Middle of Nowhere by Caroline Adderson Page A

managed to find the boulders after driving past them once. Mrs. Burt had to make a U-turn in the middle of the highway when she realized we’d gone too far. There they were, almost completely overgrown with grass. There wasn’t any saw.
    â€œStolen,” she said with a snort.
    You could hardly call it a road. It was more like a really bumpy lane. The Bel Air bounced along the ruts, crashed over shrubs. Everything inside, including us, shook like a baby rattle.
    â€œWhee!” Artie cried, and I decided I would never go on a ride at the PNE again. After the automatic car wash, the vibrator bed, and now bouncing through the forest in a 1957 Chevy Bel Air with sleeping bags and fishing rods and mosquito nets falling on our heads — it just wouldn’t seem that great.
    Eventually we had to stop because Mrs. Burt was afraid the Bel Air’s suspension would be ruined. I was afraid I’d throw up.
    Artie took the shoebox that held the figurines and Happy. Mrs. Burt, though she stuffed as much as she could in her purse, needed both her hands free for the walker. I put a bottle of water in the hotdog pocket of my pants and the ax handle through a belt loop, then slung two bags over my shoulders. We started walking.
    It was cool in the shade of the trees and quiet except for the concert the birds were putting on. The air smelled so sweet it was almost sticky.
    â€œIt’s grown so much!” Mrs. Burt exclaimed. “The size of the trees! I can’t believe it! They were barely this big the last time I was here!” She held her thumb out.
    â€œAre we lost?” Artie asked.
    â€œNot at all. We’re following this road all the way to the cabin.”
    â€œHow long till we’re there?”
    Mrs. Burt lifted the walker and set it down carefully just ahead of her.
    â€œAt this rate, a while. But then we can rest up. It’s your poor brother who’s got to lug all that stuff from the car.”
    I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all.
    â€œIn the old days,” Mrs. Burt said, “we drove right in.”
    â€œHow long since you’ve been here, Mrs. Burt?” I asked.
    â€œA long time. More than forty years. Marianne used to come with her dad after that. When she got too old, he’d come himself. For the fishing.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you come?” I asked. “Don’t you like fishing?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? I used to catch the biggest trout in the lake. That would make him so mad! Mr. Burt, I mean. He’d sit in that canoe for hours and only bring up these puny things. I’d drop my line and some great whopper’d jump right on.” She laughed. “I’ll show you. I got fish sense.”
    â€œI want to catch a fish,” Artie told her.
    â€œYou will. I promise.”
    I thought it was strange that she liked fishing so much but wouldn’t come here with Mr. Burt. Then I realized they had probably divorced. Maybe they’d divorced over fishing.
    â€œI hope the place is okay,” she said. “It’s going to be dirty, that’s for sure. I hope nobody busted the windows out.”
    We stopped for a rest and a drink of water. Artie leaned against a tree and ate some jam. I could tell that Mrs. Burt was nervous because she started to thump her chest and burp.
    After a half hour of walking, something shiny appeared far ahead through the trees. Mrs. Burt stopped when she saw it, and right away tears were pouring down her cheeks. Artie put down his shoebox and flung himself at her, hugging her thick waist, almost knocking her and the contraption over. She took off her glasses and wiped them, but the tears wouldn’t stop.
    â€œBlast it!” she said. “I’m sorry, boys. I’m sorry.” She gestured with her chin toward the shiny thing between the trees. “That’s the lake.”
    â€œAre you happy crying or sad crying?” Artie asked, still clinging to