Free Memory Boy by Will Weaver

only vanilla ice cream, and no cones, but sundaes were possible.
    â€œAnd how much might these sundaes be?” my mother asked.
    â€œAh, four sundaes? That would be $32.00.” The clerk looked at my mother without smiling.
    â€œI always said this town was a tourist trap,” my mother murmured to my father. Then she looked up. “All right. Four sundaes. And don’t spare the ice cream.”
    In the end they weren’t that big. As we ate, some locals watched us.
    â€œStrangers,” Sarah said to them. “That’s us.”
    They stared blankly.
    I kicked her sharply under the table. “Don’t,” I said. I didn’t like being here. Outside, the four-wheelers kept making circles around the Princess . I felt like that carp with its fin out of the water.
    â€œEat up,” I said to my family.
    As we left Rock Lake, the whining four-wheeler brigade was nowhere to been seen. That was fine by me. We picked up the pace on the Ali Princess and quickly put Rock Lake a couple of miles behind.
    Maybe it was the energy boost from the ice cream, or maybe it was because we were almost to Birch Bay, but we finally found our pedaling rhythm. Another hour at the most. I began to daydream about a nap on the wide lakefront porch....
    â€œMiles!” my father shouted.
    â€œOh, God!” Sarah chirped.
    In a whine of engines and a blue cloud of oil smoke, a half dozen four-wheelers broke out of the trees and raced alongside us. Two of them, ones I hadn’t seen in Rock Lake, were driven by larger guys; plastic rifle scabbards jutted from the rear.
    â€œKeep going!” I shouted to my family.
    The gang matched our pace, then sped ahead. I thought they were leaving—until they turned sharply, skidded to a stop, and blocked the highway. We had nowhere to go.
    And the Ali Princess had no real brakes.
    â€œDrag your feet!” I cried. We did, and managed to stop just inches short of a muddy, battered vehicle with balloon tires.
    â€œWhat is this?” my mother said. As usual, she hopped off the Ali Princess and stepped forward.
    â€œThis is a toll road,” the biggest driver said. He glanced to the others, who nodded. We could see none of their faces. I looked again at the rifle scabbards.
    â€œNo, it’s a public highway,” my mother said.
    â€œNot today it isn’t,” another rider said.
    â€œGo easy,” my father murmured to her. He, too, was looking at the gun cases. He stepped forward.
    â€œHey, young dudes,” he said easily. I recognized his stage voice, his musician’s manner. “What’s going on? We’re headed up to our place on the lake.”
    â€œFine. Pay us and you can be on your way.”
    My father smiled. “You guys need a few bucks for ice cream, maybe a little gasoline, I can understand that. Hey, all you got to do is ask.”
    I understood—maybe for the first time since I was small and saw him sail the Tonka Miss all day against the wind—that my father knew how to do a lot of things. It was just that he was totally different from me.
    â€œSo, we’re asking,” the leader said him.
    â€œOkay,” my father replied. He kept his voice light and amused. He wagged a finger as he counted the riders. “Six of you. How about five bucks apiece. Thirty bucks.” Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his shirt pocket and peeled off three tens. He held out the money. The leader snatched it.
    â€œNow we got some miles to cover, and you boys have a nice day,” my father said. He jerked his head for us to get ready to pedal.
    The lead bandit looked at the money in his hand. “Seems to me if you got thirty, then you must have a hundred.”
    There was silence.
    â€œOr three hundred,” another said. They all laughed.
    â€œIn fact, why don’t we take all your money?” the leader said.
    I looked at my baseball bat. One against six was not