Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake (6 page)

But that wasn't the worst part.

When boys are skinny-dipping—especially in the dark—there are certain parts of our bodies that we like to protect. Well . . . maybe not
like
to . . . maybe it's more we
feel
like we
need
to protect. I mean, there could be fish or snakes or turtles down there and . . .

Anyway, with the Styrofoam carton of worms in one hand and the tin can full of cut bait in the other, with the shad gizzards trapped between—my hands were pretty well tied up. Sloshing around made me really nervous. It was a creepy feeling . . . like I needed to at least wave my hand around—to chase away anything that might be too close.

“I got an idea,” I said when we reached the next bank pole.

“What?”

“Why don't we pour the shad gizzards in with the cut bait?”

Ted frowned, thinking about it for a moment. “Good idea. When we come back out to check for fish, we're gonna need a flashlight. That way, one guy's got a free hand to hold the light, while the other's getting the fish off. Smart thinking, Kent.”

He took three minnows out of his bucket and threaded them on to the hook on the second pole. After he let the line go so it would sink back to the bottom, he took the tin can from between my fingers. He didn't dump it into the cut bait can. Instead, he poured the shad gizzards into his minnow bucket. Sure they were all out, he filled the can with water and let it sink.

We weren't supposed to litter. But there was no way I was going to dive down and try to retrieve that can. I was just glad to have it out of my hands so I could “protect” myself while we waded to the third bank pole.

Having at least one hand free to wave around down there from time to time . . . well, it just made me feel a lot more secure. Ted was right. It really wasn't so bad, after all.

Then again . . . coming back out here . . . when it was really dark . . . holding a flashlight . . .

T
he rest of the guys had already started cooking hot dogs by the time we put the bait up, pulled on our underwear, and walked back to the campsite. Ted and I put our jeans on but didn't bother with our shirts. After being in the cool lake, the warm evening breeze felt pretty good.

Jordan handed me a clothes hanger. “It's almost done.” He nodded toward the frank on the end. “Depends on how you like your hot dog.”

I squatted down beside the fire. Daniel came up and sat next to me. Pepper sat across from us. He had three wieners on his coat hanger. The thing was so heavy he couldn't keep them out of the ashes. I found a place where the coals glowed almost white hot and held my hot dog just above them. Daniel scooted closer. I couldn't help but notice that he held his coat hanger so high above the coals that the thing wouldn't even get warm, much less cook.

One at a time the guys drifted off to put mustard or chili and pickle relish on their buns. When
there were just the two of us left beside the fire, Daniel scooted even closer. He kind of looked around, making sure no one was listening.

“Was it scary?” he whispered. “I mean . . . you know . . . out there with nothing on and . . . dark . . . and, well, you know?”

I did what any normal, red-blooded male would do.

I lied.

• • •

Before we were finished eating supper, every single one of the guys managed to catch me alone and ask the very same thing.

“Nothing to it,” I boasted. “No, it wasn't scary at all. I mean, nothing's going to bother you. It was kind of fun—honest.”

We chowed down until everyone was totally stuffed, added wood to the fire so it wouldn't go out, and decided to fix the s'mores
after
we fished for a while.

Our tackle boxes, rods and reels, along with the bait were already down at the lake. We took flashlights and put weights on our lines so we could throw them out farther.

“Before we start fishing, we need to check the bank poles again,” Ted called out. “I don't want to go sloshing around with all your hooks and lines
in the water. If I bump somebody's pole, one of you idiots might think you have a fish. You'd yank and I'd end up with a hook in my leg. Come on, Kent.”

I put my rod down and started to get up.

“I'll go with you.” Daniel hopped to his feet. “I'm not scared.”

When they stripped, there was another chorus of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.” None of the bank poles had been touched, so it took Ted and Daniel hardly any time at all to run them. Still, Daniel gave me sort of a funny look when they got back. They put their pants on, and we all shined our flashlights out onto the lake. Once we had the bank poles spotted, we cast our lines, trying to get between them so we wouldn't get hung up.

We sat there for a long time, talking about school, and where we would like to go on vacation, and which girls we thought were cute and which were nice, and telling ghost stories. But when Foster pulled in a two-pound catfish and then Chet caught one that weighed a pound and a half, there were suddenly more important things to do than talk.

Over the next two hours or so, we ended up catching fourteen fish with rods and reels, and
nineteen
more off the bank poles. About midnight,
when things started to slow, we began wandering back up the hill.

We stuffed ourselves with s'mores. Aside from an occasional sword fight with the coat hangers—trying to knock the other guy's marshmallows off or get them all covered with ashes—making s'mores was pretty uneventful. When we were so full we could hardly stand the thought of sticking another marshmallow over the flames, we all got our sleeping bags and made a circle around the campfire.

Pepper started snoring the second his back hit the sleeping bag. Some of the guys visited. Others—like me—stretched out for a short nap.

I barely got my eyes closed when Ted nudged me with his foot.

“It's our turn on the bank poles.”

I yawned and looked up at him. “You sure? What time is it?”

“Fifteen till one.”

“Let's get some sleep.”

Ted glanced around, then leaned close to my ear. “Lots of times the big fish come up after the little ones have fed,” he whispered. “Come on.”

The first five bank poles hadn't been touched. But when Ted started pulling up the line on pole number six, he suddenly let go and jumped back.

“What?” I gasped.

“Fish.” He breathed. “Big one, too.” He pulled up the stringer that was attached to his rope and had me shine the light on it. It was almost full. “Wait here,” he said. “We're gonna need a fresh stringer for this guy. He's big. I don't want to lose him.”

Walking around, with nothing on, in a dark lake wasn't my idea of fun. Course, after three trips to check the bank poles, I'd almost gotten used to it. But standing there . . . all alone . . . in the dark . . . the quiet . . .

It took forever for Ted to get back.

“I'm gonna need both hands,” he said, motioning me toward the bank pole. “You'll have to hold the light and bring the fish up—real slow. Don't yank on him. He's gonna jerk and flop around, but just keep pulling slow and steady.” He opened the wire hook at the end of the stringer, then checked to make sure the other end was secured to the rope around his waist. “Don't lift him out of the water, though. Soon as I see him, I'll ram the stringer through his bottom lip. Don't even think about letting go of the line until I got the stringer latched. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Holding the flashlight in one hand, I used the
other to get hold and start lifting the line. A sudden tug yanked the nylon cord from my fingers. I reached down and got a better grip.

Again a strong, solid jerk pulled the line from my grasp. A chill raced up my back. Ted wasn't kidding. This guy
was
big. The anticipation tingled up my spine and pounded inside my head. I stuck the flashlight handle back in my mouth, tilted sideways so the light was on the string, and grabbed the line with both hands.

The instant the fish's broad, flat mouth broke the surface, Ted jabbed the stringer through his bottom lip. How he managed to latch it, I still don't know.

The spray that came when the fish lurched and tried to take off shot water high into the air. It got my eyes, face, hair. The nylon cord dug into my fingers. My jaws locked. My teeth ground together, I was so determined not to let him go.

“Got him,” Ted whispered. I worked my hands loose and wiped the water from my eyes. Taking the light out of my mouth, I shined it on my hands. There were red marks where the line had dug in, but they weren't bleeding. Ted raised the stringer so we could see our trophy. The fish was still long enough that its back half was underwater.

“He'll go fifteen pounds.” Ted panted. “Maybe twenty or more.”

“Let's go show the guys.”

Ted shushed me. “No. Let's see what else we got on the bank poles. Can you imagine how they'd flip out if we came back with ten of these things on our stringer?”

Even though Ted's rope belt was tied tight around his waist, and even though the stringer was secure, he still kept checking it. About three poles farther, we caught another fish. This one was smaller, but still a lot larger than the channel cat we caught on rods and reels.

Right in the middle of our bank pole line—the place where we were closest to the campsite—we slowed our pace. We didn't talk or slosh as we moved through the water. It was as if we had given some unspoken signal that we'd do nothing to tip the guys off about the fantastic catch we had. We wouldn't even let them know we were around until we had more fish to show off when we got back beside the light of the fire. And we would . . .

All of a sudden something wet . . . and slimy . . . and cold . . . touched me . . . in a place where I
didn't
want to be touched!

Eyes flashed. Fists and hands slammed into the
water, fending off whatever it was that attacked me. I ran for the bank.

Someone yelled. I think it was me. To be honest, it sounded more like a scream, but I don't remember screaming or yelling, either one. When I glanced back, something was there.

Eyes!

Glowing, yellow eyes stared at me. Running harder, I opened my mouth. Not a single sound came out.

Then somebody else screamed.

I glanced over the other shoulder. There were no eyes, but Ted was charging toward the shore, too.

I took off so hard and fast, I almost came clear out of the water.

W
hat are you
two guys
doing?” Daniel asked. Only there was a weird sound to his voice. As if his words carried a disgusted edge, sharper than a knife.

It was right about then that I noticed we were standing a good ten feet up the bank from the water. Everyone's flashlight was on us. And Ted and I were holding on to each other.

I guess it did look kind of strange.

We sprang apart as if we'd been holding on to a hot stove.

“What's going on?” Pepper asked.

“You saw the monster, didn't you?” Zane turned to shine his light on the lake.

Then somebody noticed the fish. Gasps and shouts filled the night. But once everyone had inspected the huge channel cat, their attention returned to us.

“Who screamed?”

“It wasn't a scream,” I protested softly. “It was a yell.”

“What happened?”

Naturally, Ted—my best friend—pointed straight at me. “It was Kent.”

“I didn't scream,” I mumbled again. “I yelled.”

“There were two screams,” Foster pointed out.

Ted made a gulping sound when he swallowed. “Well, Kent screamed and started fighting the water. Then he took off for the bank.” He shrugged. “I figured something got him—and whatever it was—well, it was probably coming after me, next.”

All the lights turned on me.

“What was it, Kent?”

“What happened?”

I cleared my throat. “Something wet, and cold, and slimy grabbed me . . .” I pointed down. “. . . Right there!”

Everybody sort of cringed and moaned.

“Did it bite you?”

“No. It just . . . it just . . . something kind of hit me.” I didn't like all those flashlights on me.

Ted was beside me again. “Something wet, and cold, and slimy touched you?”

“Yeah, it was more like a slap.”

Suddenly something slapped my leg. I jumped. I couldn't help it. Then I looked down. Ted held the smaller of our two catfish and whacked me again with the tail.

My shoulders sagged so low, my knuckles could have dragged the ground.

The chuckling seemed to grow. Everybody started pointing and laughing. It's one of those things that . . . well, I guess it really was funny—just as long as it happened to
someone else.

There was not much to do but join in and laugh with them—after we put our underwear on.

Being the laughingstock wasn't so bad. All the other guys, except for Daniel, let me know that if it had happened to them they would have probably done the same thing. But being the brunt of their teasing—once—was enough. That's why, when Zane saw the lake monster, I never admitted that I saw it, too.

• • •

The scream was enough to wake the dead!

We all looked. From far down the bank, a flashlight bobbed and flickered its glow all over the place.

“I saw it!” The shout seemed to come from the light. “I saw it! Come quick! Hurry, before it swims away.”

We raced toward Zane's voice. I only “raced” about three paces when I hit a pile of goatheads. Flinching, I stopped dead in my tracks, stood on my left foot, and balanced on the toe of my right.

I hate stickers.

I hopped toward the water a couple of times—just to make sure I was out of the sticker patch—then I raised my foot and pulled the nasty goat-heads out.