What does sizzling eel sound like? The thought squirms into my head and I sigh. I push it away and turn on my side.
Maybe it sounds like bacon, frying up on the stove? That might be right. Sort of a crackle and maybe even a hissing . . .
I sigh long and easy and try to let myself wander off again. But my mind won’t quit, and now I’m wondering if maybe frying pieces of diced eel meat might sound like a girl giggling.
Now, John Thomas, that is surely one of the oddest thoughts you have ever had.
I shift again in the sand but I’m still hearing somebody giggle in my mind.
And across the creek.
I come a little more awake.
Another giggle.
I go suddenly very still.
Holding my breath, I listen—to Apple Creek’s murmuring, Knee-Deep Meadow’s humming, and my own beating heart, which is getting louder and louder inside my head.
Every boy has a sixth sense that lets him know when he’s being watched, and right now mine is buzzing like crazy.
The sound comes again! This time I sit bolt upright, certain now that someone is watching us. I snap my head about the bank, searching, but I see nothing, not a thing—but then movement catches my eye, movement from across the creek: a splash of sunlight on bright colors beneath the trees, white and blue against the darker greens. Floral patterns? Slowly my mind picks the colors apart, and I piece it together that I’m seeing sundresses on Apple Creek’s far bank.
Sundresses?
Girls!
Three girls stand on the far bank, pointing at us and giggling.
And us boys are as naked as can be.
My blood runs cold.
“Fellas, wake up!” I shout and roll over to cover myself up. But it don’t do me much good because now I’m mooning the three girls across the creek. Their giggles turn to howls.
“Pete! Will! Frankie! Wake up!” I give Will a swat and he sits up slowly, rubbing his eye with a fist.
“Jack, what the—”
He sees the girls and freezes as the color drains from his face.
“Holy smokes!” he cries out as he rolls over too, and now we’re both mooning those girls. They shriek even louder, and that jolts Frankie awake. Seeing the girls, he instantly flattens himself on his stomach beside us.
“You said no one comes down here!” he shouts at me.
“No one ever does!” I shout back.
“Both of you shut up and get to the pilings!” Will screams as he dives forward, army-crawling as fast as he can for the cover of those stones. Frankie and me scuttle after him, kicking up jets of river sand as we go and showing those laughing girls our backsides the whole way.
The girls on the far bank are just about falling over with laughter now. Something about their laughs sounds awfully familiar, but I don’t waste time stopping to look. It feels like a mile to the piling, and by the time I get there I ain’t got a shred of dignity left. We flatten ourselves against the mossy stones, gasping for air. Then I realize: there’s just three of us.
“We forgot Pete!”
Will cusses fiercely.
Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawl to the edge of the piling and peer around.
And there he is. Pete is still fast asleep on the bank. Flat on his back. Totally naked. He ain’t moved.
“Pete!”
He don’t hear me. He don’t hear anything. In between those awful shrieks of laughter, his gentle snores continue slow and steady.
Across the water, the girls have come out from under the trees. They stand along the bank, hugging themselves in amusement. And now I know why one of those voices sounds so familiar.
Anna May wears a blue blouse and a yellow skirt, and her golden hair is held back in a light-blue headband.
“Oh no,” I breathe.
Will tenses. “What?” he demands. “What? Who is it?”
“Nobody,” I lie.
He hauls me back from the edge and peers around it himself. He snaps back like a rubber band, a look of complete horror on his face.
Anna May calls to us. “Danger, Will Robinson! Or should I say Will Elliot? Are you just going to leave your brother out there all alone?” She is laughing herself silly, the sound skipping across the water, echoing off the stones. Will balls up a fist and bites down hard on one knuckle. “Oh my God, this can’t be happening,” he says to himself. “This is a dream. I’m still asleep.”
Across the creek her voice twinkles again. “Ooh, and you left your clothes!”
“You’re not dreaming, Will,” Frankie says bitterly. “And she’s right.”
Our clothes are on the log where we left them. Thirty feet away.