Free Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) by Brad Whittington Page B

ashes announcing woe and doom.
    Move on to where?
My mind quit screaming long enough to let my ears return to what Dad was saying.
    “. . . was in debt, and attendance had dwindled to double digits. As of January of this year, we are debt free and attendance has more than tripled. But even more importantly,” he took off his glasses and looked out myopically over the congregation with moist eyes, “we have made many dear friends and have been honored that so many of you have opened up your homes and your hearts to us.”
    Right, so don’t ditch them! Isn’t that the right thing to do? Don’t ditch your friends? You stick with them, hovering on the perimeter if that’s all you have the strength to do, so you will be there if they need you.
    “. . . that the excitement of a new horizon is mingled with the sorrow of leaving behind so many we have come to know and love. But we won’t be leaving immediately. We are just now starting to see what opportunities God will bring, and we will be here to assist in your transition to whomever God has for this place.”
    It wasn’t much consolation, but one must cling to whatever small joys can be salvaged from catastrophe. I felt like an Israelite trudging in chains toward Babylon thinking,
But, hey, at least I get to see those funky hanging gardens! I wonder who’s playing at the Palace?
    Down in the dungeon of M’s basement I told him the news. There was little to say. We both drew sparks from the spike in the rafters. That summer we savored every moment, but it was difficult to ignore the sword hanging above our heads on a thread, never knowing when the blade would fall that would cut us apart forever.
    When autumn and school arrived with no change in status, we were cautiously optimistic, or maybe guardedly hopeful. We took our status as sixth-graders seriously, particularly because we were both members of the Safety Patrol. This dubious honor meant we must arrive at school thirty minutes before it opened, don a belt/sash rig with a badge, and stand on a corner, fighting against natural selection by preventing stupid third-graders from running across the street against the light.
    In preparation for our exalted status as Safety Patrol members, we upgraded our wardrobe. We felt that sixth-graders had a responsibility to take a leadership role not only in traffic safety but also in fashion, as dictated by “American Bandstand.” We pulled out the stops, went for broke, grabbed the brass ring, jumped in with all four feet, and took the bull by the horns. By the end of our shopping orgy we had a pile of stylish togs that would have humbled the Mod Squad. Bell-bottom jeans, turtleneck sweaters, Nehru jackets, taper-cut shirts with no pockets, French sleeves, patent leather shoes, ankle-high brown boots—we had it all. Paisley, neon pastels, electric pink, tie-dye. I’m not sure about this, but I think M bought the horse of a different color. (It was on special.) We even picked up some love beads. I convinced Dad to let me skip a few trips to the barbershop so my hair would match my new style, and M started a long-term project—growing an afro.
    All was copacetic, even while standing on the corner in November at 7:00 A.M., holding shivering arms parallel to the ice-coated sidewalks in a crosswalk-turned-arctic-wind-tunnel. We were truly cool, both within and without. Then the thread broke.

Fred

CHAPTER EIGHT The trip down was a lot like our trips to Grandma’s house for Christmas—a one-thousand-mile, nineteen-hour marathon. We left the interstate at Texarkana and crawled down the eastern edge of Texas on state highways. By that time I had exhausted every Hardy Boys book in my collection and was looking out the window at an endless procession of pine trees. I saw signs pointing off the highway to winding, two-lane roads that disappeared into the trees. Red Lick—17 miles. Bleakwood—6 miles.
    Having spent my meager eleven years living in cities, I wondered what life was