Children’s fiction: Thirteen-year-old Ryan and his cousin search for a long-lost pirate ship

“Ryan, could you stay after class for a moment? I would like to talk to you,” Mrs Phillips, my teacher, asked as the school bell rang.

I just nodded my head yes. There were things to do and places to go. I was twelve going on thirteen. I had a life, and it was the last day of school. Summer was waiting for me, and I was waiting for it.

I sat in class and watched as everyone left the room. Then it was just me and Mrs. Phillips. As teachers go, I had to admit she was kind of pretty, with her blonde hair pulled back behind her head, blue eyes behind cat-eyed glasses. The funky polka-dot blouse had to go though. It was downright ugly. Of course, it matched her skirt that fell to the floor covering her feet.

“Could you come up here to my desk for a moment?” Her voice was so calm and nice. I had to admit she was one of the nicest teachers I had ever had. I couldn’t help wondering how old she was.

“Yes, ma’am. Did I do something wrong?” I asked, wishing I were halfway to my house by now.

“Now, Ryan, you know you’re one of the best students I have. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“About what?” I swear the moment seemed to be frozen dead in its tracks.

“I wanted to talk about the short story you turned in for the final assignment. I’ve shown it to several other teachers in this school, and we’re all beside ourselves that someone not even a teenager could write something this good. I wanted to tell you how proud I am to have you in this class. I’ve graded this test and would like you to enter this short story into a contest this summer. Would you be OK with that? But I must ask a question about this story.”

“What about it?” I asked, wishing I were on my bike along the road back to my house. I really didn’t hear all she’d just said to me.

“There is no need to take that sort of tone with me, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Did you write all of this?” she asked while tapping her finger on the desk. I could see she was tapping on the two-page story I had turned in.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Remind me again, how long have you been writing stories?”

“Since I was about five years old – almost a decade.”

“Do you realize what year this is?”

“Yes, ma’am; it’s 1977.”

“You see, I’ve read this short story at least a dozen times, and I’ll tell you, I am in awe of the purity of it. Are you sure you didn’t get an adult to write this?”

“No, ma’am; I wrote every word of it.”

“What about the contest? Would you like me to enter this story in it?”

“Sure.”

I looked at the grade as she handed me the paper. I made an A plus. That was cool. I said thank you as I handed it back to her. I would see her later in the summer since she lived right down the street from our house. She said to stop by her house in a couple of days, and she would give me the information on the contest.

“So what are you doing for the summer?” Mrs Phillips asked.

“I turn thirteen next Friday.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you. My older cousin, Kyle, is coming into town. I get to spend the entire summer with him.”

“Well, do tell. That should be a great summer for you. I hope that you will write about it.”

“Yes, ma’am, every single word. I hope you have a great summer.”

“Thanks.”

I found myself almost floating to the door. I had to get out. I had to make a run for it, to get away from school and get into my own imagination.

I walked to the door, and it took all my energy just to walk the twelve feet from her desk to the door.

“I’ve got to ask: Where did you get the information to write this short story?” she asked, smiling.

“It was nothing more than a dream that’s been in my head for the past six weeks,” I replied, pushing the door open.

I left my teacher sitting there, looking at me as if I had just told the biggest lie on this side of the Mississippi River. And as I left the class and the school behind me, peddling like mad to get home, I knew it would be a matter of moments, hours, or possibly days before she talked to my parents about entering the story into the summer contest. She’d have to talk to them to get their approval. It would do nothing but freak my mother out. How dare I have such dreams! Such nightmares! But I was a teenager, or at least I would be in several days; my dreams had evolved into much more than what they used to be.

I was counting down the days until my thirteenth birthday, which was now only six days away. I couldn’t wait.

I laughed, thinking about my sisters doing all the farm work this summer.

Life wasn’t all bad. I had three best friends, good parents, the best dog in the world, and three crazy, bratty sisters.

The girls were allowed to sleep late, but not me. I was the one to help Dad out on our small farm.

Dad and I were always up before the sun rose.

I had to gather eggs, feed the pigs and the three horses, and milk the three cows that always seemed to hang out down by the pond where I usually swam in the afternoons.

The cows walked quickly away from me when they saw me lugging the little red wagon with the milk pails and a little stool. I pulled that little red wagon all over the place many times looking for those unruly cows. It took me more than an hour just to catch up with the cows, slip a rope around their necks and tie them to a tree just to milk them. I got the feeling they were laughing at me some days.

I overheard my parents talking one evening. OK, maybe I was eavesdropping. It was at times the only way to get firsthand knowledge for some of my stories. My two older sisters were in the back room screaming at each other over what dress Tammy should wear. They’d be at it for hours, or until Mom called us to dinner.

My oldest cousin, Kyle, was down visiting. He had gotten two weeks off from college in Baton Rouge. He considers my parents more like his brother and sister. I never heard him call either of them aunt or uncle. He always called them by their first names.

I liked Kyle. He was like the older brother I’d never had. I liked that he talked to me as if I were an adult.

He looked like a rich city man with his newly styled haircut and his uptown clothes. He was as tall as my dad and had blond hair and blue eyes and a laugh that made you feel good to be around him.

The gift I loved the most was the small rat terrier bluetick hound dog he’d given me for my ninth birthday. I’d named him Butch. He was my best friend. He’d usually follow me everywhere, except to school and into the pond. He despised water.

Excerpted with permission from Lord of the Swamp: The Search for Gold, Calvin Ray Davis, Archway Publishing/Simon and Schuster.