Free Surface Tension by Brent Runyon

seems like more fun.
    I'm not the weakest kid in my school, and I'm not the strongest either, but I can carry a pretty big bunch of sticks,no problem. I carry them all over, and it only takes me three trips. I try and stack them on the pile in a way that's sort of organized, but I'm sure Mr. Richardson is going to redo it later. He's just that kind of person.
    I walk back over to the Richardsons to see if there's anything else I can do. I say, “So what are you going to do with that pile of sticks?”
    Mr. Richardson says, “We'll have a bonfire at the end of the summer.”
    That's a lot of sticks. I say, “I wish I were going to be here to see that.”
    They both look at each other, just like my parents do when they want to ask each other something without speaking, and then Mrs. Richardson says, “Well, we just might have to move it up a few weeks so you can participate.”
    “Really?”
    Mr. Richardson says, “Only if the wind is blowing in the right direction.”
    “Which way is that?”
    “Away from the house.” Oh right, that makes sense. He thinks of everything.
    I walk down to what used to be our little stretch of beach and look for a perfect skipping stone. It's weird, because I skipped probably a thousand stones last year, but there are all new stones on the beach this year. It's like they're restocked in the winter like how they do with the fish.
    I look for ones that fit right into my finger, like they were made just for me, but a little crooked still. The ones that are perfectly oval and flat are too perfect. They just never do much.
    I want to bring a collection of these rocks back home with me so I can show my friends what they're like. We could skip them across the pond where the rope swing is. That's one of the things I hate about where we live—there are no good skipping stones anywhere. Once in a while, I can find one that's halfway decent, but it still doesn't skip like even the worst one from around here.
    I like how when I get a really good skip on a flat day like today, the ripples are far apart at first and then get closer and closer together.
    It turns out that Mr. Richardson is a really nice guy. I thought only Mary was the nice one, but ever since the minister moved in and I helped with the sticks, the Richardsons have been treating us like we're the world's best neighbors.
    Mrs. Richardson even told Mom that we could cut through their yard now and that I could shoot hoops at the basket in the driveway whenever I wanted. She even showed me where the secret key to the garage is, but I already knew that. The best part is now we can use their dock. I think they feel sorry for us because our beach is right next to the minister's dock.
    I get a running start from our picnic table. I run across our lawn, and theirs, and pick up speed when I get to the stone walkway. I make sure I step on the big, flat red stone because that one is always warm.
    I hit the dock and run on my tiptoes because I don't want to get splinters. It slows me down, but I'm still going fast. The boards of the dock get wider where the dock makes a right turn. Most docks are straight, but the Richardsons' dock is shaped like the picture you draw when you're playinghangman. If it were straight, I could sprint the whole way, but I have to take the ninety-degree turn a little wide.
    I pick up my speed again, past Mom and Dad, and hit the second-to-last plank like it's a diving board. I spring off it and fly through the air. I can see my reflection for a split second.
    I hold a huge breath of air in my lungs, hit the water, and go deep. I swim with just kicking. I swim along the bottom, near the brown rocks and the clumps of minnows. I lose my momentum from the dive and switch to the breaststroke.
    When my lungs are about to explode, I come up for air and turn back to look at the dock again. Mom is standing up with a worried look on her face. She's always worried that I'm going to drown. I swim back and dry off and lie on a beach