Free Culpepper's Cannon by Gary Paulsen

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    Duncan—Dunc—Culpepper sat on the ground with his back against the one good wheel of the cannon that stood in front of the county courthouse. He was watching Amos Binder, his best friend—from the day they were born to the day they died, his best friend for life. Amos was sitting on the ground in front of him and rubbing his forehead.
    â€œWhat did you do this time?” Dunc asked.
    â€œI bumped my head.”
    â€œI can see that. What I meant was, what did you do to bump your head?”
    â€œI was riding my bike down Cross Street, and I saw Melissa. She saw me and waved.”
    â€œShe waved at you?”
    â€œI swear. If my mother was dead, I’d swear on her grave. She waved at me.”
    Dunc didn’t believe him. Maybe she looked as if she had waved, maybe she was trying to frighten a mosquito away and Amos thought she had waved, but Melissa Hansen would not have waved. Amos had been in love with Melissa for life—from the day he was born to the day he died, in love with her for life. Melissa Hansen didn’t even know Amos existed, probably never would know, and probably never would care.
    â€œSo what happened?” he asked.
    â€œWell, I turned to wave back, trying to be real cool, but when I turned I forgot I was riding my bike, and I turned the handlebars with me. I hit the curb and bounced across the street right into the bed of a pickup. I was going so fast, I flew off my bike over the bed and ran my face into the back of the cab.”
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œI’m fine. I just hope the owner of the pickup doesn’t want me to pay for it.”
    â€œWhy, did he see you?”
    â€œHe didn’t have to. He’ll be able to recognize me from the face imprint in the back of his cab.” He rubbed his forehead again.
    Dunc stood up and stretched. It was early March and the first warm Saturday of the year. He and Amos were going to go to the library, but as soon as they stepped outside, they had both realized that the sun was too warm to spend the afternoon there. Amos stretched and smiled at the sun on his face.
    â€œSo what are you going to write your paper on?” Dunc asked. Amos had Mr. Trasky for American history. Mr. Trasky loved assigning papers. Students hated getting Mr. Trasky.
    â€œI don’t know. I just don’t want to think about it. I hate writing papers.” Amos quit rubbing his forehead and buried his face in his hands.
    â€œWhat’s it have to be about?”
    â€œThe Civil War. I hate the Civil War.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I can never remember anything about it. It goes through my head like water through a funnel.”
    â€œFor a paper on the Civil War, we’re at the perfect place. This cannon was in the Civil War.”
    Amos looked up. “You mean that thing is real? I always thought it was made out of plaster of Paris or something. You know, a decoration.”
    â€œDon’t you ever read?”
    â€œSure I read. I just finished a book about how to attract girls. It gave me some pointers for Melissa. You see, if I—”
    â€œI mean this plaque.” He pointed with his thumb toward the other side of the cannon. “Haven’t you ever read this plaque about the cannon?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œCome here.” Dunc stood and waited for Amos to climb groaning to his feet. He was still sore from his adventure with the pickup. Dunc led him to the other side of the cannon.
    The wooden wheel was broken on that side, and a concrete block with a plaque onit supported the axle. “ ‘This cannon was part of the arsenal during the battle between the
Merrimack
and the
Monitor
, March 9, 1862,” ’ Dunc read aloud. “ ‘Dedicated in memory of the men who served there.’ ”
    â€œWow,” Amos said. “And I always thought it was a fake.”
    â€œIt isn’t. You should read more.”
    Amos leaned