Free Death at Devil's Bridge by Cynthia DeFelice Page A

think I ought to tell someone “in authority” about what Donny did.
    But sometimes even grown-ups said it was bad to “tattle.” I could still hear my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wolnick, saying, “Nobody likes a tattletale, Ben. I’ll take care of Charles. You take care of Ben.”
    My cheeks burned just remembering it. Charles had been shooting big, gross, germy spitballs into the fish tank, and I was the one who got yelled at.
    The more I thought about it, the more confusing the whole thing became. For one thing, Jeff was my best friend, and he didn’t seem to think what Donny had done was so bad.
    For another, if I told on Donny, wouldn’t he go to jail? How would that make me feel? How would I like being called a squeal, a rat, a snitch, a narc, a fink?
    If telling was the right thing to do, why were the words for it so ugly?
    Nobody likes a tattletale .
    When Mom asked, I said the fireworks were great and went to bed.

Eleven
    The next morning, Chick and I headed out of the harbor with our charter for the day: a man named Thad, who was pretty old, and his son, Jay, who looked around Chick’s age. As Chick steered the boat out beyond the rocks at Devil’s Bridge and around the clay cliffs of Aquinnah, his face seemed even ruddier and more weathered than usual. Pop’s face had had that same warm, outdoors look. Chick’s hands on the wheel were brown and tough, too, and strong, like Pop’s. Thad and Jay had pale white faces and hands, and their skin was smooth and soft looking.
    It was a chilly morning for early July, and Chick and I both wore hooded sweatshirts, lobstermen’s rubber overalls and parkas, and rubber boots to protect us from the wind off the water and the sea spray. By afternoon we’d probably strip down to jeans and T-shirts, if the day remained sunny.
    Thad and Jay could have just stepped out of one of the expensive shops down in Edgartown. They had on brand-new skid-proof boat shoes, neatly ironed khaki pants, and sweaters with anchors and other nautical designs woven into them.
    Chick and I; Thad and Jay. Us and them, I thought.
    They were huddled miserably in the stern, trying to avoid the spray that showered into the boat every time Chick hit a wave. And there were plenty of waves, big ones, too, coming in from the northeast. Against the incoming tide, the wind caused a wicked chop.
    In my head I could hear Donny laughing at Thad and Jay in their fancy clothes, saying, Serves ’em right . And part of me agreed. I mean, you just don’t go out on the ocean, even in July, without being prepared for weather. Everyone around here knew that.
    Still, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the two shivering men. Reaching into the storage area in the bow, I took out two spare orange parkas and handed them to Thad and Jay. “It won’t be nearly as rough once we get around these cliffs!” I shouted over the noise of the engine. “Where we’re going to fish, off Squibnocket beach, it should be pretty calm.”
    They put on the jackets eagerly, Jay smiling with relief and Thad giving me the “thumbs-up” sign. Chick gave me a wink.

    When we got around what everyone called the head, the big point of land formed by the clay cliffs of Aquinnah, the seas settled into a light, even chop, and Thad and Jay began to look a lot happier. I began handing out rods and baiting them up, while Chick positioned the boat off Squibnocket point.
    We planned to drift the shoreline for stripers. That meant we’d be continually watching out for rocks and starting the engine from time to time to keep us the right distance away from them.
    Thad was using a sinking lure, trying to coax the fish up, and I was relieved to see that he was a decent caster. Jay was pretty clueless, so I showed him how to cast a chunk of bait with a smooth, even motion, let it sink, raise it up a bit off the bottom, and wait for the strike.
    I was untangling a