6. Curtis

If there's one story to know about Curtis it would be the one we have never told. It happened during our first summer as friends. A dog was involved, fitting, because pets were the reason that I first spoke to him. The tale remains untold because my mother would freak. I'm sure she would ground me for something that happened three years ago because that's what a crazy person would do. I have to admit that this misadventure justified her worst fear (allowing me to live unsupervised) but I wasn't about to supply her with any ammunition. I'm almost fifteen no, it's been a long fight for freedom.

As long as my family was spending part of our summers at the beach I noticed that quiet, sandy-haired boy sprinting in bare feet. To me, Curtis was Wasaga Beach. He lived outside in his knee-length, aqua blue bathing suit, topless with sunburned shoulders, donning a faded, sweat-stained baseball hat. His friendly grin showcased his beaming teeth that, we all believed, would be shattered before he got old.

Curtis lived with knicks and bruises. He looked flawed, like a worn action figure or a model before they get photoshopped. For one entire summer he sported a scrape on his chin. His face hit a park bench during a routine playfight with his older brother, Jack. Somehow his teeth remained intact.

I had no idea where Curtis lived when he wasn't on cottage street. I had no idea where he went to school. It was funny. I knew that I was a different person when I was in the hallways at Lincoln. I wondered if we would have been friends if I had met him in a classroom. In Wasaga Beach, I knew him as the kid who always said hello to my mom and dad. He was shy but Mr. and Mrs. Burris had trained him to be friendly to us. The Burris family was the first to arrive each summer, becoming the neighbourhood's enthusiastic greeters.

That first summer, I had no friends. I was new to Wasaga Beach. I spent my time courting the neighbour's cat, Mrs. Tibbles, an old, moody priss that hated me. Everyone wants pets to like them. And babies. We're all jealous of the person that makes the baby laugh and the cat purr. I know I am. I'm not good with babies or animals. Babies cry around me. If I look normal they cry. If I make silly faces they cry. If I use a phoney, sweety pie voice they cry. I don't know how or why all of the babies in the world formed a conspiracy against me. Animals are the same. They hiss, yelp, and hide from me. Once, my parents asked me if I wanted a pet but I declined. I am an only child, it would be an embarrassment to be rejected by a cat.

Curtis hated animals and they loved him. It wasn't fair. I would stalk Mrs. Tibbles for an entire afternoon only to discover she had taken refuge with him, hiding in the shade under his lawn chair. He was annoyed, despising her for shedding hair. He wasn't very good at petting either, too rough and abrupt. I was confident that Mrs. Tibbles would prefer my long luxurious strokes if she would give me the chance.

My mom insisted that I stay on our property, where she could see me. That is the sole reason I began to invite Curtis over. I would make him sit in the sand while I waited to pounce on Mrs. Tibbles. Eventually, she stopped seeking him out, leaving Curtis and I in long awkward silences. It was my ability to catch a frisbee that secured our friendship. I soon discovered that Curtis was obsessed with practice, demanding long sessions on the beach.

If it was too windy, we left the sand and headed to the river where there was an ugly park, speckled with litter and crab grass. A few fishing rods hung out over the river, waiting to be checked by the occasional old man walking a dog. This is where many seniors lived, their houses built right along the river, boasting colourful gardens and patios. It was a quiet area. In the distance I could see a few cars speeding across the concrete of Main Street bridge. My parents liked that I was making friends, loosening my leash because we were chaperoned by ack. In reality, that was just something we said. Curtis was so accustomed to telling his parents that his older brother would be there that it stopped feeling like a lie. So we found ourselves alone in the park next to the river.

It must have been a cooler evening because Curtis was wearing his hoodie as we began, trying to set the record for most consecutive frisbee catches.

"Whose dog is that?" Curtis said. I looked around for a stray, seeing none, I followed Curtis' eyes to the dark green water. There was a dog in the middle of the river. A golden retriever with its tongue hanging out. We watched it swim against the slow current, making no progress.

"Whose dog?" Curtis shouted. There was no sign of an owner, only the quiet sound of a distant road. It was the late afternoon, Wasaga Beach was napping. I may have yelled for help, I don't remember. We stood there and watched the dog struggle.

And then hat, shorts, and shoes, Curtis jumped in the water.