Swear to Howdy

Joey's blood got mixed up in mine the same way mine got mixed up in his. Drop by drop. Pact by pact. And there's times that makes me feel good, but there's times it creeps me out. Reminds me.

Seems like Joey and me were always making pacts. Lots of pacts, leading up to that last one. “Rusty,” he'd say to me. “I swear to howdy, if you tell a soul …”

“I won't!” I'd tell him. “I swear!” Then he'd put out his fist and we'd go through the ritual, hammering fists and punching knuckles. And after we'd nicked fingers and mixed blood he'd heave a sigh and say, “You're a true friend, Rusty-boy,” and that'd be that. Another secret, sealed for life.

Joey's family moved to Lost River two years before we did, so Pickett Lane was his turf, and that was just fine by me. Especially since he was so cool about it the summer we came to live next door. “Russell
Cooper?
” he'd asked me, and I'd thought, Oh man. Here we go again. Cooper-pooper. Pooper-scooper. I get the same old thing, every where I go.

But then he grinned at me the way only Joey Banks could grin, with one side of his face looped way up, and teeth showing everywhere. He nodded. “Rusty. That's what we'll call ya.”

“Huh?”

“Don't stand there looking at me like a load of bricks, boy. You ain't never gonna survive around here with a name like Russell.”

I must have been blinking but good, 'cause he slapped me across the face,
whap-whap
. Not hard or anything. Just playful-like. Then he waved me along, saying, “C'mon, Rusty. I'll show you around.”

He tore down to the river, and I tore right after him. “This here's
my
hole,” he said when we got to a side pool with tree branches hanging over it and rocks nearly clear around. “And nobody else better get caught swimmin' in it.” He gave me that loopy grin again. “Nobody but me and you.”

I almost said, “Me?” 'cause I couldn't believe my ears. It was the coolest pool I'd ever seen. There was a thick rope for swinging, and the rocks were flat and great for sunning. Not the kind of place that's easy to share. 'Specially with a stranger.

But I bit my tongue and filled my pocket with rocks like he was doing, then scrambled up the tree behind him. And when we were perched nice and steady, he started skipping rocks across the river, saying, “Let's see your arm, Rusty. How far can you hurl?”

Not as far as him, that's for sure. Especially since I had the wobbles, way up in that tree. But I chucked them as good as I could, and every time one plopped in the water, Joey'd say, “Nice one, Rusty! You're gettin' it!” Then he'd chuck one of his own nearly clear to the other shore.

When we were out of rocks, he started snapping off sticks. “Here, Rusty. Do like this,” he told me, peeling leaves off. “Then shoot it in like …” He let it fly like a dart. “Watch it now … crappies pop up and snag 'em sometimes.”

“Crappies do? You get 'em out here?”

He laughed. “Yep. Dad says they're lost, and I don't doubt it. Dumbest fish known to man. You can catch 'em with your thumb—if you got the nerve.”

“You done that?” I asked him.

Snap went another twig, and he shot it in. “More'n once.” He eyed me. “Hurts like hell.” We watched the twig land and sail downstream. “They're good eatin', though. Man, they're tasty.”

But the crappies weren't biting. Not at twigs, anyway. So after a spell Joey said, “Up for a swim, Rusty?”

“Now?” It was getting dark. Cooling off quick.

“Any time's good,” he laughed. “Water's always just right.”

He yanked off his shirt and his shoes and flung them down to shore. Then came the socks,
fling, fling
. And with a little scoot forward he grabbed the rope and said, “It's a blast, Rust, trust me.”

“You goin' in like that?” I asked, looking at his jeans.

“I ain't gonna drown, if that's what you're worried about.” He pulled up the rope, then backed along his branch, getting ready. “And I ain't gettin' down to my skivvies in front of you.” He pushed off and swung out over the water, hollerin', “We only just met!”

Mama and Dad were none too pleased to see me soaked to the gills when I got home. And Sissy told me I looked like a drowned muskrat, then went back to painting her toes. But I ate like a horse and yapped like a terrier through supper, and everyone was surprised 'cause Mama claims I'm given to “quiet brooding.”

So the next day, they let me go again. And the next, too. And the day after that. And before long Joey and me were swinging doubles and bombing each other in the pool, wearing nothing but skivvies and big fat grins.

We'd catch frogs and launch them into the river, too. Joey'd call, “Come 'n' get it!” to the crappies, but pretty much the frogs would just swim for a bit with their legs all sprawled, then go under on their own. And maybe it doesn't seem too exciting, doing this stuff day after day, but I had more fun in that single summer than I'd had in my entire life combined.

Then one day it was hotter'n Hades and we were hanging out on a big, flat rock after a swim, talking about how just the
thought
of middle school starting up was enough to spoil the last few days of summer—never mind all the fussin' your mama insisted on doin' to get you
ready—when Joey let out the biggest, nastiest gasser you can imagine. My eyes bugged clear out and he laughed. “So let's hear what
you
got, Rusty-boy”

“Nothing like that,” I told him. “Nothin' even close.”

“Ha!” he said. “Let me teach ya.”

“Teach me …? To
fart
?”

He laughed again, then stuck his behind right up in the air. “First you get like this …”

“Joey, honest. I know how to fart.”

“On command?”

“Well, no … depends on what I've been eating. Like if I've been eatin'
cabbage
—”

“Cabbage? Shoot, Rusty, you don't need to eat vile stuff to make righteous farts. Watch.”

He got comfy on his elbows and knees, then bowed his head and hoisted his butt. And after a minute, he flipped around and let out the nastiest juicer I'd ever heard.

He laughed when he saw my face. “It's just
air
, Rusty-boy Just air.” He flipped around again. “Here, come on. Give it a shot.”

“Nah …”

“Give it a
shot.
”

“All right, all right!”

So I stuck my skivvies sky-high and waited. For what I wasn't real sure. And while Joey was flipping back and forth tootin' and hootin', I was propped up backward, feeling like one dumb fool.

“Nothin'?” he asked me finally.

I shook my head.

“You gotta relax.”

I was about to tell him I'd practice at home, when he charged down the rock to the pool, yelling, “Ya gotta watch this!” He jumped into the water, then waited until the surface was calm. “Ready?” he called.

“Sure,” I called back, glad to have my behind back where it belonged.

He held a finger up, his eyes big and bright, but all that happened was a couple of bubbles rolled to the surface.

“Shoot!” he said with a frown. “Too much interference!”

He climbed up to shore, stuck his butt up right there on the bank, then faced me and said, “Turn around.”

So I turned away while he peeled out of his shorts. And when he'd waded out a safe distance, he sat down in the water and called, “Okay,
now
look!” Then he stuck a finger up in the air like he had before and waited. Only instead of gas bubbles coming to the surface,
he
came shooting out of the water like a torpedo, screaming like he was gonna die.

And then I saw it—a flashy, silvery, spiky-finned crappie chompin' down on his privates.

“Do something!
Do
something!” Joey screamed, flailing around, falling in the water, standing up, falling down, while that crappie hung on like it had struck the mother lode.

I didn't know how I was going to help, but I jumped in the pool anyway. But by the time I'd made it over to him,
Joey had stuck a finger through that crappie's gill and set himself free.

I tried not to look, but Joey was red, boy Red and raw. He hurled the crappie way up onshore, then eased back into the water, whimpering and quivering, his eyes brim ming with tears.

“You want me to get a doctor?” I whispered.

“No!”

“Did he … did he
get
any of it?”

“No!”

I stood there just waiting while he tried to ease the pain. But finally I couldn't help looking around the pond and asking, “What if there's
more
of 'em?”

He shot out of the water and dived for shore, holding himself safe the whole time. And after I'd left him alone to inspect himself for a minute, I tried asking again, “You sure you don't want to go to the doctor?”

He stepped into his skivvies and tucked himself away real careful-like before putting on his jeans. “No. What would he
do
to it, huh? I don't want no doctor bandaging me.” Then he put on his shirt and said, “I swear to howdy, if you ever tell a soul …”

“I won't!”

His eyes squinted down on me. “I know how it goes. Especially when you start meetin' kids at school.” He took a few painful steps, muttering, “And boy, this would be one temptin' tale to tell.”

“I won't, Joey. I swear.”

He checked my face over a minute while he tried to figure a new way to walk. “So we got a pact then?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

“'Cause you know, you can't break no pact. It's a-moral.”

“I won't tell, Joey. I swear.”

He put out his fist, so I did, too. Then we hammered and punched each other's fists some, but he still wasn't sure we'd sealed the deal. So he dug up his pocketknife, sliced his finger, and looked at me while a drop of blood rose through his skin.