Free This is the Part Where You Laugh by Peter Brown Hoffmeister

attention.
    When I’m 20 feet out and I think she hasn’t seen me yet, she says, “Don’t you ever wear a shirt?”
    I look down at my bare chest lit up by her lantern, wishing I’d brought a shirt with me. I say, “I guess not.” There’s no moon, and the full surface of the lake is black. Little ripples tap against the side of my canoe, making a
psht-psht
sound. I say, “What are you reading?”
    “
Catcher in the Rye.
Required summer reading for English class.”
    “What high school?”
    “Starting Taft in the fall.”
    “Starting? Then are you a freshman?”
    “What?” she says. “No, I’m
not
a freshman. I’m a transfer. A junior. Do I look like a freshman to you?”
    “No,” I say. “It was just how you said ‘starting.’ ” I paddle a J-stroke to bring my canoe closer to her dock. “Where are you transferring from?”
    “A better place,” she says.
    “Where’s that?”
    “Lake Oswego.”
    I laugh. We beat the Lake Oswego basketball team by 30 points in a preseason game last year.
    Natalie says, “What are you laughing at?”
    “Nothing.” I put my paddle in the water and pull the starboard side of my canoe a little closer. Then I reverse the stroke and slide the canoe back out.
    “You really love that boat, huh?”
    “This canoe?” I slap the hull with the flat of my hand. “Yeah, I do.”
    “Did you name it?”
    “Huh?”
    “You know,” she says. “Boys are always naming their cars. Giving them stripper names like
Candy Baby.
Shit like that.”
    “No,” I say. “I didn’t even think about that. Maybe I should, though. My grandma gave it to me, and she has cancer, so maybe I’d name it for her.”
    “Your grandma has cancer?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Wow. That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty sad.”
    Natalie looks down at her feet. She has her thumb in her book, holding her place, and I wait for her to set it down. I tell myself that if she sets her book down, I’m going to paddle the canoe to the dock and hop up next to her. But she doesn’t set her book down. She keeps her thumb marking her place. So I wait.
    I say, “You like to read outside?”
    Natalie looks over her shoulder and nods her chin in the direction of her house. “I don’t like to read inside
that
house. That’s for sure.”
    “Why not?”
    She looks right at me, right at my eyes, and she doesn’t blink.
    I look away. Turn and stare out across the lake. The lights on the back porches of the mobile homes on the west side are like cheap imitations of stars.
    My fishing line zips and my rod bends. Then the pole rips overboard. “Oh, damn.” I stash my paddle and dive in after my fishing pole. Catch it as it drags across the top of the water. When I get ahold of the pole, I lean back against the weight of the fish, tread water, and sidestroke back to the dock. I have to kick my legs hard, grip the pole in my off hand and paddle with my right. When I get to the dock, I hold the pole up. “Take this.”
    “What?” Natalie’s laughing so hard that she’s bent over.
    “Just take it.”
    Natalie is still laughing, but she grabs it, and I turn around and swim to my canoe, take hold of the side, and push it back in. Then I pull myself up onto the dock, grab the bowline, and hitch the boat to the cleat. Natalie’s holding the fishing pole but not controlling it, letting it whip one way, then the other. She hasn’t reeled the fish in at all.
    I say, “You’ve gotta hold that steady and reel it, or that fish will snag the line or break it off. Or break your pole.”
    “Oh, okay.” Natalie tries to turn the reel the wrong way and it won’t go. Then she cranks it the other way and starts to bring the fish in. As soon as she starts reeling, I can tell that the fish is a carp. The fish makes heavy S movements in the water, but doesn’t jump or make a run.
    Natalie reels until the fish breaks the surface 10 feet away. “Oh my God. It’s huge.”
    “Yeah,” I say,