beneath placid green, millions upon millions of living things about the business of competing for supremacy inside a tiny macrocosm inundated with jet fuel.

Then the top part of the pile did move, and, before Josh could crawl out, it covered him.

Josh wrestled out and away from the mountain of junk, covered with dirt, rust, and lots of anger. He bent over, grabbed two armfuls of debris from the pile, and walked outside. After dropping the pile to the ground, he flung a piece of it far from him with each word he shouted.

I. JUST. WANT TO. GO FISHING. WITH MY DAD. SO I CAN QUIT SCHOOL!

Perhaps for the first time since the primordial swamp had given way to regular swamp, which really bore no difference aside from several hundred million years passing, the noisy peace of the swamp gave way to embarrassed silence. Sure, logic dictates that cicadas stop buzzing because they sense a threat, but an ethnocentric sense of orderliness in the surrounding universe means it’s only natural that the world would acknowledge one boy’s rage and frustration. Josh would have thought so were he given to philosophizing.

But lately, and right now, he was much too busy being ticked off.

After his breathing slowed and he began to feel calm again, Josh froze, and his eyes grew wide. He said that? Out loud? He glanced across the yard at his second story, tan-colored house. Did anyone hear him?

Ten seconds went by as he held his breath. He sighed. Coast was clear.

Josh! Breakfast is ready! a young girl’s voice suddenly rang out. That would be his sister, Candace.

His stomach suddenly growled for an abnormally long time, so he left his pile of debris, opened the lower level side door, and climbed up the wooden stairs to the smell of pancakes. He found his nine-year-old sister in the kitchen, holding a spatula in one hand and a cleanup rag in the other. Pancake batter covered almost every inch of the linoleum floor, the stove top, oven door, and the counters that held the cooked food. A small amount of the white breakfast goo clung to her long, dark hair, yet Candace smiled as if she had not a care in the world while she sang along with a Hanna Montana CD that blared in the living room.

Nobody’s perfect, I’ve gotta work it. Oh, hi, Josh. Wow, you’re dirty. Well. Breakfast is ready whenever you are!

Josh scanned what used to be the kitchen and looked at the mess again. He suddenly had no appetite for food, especially her pancakes.

Where’s Dad? he asked. I need to talk to him.

Maybe in his room—getting dressed? Candace replied with a face. But, remember, you asked me to cook these for you! So eat! She flipped a raw, sloppy pancake on the griddle and smiled sweetly at him.

We have to go to town, Josh said, folding his arms and looking straight at her. I don’t have time for breakfast. I need to get fishing stuff.

Sit, she shot back. Or I’ll tell.

Her smile hadn’t changed, only gone still. She didn’t need to glare or raise her voice. Poison was more easily swallowed if drenched in honey.

Tell what?

You know.

A renewed surge of annoyance bubbled up. I know what?

You yelled so loud the whole town could hear, she said.

Some internal sense of self-preservation pulled him up short; as if he’d taken a boat out fishing over deep water only to notice the leak now that his feet were wet.

Ah.

Sheesh, she continued, quitting school, what else?

Josh reluctantly sat on an old wooden chair and pulled it and himself up to their white kitchen table. In front of him was set a China plate (normally used only for very special occasions), silverware atop a lace cloth napkin, and a tall glass of light-yellow colored orange juice. Fresh-squeezed now meant anything that had been juiced within the last five years, so orange juice existed more as a concept and less a reality.

Josh glared at his sister.

You wouldn’t.

Not if you eat breakfast. Candace dumped a charred pancake on his plate. But her brother simply stared at it, without moving.

That’s the deal, she said with a frown.

Okay. Fine.

Josh layered on the butter and syrup as if he could mummify it in amber and preserve it for the sanctity of all time in general and his mouth in particular. And, reluctantly, dug in. Although the outside of the pancake was black, the inside was gooey-white. Josh looked up to see Candace staring at him hopefully. He stabbed a piece with his fork, clenched his eyes shut, and popped it in his mouth.

Yeah, good, he gulped, as Candace skipped back to her cooking. He inhaled several more bites of the not-pancake, trying to not taste them, and swallowed the not-orange juice. He gagged twice, but Candace was too busy flipping more pancakes to notice.

Josh grabbed the morning newspaper to focus on something, anything, besides the food. The classifieds section revealed an advertisement that someone circled in red. Josh looked at the words and tried to make them out.

Bure dloob honuds: top quality, large boue, loose sku.

That wasn’t right. Josh squinted and read aloud.

Large bone, loose skin.

Candace snatched the paper away faster than Josh could grab it back while she dumped yet more cinders on his plate.

Here, she said matter of fact. Pure bloodhounds; top quality, large bone, loose skin, heavy wrinkles. Home of Champions; we offer quality puppies for Police K-9. SARS or a family pet. Price: $800. She paused. What does SARS mean?

Show off, Josh said morosely.

Hey, it’s not like I know what SARS means.

Search and rescue. They help people in trouble.

Like those in the fires? Candace asked, with a concerned expression.

Her brother nodded.

Well? Candace asked, looking hopefully at his plate. How was it?

Good, he said, and behind his neutral features firmly felt that both he and Leonardo DiCaprio were robbed of Academy Awards for performances under stressful circumstances. Thanks.

Candace skipped back to the kitchen.

Josh scanned the room for the nearest trashcan—next to the refrigerator. He timed it in his mind, but there was no way he could toss the current pancake without Candace seeing him. He cut it open with his knife and grimaced. If anything, it was gooier than the first. He wolfed it down without tasting it and stood to leave.

Ready for more? Candace asked sweetly.

Quail, brief mortal, said a voice inside his head as Josh trembled with his plate held out like a shield to ward off what fresh abominations her griddle birthed.

The terror of being forced to eat another pancake jumpstarted him from his stuttering. He put his hand over his stomach. All full, Sis. But you can make some for Mom and Dad.

Candace pointed her spatula to a plate that oozed and smoked, filled eighteen inches high with pancakes on one side of the sink—he didn’t know you could stack evil, but there it was, slumped hatefully at the world for forcing it to exist as the monstrosity it was.

That’s for them, she said, with a disappointed tone. That was for you. She pointed to the right side of the sink, where another plate was stacked just as tall and menacingly.

Can’t hear you! His plate was already clattering into the sink. Can you turn the music down? I need to talk to Dad.

Candace’s moan was pained as Josh retreated down the hall, and he realized he was not yet free of future kitchen nightmares carried out by young, and worst of all, eager little iron fists.

The Great Incinerator must be appeased.

Next time I’ll make French toast! he promised.

Candace brightened. Make sure you add vanilla and cinnamon!

As Josh neared his parents’ door, he could hear them arguing.

...but that’s not the point. Look at this! There is no way! Your infection is spreading! That was his mother, Emily. She sounded businesslike, with added shrillness.

I promised I’d go with him today. He’s been planning a fishing trip since I got out of the hospital. I think he wants to talk about something that’s been bugging him. That was his dad, Chris. I will be fine.

You want me to show him? countered his mother’s voice. Don’t look at me that way.

Josh sighed and knocked quietly on the bedroom door.

Come in, Emily said, suddenly sounding cheerful.

He opened the door to find his pregnant mother wrapping new bandages on his father’s arms and chest. Chris was a stocky man, with a short, military-style haircut. When he stood, he was slightly taller than Josh. His mom was shorter, with dark hair.

Chris gritted his teeth as his mom applied the tape to his bandages.

You’re fine. Just a big baby, Emily said sweetly; she smiled and winked at Josh. Honey. Your dad—

How did you fare with those poles? Chris Anvil interrupted. Maybe we need a trip to the store. He winced as Emily yanked a bandage vengefully tight.

Faces bothered Josh. People were only given the one and yet it seemed they could make dozens from nothing, completely on a whim. His parents were very skilled with faces. He’d heard their tones before he made his presence known, and he knew the faces that slid into place to greet him as he walked in were not the faces those tones had come from. His parents, like many parents, seemed, to him at least, to be under the impression that a face designed to put children at ease and a warm, moderate tone was all you needed to lay a child’s fear to rest. But for their honey-dipped voices and kindly faces, his parents were still at the fight they had been before he walked in. Their backs were ramrod stiff; their smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Every muscle and tendon was drumhead-taut.

So, Josh took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he put on a face, the best face he could manage, mirroring the direct and serious lines they used when children weren’t around. Dad, it’s okay. I can go by myself.

By...yourself? his dad asked hesitantly.

Josh nodded. I’ve gone three times since school got out.

Chris turned to his wife; his face faltered; hers didn’t. And you knew about this?

She shrugged. He’s old enough.

Dad, why are you always worried about me going in the swamp alone? Josh asked. I’m fourteen.

Chris Anvil frowned while Emily placed the last bandage on his arm.

I lost my parents, remember?

How did adults tell each other their overemotional problems weren’t relevant to a darn thing? Josh wondered behind the serious mien of his contrived face. Ummm, yeah, he said slowly. But what does that have to do with me?

Chris nodded, suddenly brightened, and changed the subject. Hey, uh, maybe we can go to town and talk?

Josh’s heart fell as he realized his plan would not work. His intended conversation would take a back-burner to the fires raging through Baton Rouge. All his dad would want to talk about would be why he should be out there, putting out the fires and saving people. Josh mostly respected his dad’s job as fire chief, but for now it was just getting in the way of what he wanted.

At the same time, Emily’s face froze, like the mask it was, and told his dad that he would not be going to town.

It’s okay, Josh mumbled as he imagined his life’s plans imploding. It was nothing anyway.

Don’t forget about breakfast, honey, his mom said as Josh scrabbled at the door to get away before she saw his face crumbling. Candace is cooking pancakes!

Thanks, Mom. The door thunked closed with more enthusiasm than he could muster, and almost instantaneously the serious tones on the other side resumed.

As soon as he turned toward the kitchen, another Hannah Montana song violated his eardrums. Parental bickering may have been preferable.

Hey, try this! Candace called out. I put some chocolate chips in!

Josh looked at his sister, amused. Trying out some new makeup? he said with a laugh. Looks good!

She looked like she had been warring with mud pies, and lost. How did you know? she asked, surprise turning what features that could be discerned, pink. Did Mom tell you I was? Hey!

Later Candace.

Whatever.

A quarter mile of well-worn path stretched between Josh’s house and a wide canal, where his 15-foot, rusty brown canoe waited for him, tied to a sizeable willow tree. A few hungry sounding mosquitoes buzzed his ears, but he ignored them as he loosened the rope from the tree. A slightly longer and older canoe wallowed tied next to it. That belonged to his dad.

As Josh dragged his canoe to the water’s edge, he briefly glanced at their property of marshlands, open water, and bald cypress trees. He looked forward to this quiet time so he could reformulate his school-quitting strategy.

He hopped in his canoe and paddled his way across a deep canal. A sea of green floating water hyacinth and Salvinia greeted his vessel, but Josh plowed through, leaving a marked trail behind.

Tall cypress trees rose majestically to the sky, scattered in large and small bands. Cypress knees popped up, looking like stalagmites that wandered away from their caves.

A few older trees stood above 150 feet, though most were only half that size. Josh had his favorites, like a broken tree he called Split. It was tall, two-pronged, and shaped like a V. From the look of the charred wood and bark at its center, it was most likely the unfortunate victim of lightning.

Josh paddled on, looking for his favorite place: an area encircled by a large copse of cypress, with holly and some oak helping to close in the canopy. It was dark like a cave, quiet and still. Humid, like a living breath, rot and renewal forming a sweetly spiced mélange. He liked to let his canoe simply drift around while he took a nap, or thought about quitting school. This was the world as it should be, without the worries and tribulations of mankind twisting it into something sick and wrong.

The world as it had been before.

But today the marsh seemed too quiet. He saw only an occasional snowy egret, and the familiar splashes of mud turtles jumping into the water were not there.

A welcome breeze picked up, cooling Josh a bit, since by now he was working up a sweat. But he began to wonder if what his dad said made him overly nervous. His grandparents mysteriously disappeared a long time ago, and their bodies were never found. Only a broken canoe was left of their unfortunate outing. That’s all Josh remembered.

Growing up in Louisiana, an in-depth knowledge of, and belief in, ghost stories was almost second nature. The Anvil family prided themselves in their good storytelling abilities, and Josh started learning this skill from an early age. But to believe every story he ever heard, or spoke? That was another matter.

There is nothing to worry about, the youth assured himself. The swamp is not haunted.

He stopped paddling and went cold, shivering in the heat. Was that his dad’s voice? He listened intently, but the voice he thought he’d heard did not return.

He continued on.

The canoe closed in to a band of towering cypress. But something was different, and not just in small ways. The marsh grew and changed fast, but this fast could not be natural. New trees appeared where none grew before, and the circle of cypress was two or three times taller than when last he was here.

Was there some malevolent force at work? The thought seemed to sneak into his brain of its own volition, but the swamp felt as if it was holding its breath, its denizens in hiding; the land was afraid. He trusted these swamps more than he did himself, and felt that if it was true then there was good reason.

Due mainly to his fears freezing him in place, Josh let his canoe drift to one of the enormous cypress trunks. The grayish-brown bark on the magnificent tree looked to be at least six inches thick, and a labyrinth of whorls and curlicues, spanning the length of the tree.

Part of Josh told him to paddle away slowly, but the stronger side—the bullheaded side if his mom was to be believed—was not about to let anyone take his favorite resting spot away. As he peered inside the thick tree canopy, he soon concluded that it was much darker than before. He couldn’t even see the trees on the other side of the ring anymore. He stood in his canoe and looked around. Could he be lost? But no, there was the orange metal post slanted sideways, and Split was not far away.

A sudden noise emanated from within the canopy of trees, causing a cold chill to run down Josh’s spine. He reached for the thick, dark bark until he found a secure hold with his left hand. Then, he ever so slowly pulled the canoe with his left foot until it rested next to a clump of cypress knees. From there, Josh stood on the edge of his canoe, and leaned forward until gravity threatened to take him down. But he ignored his precarious state and peered into the shadows.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, Josh saw movement. Obscure figures appeared, sitting on thick cypress limbs or dangling from the branches. At first, Josh wondered if they were escaped monkeys from a local zoo. Each had a head, two arms and two legs, though he couldn’t make out a tail. But they looked to be about the size of a chimpanzee.

But how could they have made it this far out in the swamp by themselves?

As he watched them, Josh suddenly realized something important.

They were making the trees grow.

As their small bodies glowed with a faint yellow essence, branches emerged from the cypress trunks and flat needles sprang from them.

It was the strangest thing. There must have been at least ten of these squatty beings, growing the limbs and leaves, and paying no attention to anything else.

Josh’s curiosity got the better of him. Why are they growing trees? he said quietly to himself. To get a closer look, he kept one foot on the edge of his canoe and brought the other against the thick cypress bark. He shifted his weight so the canoe would stay still, and ever so carefully, he stretched his right hand across the thick cypress tree bark.

Suddenly, the wind picked up and shifted the canoe. As it slid away from the huge tree trunk and toward the open water, Josh’s legs parted as if he was doing the splits. He tried to hold the canoe with his leg, but he lost his balance, and fell backward. As Josh cried out, his head hit a cypress knee. Hard. He landed in the water, face down and stunned.

2 STORYTELLER SPIDERS

Whoa. Déjà vu?

Josh opened his eyes slowly and only part of the way. He lay in his bed, dressed in red pajamas, with a fuzzy head and a strong feeling of disorientation. He knew he was in his room; the posters of firefighters battling blazes, next to his favorite NBA Pelicans dominating the basketball court, and covering the walls.

But he must be in the wrong place. His blue Pelicans clock said 11:36 am. Why would he still be in his bed?

His parents’ voices came from the foot of his bed. They held each other close, with their backs to him.

What happened? Emily asked.

Chris sounded excited. I’m not really sure, he said. Look! All well! No scars or anything!

Okay, slow down. What happened out there? What did you do? And what’s wrong with Josh?

I don’t know. I saw him a few times, and I called, but I don’t think he heard me. When I got close, a strong wind blew my canoe backward, and I almost capsized. Later I found him, inside his canoe, and soaked. Chris paused. But alive and well, he emphasized.

Did someone else help him? Did he fall out of the canoe?

I don’t know—I didn’t see anyone. The wind might have knocked him around, but there wasn’t enough water in his canoe to soak him. Chris Anvil laughed. I’m really feeling great, good enough to go back out if he’s up for it.

Go out again, are you crazy? Emily protested. Look at him, Chris! He needs to see a doctor. Besides, you said you were going to see Michael, remember?

Josh knew he had to intervene on his own behalf, so he opened his eyes all the way and pulled himself up on his elbows. No hospital, he said, and he coughed. I hate hospitals.

Emily flew to his side. But honey, she said. I want to make sure you’re all right.

I checked him out, Chris assured her. He’s fine. Just got soaked. He winked as he sat on Josh’s right. So, hey there, sport. Did your canoe take a ride on the waves like mine?

Josh narrowed his eyes. He tried to remember having anything to do with a canoe, but there was nothing. He had no memory at all beyond the gooey pancakes Candace made. That taste was still in his mouth.

What canoe? I just ate breakfast.

You went canoeing, in the swamp. Remember? I called, but I guess you didn’t hear me.

Oh. Josh hesitated, now feeling more confused than ever. Sorry. I’m not sure what happened.

Get some rest, Chris said, placing a hand on his shoulder. I’ll check on you later.

Josh’s eyes widened with a sudden realization. He did remember something. Wait! This is Saturday, right? I can’t miss the StoryTeller’s Club. It’s our finals night. The championship!

Yeah, eight o’clock, tonight, his dad replied. You still have lots of time. I’ll wake you later.

Okay. Thanks, Dad. He nodded, turned over, and went back to sleep.

The oval-shaped bathroom mirror never seemed to be big enough while Josh tried fixing his ties. This was his ninth go-around with a black one, and he felt a lot more nervous than he expected to be. And his energy level, for some reason, seemed to measure on the low end of the sugar spectrum.

He eventually gave up on his tie in order to practice his smiles and hand gestures, hoping they would chase away the butterflies that were doing dive bombs in his stomach.

This night would finish his third year of being a StoryTeller’s Club member, part of a group of local teens who learned and told tales about the people and land of Louisiana. Josh loved telling stories as long as he could remember. And, in his family, it was tradition to grow up knowing how to tell them, and tell them well.

A loud knock on the bathroom door startled him, and he jumped.

Josh. Mom and Dad are ready to leave, Candace’s voice called out. Are you going to be in there forever?

Josh opened the bathroom door. Candace looked at his long-sleeve burgundy shirt and black jeans that matched his hair color and gave him a thumbs up sign. Josh grimaced and pointed at his tie. Candace motioned with her finger and Josh stooped low. In a flash, she fixed his tie like a pro.

Thanks.

Whatever. I can tell you’re nervous. Want a tic-tac?

Josh grinned and nodded as Candace popped one in his mouth. What would I do without you? he said, smiling.

Starve. And probably lose the competition. She grinned back.

Ha-ha.

I’m kidding. Jeeez. She paused. Oh yeah, Dad said he put your sleeping bag and your other junk in the car. Candace put her hands on her hips. Now, are you finally ready? We have to see Michael after we drop you off, and Hannah Montana is on tonight!

I would be ready if you left! Josh closed the door on her and practiced his smiles again. He swallowed hard. This was the most important night of his life, and he didn't want to blow it. He wanted everything to be perfect. He had rehearsed his story so many times it felt like all the words were bursting to come out of him.

Minutes later, his dad took off down the road in the family’s red Dodge Grand Caravan. Josh sat in the back beside his sister, practicing his lines for the millionth time, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see his sister watching him.

After a few minutes, Chris Anvil picked up Josh’s best friend, Troy Thompson. He stood in the cobblestone driveway of his upscale home as the Caravan slowed. He was taller than Josh by half a foot and wore a dark blue baseball cap turned partly sideways. His dark-blond hair poked out beneath his hat, covering his ears completely and his eyes only partially.

Josh noticed the red Mazda MX-5 Miata that Troy, its owner, had been leaning against. There was no sign of dirt anywhere.

After Troy tossed his gear into the back of the Caravan, he hopped inside. Once he greeted the Anvil family and settled in, he looked at Josh meaningfully.

Hey.

Hey, Josh answered. He paused. So how is your dad?

Troy shrugged. He has...good days and bad days. Today, not so good.

Is there anything we can do? Emily asked as she turned around in her seat.

Troy looked at her for a second before glancing quickly away. He shrugged again. Just hope for the best. Josh noticed a slight waver in his voice, which only happened when he was worried.

But suddenly he smiled, and all signs of sadness disappeared. "But hey, I’m sure