The Crossroads

Zack pulled the blue tarp off the stump.

The kerosene fumes that had been trapped underneath flew up and seared his nostrils.

“Wow! That stinks!” He fanned the air with his baseball cap.

“Yep,” said Davy. “Like a gas jockey’s grimy green jumpsuit!”

The holes sunk into the stump were full of kerosene. There were three ten-pound sacks of charcoal leaning against the trees under the tree house and one propane grill hidden in the shrubs off to the side.

“The other fellers help out with the charcoal?” Davy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Say, Zack?”

“Yeah?”

Davy pointed to the rolling grill with its attached white tank. “What’s that?”

“One of the guys’ fathers doesn’t use charcoal, so he dragged their gas grill all the way over here.”

“What the blazes was he thinking?”

“I dunno. I guess he figured a grill’s a grill.”

“About as sharp as a bowling ball, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.” Zack laughed as he dumped the first dusty bag of briquettes over the stump.

It felt good to laugh. He didn’t care whether his dead mother saw him having fun: Davy Wilcox was the best friend he had ever had in his whole life.