The Pricker Boy by Reade Scott Whinnem

ear.
    “When I got off the phone, I went down to the water, and then Pete found me. He didn’t say much, just that things weren’t great with his own parents. But he was really sweet and patient and spent the whole afternoon with me, listening.”
    Nana gets the noodle in the Cricket’s ear. He laughs, then sits up straight. He growls like Frankenstein. He reaches up with a supposedly undead hand and pulls the bit of noodle brain from his ear. He looks at it, growls at it, then eats it.
    Robin continues. “I know about his bad side, but when he was good, no one was better. I miss him.”
    “Oh please. You spend two months out of the year here, if that. He’s my best friend year-round. Don’t go getting all dramatic on me.”
    “That’s it, isn’t it?” she snaps. “I’m not good enough for you and your pond and your woods because I’m only here in the summer.”
    “You only come when it’s warm,” I say dismissively. “Try coming when the wind whips over the ice and cuts through your coat even when you’re all the way out at Whale’s Jaw.”
    “So I’m not as strong as big bad Stucks? Maybe I shouldn’t even go tomorrow then.”
    “I don’t want you to go anyway.”
    Robin shakes her head. “You’re such a jerk.”
    My mother and father exchange a look. Another awkward silence settles on the table, and this time I’m the one to break it. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Morgan going to get divorced?” I ask.
    My father clears his throat. “We don’t talk with the Morgans about their personal problems. We’re not their therapists.”
    “I know, but I was just wondering—”
    My mother interrupts me. “Let’s change the subject.”
    “I think we’ve tried that a few times,” I say. “Without much luck.”
    Now it’s my mother’s voice that gets sharp, which is a rare thing that always throws me off guard. “Well, then you start us off. You’re planning a trip out into the woods tomorrow. Looking to get a good case of poison ivy?”
    “Yeah, sure, Mom,” I say, turning my eyes to my plate and ignoring the satisfied smile on Robin’s face.
    “Just be careful. You know what poison ivy looks like. Remember when you were little and you got into some? You had it on your arms and your legs and your stomach, even your—”
    “Yeah, Mom, we get the point.”
    My father chimes in. “You’re a bit too old to have your mother putting calamine on your bottom.”
    Robin laughs so hard that she coughs out a bit of chop suey.
    “How you got it there I’ll never know,” my mother says.
    “Could we please stop talking about poison ivy and calamine and my bare ass?”
    “Calamine is crap,” Nana tells the Cricket. “I can make him a mint balm that would do the trick. And, he’d smell all minty and fresh, which would be nice for the rest of us.” The Cricket can barely hold in his laughter.
    Luckily, my dad comes to my rescue. “I remember myfirst case of poison ivy. Remember, Ma? I didn’t know what the plant looked like. Bill told me that the leaves would give me magical powers, so I let him rub a little on my back. Little did I know that he was spelling out the word ‘nitwit’ in broad letters across my shoulder blades. Ma, why didn’t Bill get in trouble for that?”
    “Because it was funny,” Nana replies.
    “I guess it was.”
    “And it taught you good lessons. Watch out for poison ivy. And watch out for Bill, I suppose.”
    “How old were you?” I ask.
    “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see.… Bill was probably nine, so that would make me seven.”
    “My father did that to a seven-year-old?” Robin asks. “That’s so cruel!”
    “You don’t understand boys,” my father tells her. “They’re rough-and-tumble. They just do things like that. You’ll understand someday when you have boys of your own. Boys like running around and playing games and exploring the woods.” My father smiles as if the wondrous days of his youth are flooding back to him. But I see my mother and Robin