Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) by Brad Whittington

like in these one-blink towns we breezed past on those trips. This time, we stopped at one of them and not just for a tank of gas. Before I knew it, I was looking from the other side of the glass at cars breezing through with noses curiously pressed to the back windows.
    We arrived in the Greater Fred Metropolitan Area on a Wednesday afternoon, passing by the church on the way to the house. It faced the highway on the corner of a fourteen-acre lot. Through a pine wood and across a creek (or, in the local vernacular, a branch), the parsonage occupied the opposite corner facing a dirt road. It was a rambling ranch-style brick house with dogwoods out front, a gigantic magnolia on the side, and a sweet gum in the back. There were, of course, numerous pines scattered about, but to say so would be to say there was grass on the lawn. There were pine trees everywhere, depositing cones indiscriminately like superpowers in an arms race and laying down a carpet of dead needles that would flare up like gasoline at the drop of a match. And there was grass on the lawn. Saint Augustine, to be precise.
    The house had a two-car garage and a guestroom/study at one end. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and den came next, followed by three bedrooms at the far end. There was, regrettably, no basement or attic suitable for service as a refuge from reality.
    As the lone man-child in a land without promise, I was awarded the customary private room, in contrast to the semiprivate enjoyed by Heidi and Hannah. As an added bonus, my room had a sliding glass door. With such easy access and a wood so handy, I had no doubt that I would be subject to fits of nocturnal perambulations.
    Contrary to my expectations, I began to suspect that my life might not have come to a horrid and dismal end. I had landed in the middle of what was the next thing to a jungle just waiting to be explored. From my room I could see at least a half-dozen trees waving at me, practically begging me to climb them. And then there was the branch.
    I abandoned my unpacking to take a brief tour of the environs, the wood at the top of my list. It was sufficiently overgrown and tangled to satisfy even the most fastidious adventurer. As I slogged down the branch, I came upon desideratum. A tree house loomed before me, jutting out over the water.
    It wasn’t very impressive as tree houses go, but I saw El Dorado. Based on carvings in the tree, I deduced it had been built by the previous PKs. The floor was fairly solid, although the boards had gaps between them and tended to wobble as you walked. There were walls on the two sides facing civilization (the house) and a half roof. A few improvised shelves and benches finished out the interior. I returned to my unpacking reconciled to my fate.
    Wednesday evening we had the dry run of introductions at church, standing in regulation stair-step fashion at the front of the sanctuary, looking back at white pews, red cushions, faux stained glass, and a bunch of old people. Other than the accents, it didn’t differ significantly from similar events in Ohio.
    Thursday was a new day and a new school. Being an old hand as the new kid, I expected to adapt and thrive in short order. I selected my favorite outfit from the shopping spree with M: black-and-white patent leather shoes, an olive-green shirt with French cuffs, white hip-hugger bell-bottoms, and a two-inch black belt sporting a square silver buckle that could have served as a counterweight for an elevator.
    I’m afraid the care I had taken in shoe selection remained unappreciated, however. Subtleties such as loafer vs. lace-up were lost on my audience. The room was a sea of plaid western-style shirts with pearl-inlay snap buttons, jeans with brown leather belts, and cowboy boots. Obviously I had misjudged my audience. But fate provided compensation in the form of a loose shoelace, and before the collective mind had a chance to process the strange image imprinted on the collective retina, I