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  He aimed the rifle at my chest.

  Jim yelled, “Go ahead and kill ’im, Willie, go ahead, you brought enough grief to your Ma, might as well really fix her good this time, give her a stroke, too.”

  “Huh?” The rifle wavered.

  “Go ahead, dig her grave a little deeper, wasn’t enough you couldn’t finish school, got yourself kicked out of the Marines, wrecked those cars, never brought no money into the house, go ahead and kill your Ma, too.”

  “Don’t say that, Jimmy.” He whirled and pointed the rifle at Jim.

  “Yeah, and while you’re at it, kill her sister’s boy, too.” Jim walked right into the rifle until the tip of the barrel was against his shirt.

  “Jimmy.” It was like a baby’s moan.

  Smith snatched the rifle out of Willie’s hands, and put his arm around Willie’s shoulders. “C’mon, Willie, let’s get out of here. I’ll take you home with me.”

  They started to walk away, Willie leaning against Jim. My knees felt weak. I looked at Joanie. There were tears in her eyes. I turned to look at Pete. He was poised to spring, as if he was about to go off the highboard.

  Joanie shrieked, “No.”

  Pete was a brown blur moving fast. Three long strides up the dock, a giant leap and he was crashing down on the backs of Smith and Rumson. There was a solid thunk, and the three of them were in a heap on the dock. Jim Smith rolled away. Pete grabbed Rumson by the throat and lifted him into the air.

  Jim got up slowly, shaking his head to clear it. He picked up the rifle. There was a loud clack as he snapped the bolt home. The sound stopped Pete cold. He lowered Rumson.

  “He didn’t even have a slug in the chamber,” said Jim. Blood was running out of both nostrils. “But there’s one in there now. Let him go.”

  Pete’s hands opened on Rumson’s throat. Willie rubbed his neck. His eyes were wide, he was breathing fast. That vein was pumping so hard I was sure it would burst through the skin of his forehead.

  “You musclebound ass,” said Jim. “Why’d you have to do that?”

  “Nobody pushes me around,” said Pete.

  “No, you’re a real man, a regular John Wayne, just like Willie.”

  Willie was looking around wildly, from Jim to Pete to Joanie to me, before something seemed to click in his mind. He put his head down and charged at me.

  I saw him coming in slow motion. I heard Joanie and Pete yell. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t even think fast enough to brace my feet, just watched his head slam into my chest, and then the two of us were rolling around on the dock, holding each other.

  I squeezed as hard as I could and heard him gasp, but his arms were free and his fists pounded my back and kidneys and my neck and my head. I was dizzy, there was a ringing in my ears and I felt the strength draining out of my arms. In a few seconds he’d break free, and then those combat boots would be stomping my face.

  I used the last of my strength to roll us toward the edge of the dock. I was heavier and I could move his body.

  We rolled off the dock locked together.

  Just before we hit the water I took a deep breath and held it. As we sank I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his head. We went down. He struggled in my grip. He reached up to pull my hair and claw my face, to climb back up to air.

  But I had him. I had him good and tight. Under water. My territory.

  I felt a surge of triumph as his struggling grew weaker. You finally messed with me in the wrong place, Willie-boy. I’m the underwater champ. I spent my whole life waiting for a punk like you, I spent my whole life underwater, hiding out so no one could see me. You should have shot me while you had the chance.

  I felt him go limp and I still had breath, keep him down another couple of seconds in case he’s faking, but then strong arms separated us, and someone was pushing me up, and I shot to the surface. The air was delicious in my burning lungs. Jim was in the water, pushing Willie up the ladder ahead of him. I climbed up after them.

  Willie collapsed on the dock. His skinny body shook and heaved. His fingers clawed at the wet wood. He tried to raise his head but couldn’t. He vomited. His legs twitched. He gulped air and choked on it. I felt sick.

  Jim kneeled beside him, rubbing Willie’s back, holding his forehead while he retched.

  “Okay,” said Pete. “Get that punk on his feet.”

  Pete had the rifle.

  “Leave him alone,” said Jim.

  “He’s going to jail, and if you don’t move your tail you’re going, too. Get him up.”

  Jim took his time, stroking Willie, soothing him. Then, very slowly, he lifted Willie to his feet and hoisted him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Jim started up the dock toward his pickup truck, staggering under Willie’s body.

  “Hold it right there,” boomed Pete.

  Jim Smith turned. “You’re worse than he is, Tarzan.” He stared at Pete with disgust. Then he turned away and walked out of Marino’s Beach and never looked back.

  Pete lowered the rifle. Joanie whispered, “Oh, God.” We watched Jim load Willie into the cab of his truck. Willie was retching out the window as the truck pulled away.

  When the truck was out of sight, Pete said, “Well, we did it. Open up the snack bar, Joanie, break out some Cokes.”

  “I don’t feel like anything now,” said Joanie in a weak voice. “I’d like to go home.”

  “I’ll drive you.” Pete grinned at me. “Both of you.”

  “Thanks anyway,” I said. “I’ll walk.”

  “I’ll take you all the way up the hill, big fella. You deserve it.” He threw an arm over my shoulder. I was too tired to push it off, but I wanted to.

  “That’s okay.”

  “I insist. You really gave that punk something he’ll remember the rest of his life. You’re a hero.”

  I walked out from under his arm. “Why’d you have to do it, Pete?”

  “Do what?” He didn’t know what I was talking about.

  “Jump them. After it was all over.”

  “Are you serious? Let ’em get away with that? Push us around like that?”

  I left him standing there, the rifle in his hand, shaking his head. He would never understand what I was talking about.

  Halfway up my hill I had to catch my pants before they slipped off my waist. The Cub Scout knife and the handful of wet sand in my pockets were dragging them down. I had completely forgotten about my secret weapons. Some hero.

  20

  There were little white tables with striped umbrellas on Dr. Kahn’s lawn, and workmen were erecting a huge tent in front of the house. Dr. Kahn was standing at the top of the porch steps directing them. I stood for five minutes at the bottom of the porch steps before he looked down at me.

  “Today is Saturday,” he said.

  I wanted to answer, like Bogie would, “I’m a little early, Doc,” but I was too nervous. And I didn’t want to be wise with him.

  “Could I talk to you a minute?”

  “One minute. Can’t you see I’ve very busy? My nephew’s getting married here tomorrow.”

  “It’s about the job. I don’t think fifty cents an hour is fair.”

  “You agreed to it.”

  “Well, that was because I was so slow in the beginning. But I’ve improved. I do the lawn in two days now. The place really looks beautiful, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t like a boy who reneges on a deal.”

  “I want a dollar an hour. Just like you said in the beginning of the summer.”

  “I never said it.”

  “It was on the card on the bulletin board when I called. A dollar an hour.”

  He stared at me. Just like he did the very first time, a lifetime ago. But those shotgun eyes didn’t scare me anymore.

  “You should pay me for this summer,” said Dr. Kahn. “I’ve watched you change from a miserable fat boy into a fairly presentable young man. On my lawn. On my time.”

  “You didn’t do it, Dr. Kahn. I did
it.”

  His thin lips twitched. I wondered if he was finally going to smile. He didn’t. After a long time, he said, “Starting Monday, for the remainder of the season, one dollar an hour. But you’ll have to prove to me you are worth every penny of this generous raise. Nine o’clock. Sharp.” He turned back to the tent. I was dismissed.

  I skipped down the gravel driveway. I jogged along the county road. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder. Nothing’s behind me now, everything’s up ahead.

  I got to Marino’s Beach before I realized I had walked that far. Not even breathing hard. The beach was crowded. Families were spread out along the sandy shore. Kids were screaming and diving and splashing each other in the sparkling water. Sailboats and rowboats danced on the lake.

  Pete was standing on the highboard, as usual, surveying his kingdom. The One and Only. Peter the Great. Everything I wanted to be when the summer started. I imagined him going off the high-board, turning in the air, knifing into the water. I remembered him telling me about being a man. You leave the board, big fella, and it’s all up to you, you’ve got one second to show the world what you’re made of, to show ’em you aren’t afraid, to make your moves, to tell that water coming up fast, Look out, world, here comes a man.

  Pete didn’t know any more about being a man than I did. Or Willie Rumson. I thought of Willie on the dock, retching his guts out. I might have drowned him. Because of Pete. Poor Willie, just a crazy mixed-up guy who couldn’t do anything right and tried to make himself feel better by deciding all his problems were caused by the only kid around he was sure he could take. And he couldn’t even take him.

  Pete went off the board, hit the water, and surfaced to applause from some girls on the dock. Someday I might go off that highboard. Maybe even this summer. And maybe not. Who knows? Three more weeks till Labor Day, a lot could happen. Summer isn’t over yet. I like summer. All the seasons are terrific.

  About the Author

  ROBERT LIPSYTE is an award-winning sports-writer for The New York Times, and was the Emmy-winning host of the public affairs show The Eleventh Hour. He is the author of a number of acclaimed titles for young readers, including THE CONTENDER, THE BRAVE, THE CHIEF, and WARRIOR ANGEL. He is also the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award honoring lifetime contribution in writing for young adults. Robert Lipsyte lives in New York.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Also by Robert Lipsyte

  The Contender

  The Brave

  The Chief

  Warrior Angel

  Copyright

  ONE FAT SUMMER. Copyright © 1977 by Robert M. Lipsyte. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lipsyte, Robert.

  One fat summer.

  Summary: An overweight fourteen-year-old boy experiences a turning-point summer in which he learns to stand up for himself.

  ISBN 0-06-447073-3 (pbk.)

  [1. Weight control—Fiction] I. Title.

  PZ7.L67On 76-49746

  [Fic] CIP

  AC

  EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199591-0

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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