1

Again, he glanced over his shoulder at the yellow and white dock his grandfather maintained with precision. Some docks on the lake had faded paint or missing slats, but not his grandpa’s dock. His dock was pristine, year after year.

Greg twisted back around and looked at the far shore over the bow of his red kayak. He couldn’t tell for sure—he wasn’t good with distance—but he thought he was halfway. He glanced down at the pocket of his bathing suit, where the five-dollar bill lay nestled inside a Ziploc bag.

“What do I do?” he asked no one.

As if in answer, a cold wind gusted at him from behind, and he shivered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone swimming in Florida and had gotten cold. It was hard to understand why people would want to have a lake house in a state where you could only swim two-and-a-half months out of the year—and freeze while you did it part of that short time—but there was no figuring out adults.

If he were still in Florida, that same cold wind would mean that the coming thunderstorm would be a bad one. But up on Genosgwa Lake, the same cold wind might mean nothing at all.

The five-dollar bill seemed heavy, hot.

It’s now or never, kiddo. If you don’t go, your daddy will make you give it back, and if you have to give it back, no candy.

“Yeah, but…those clouds look like they mean business,” he muttered. The kids back home would make fun of him for talking to himself, but it was just something he did. His mom called the voice his invisible friend. Greg didn’t know about that, he seemed real—even if Greg hadn’t ever learned his name.

Do you want the candy or not?

“Of course I want the candy! Don’t be an idiot.”

Do it, Greg. Do it, do it, do it.

“But what about the storm?”

Good grief, kid. I’m telling you if you don’t go now, no candy. I’ll ask you once more: do you want the candy or not?

His imaginary friend seemed…different somehow since they’d arrived in New York. A little less understanding, a little more insistent. A little meaner. Why is that? he wondered.

He shifted his position and dipped the paddle into the water but withdrew it without taking a stroke. “I don’t even know what types of candy they have.” That sounded whiny, even to his own ears.

Come on, Greggy. Get it together. If you want candy, put that paddle in the water and get moving. Even if the storm comes, you’re halfway there already. How wet could you get?

“But it will be cold.”

Candy. Candy. Candy, candy, candy.

“Yeah, yeah. Candy.”

Look, boyo, if you turn back now, you will lose that five-dollar bill. You know it, I know it. Your mom and dad will never let you buy five dollars’ worth of candy, even if they let you keep the bill—which they won’t. Your dad will say five dollars is too much for a boy of eleven and make you give it back to your grandpa.

“I know. Trust me, I know that all too well.” Greg scratched his ear. He didn’t like his friend’s new habit of calling him things such as “boyo” or “sport” either.

So what are you waiting for? Why are you sitting here talking to me?

With a shrug, Greg dug at the water with the kayak’s paddle. He dug hard, making long strokes through the water, leaning back as he pulled. The kayak skimmed across the surface of the water like a sleek torpedo running at the surface.

He made it a game, pretending he was racing in the Olympics, and he was out front in the gold-medal race. Greg could almost hear the crowd cheering.

He kept his eyes on the far shore, which grew nearer and nearer with each pull of his arms. He wasn’t looking at the convenience store, he was looking at the line where the shore turned into someone’s lawn. That was his finish line.

The only problem was, Greg was a horrible judge of distance, and when the rain fell, he had just reached the actual center of the lake. Fat, cold raindrops slapped and splattered all over his body and made the temperature out on the lake feel colder in an instant.

Greg stopped paddling and peered over his shoulder at his grandparents’ lake house. The yellow and white building stood out as if bathed with Batman’s spotlight—as if it were the only safe place left in the world. Despite not paddling, the kayak continued to glide through the choppy water, carrying him farther and farther away from warmth and his grandmother’s cookies. Cookies aren’t candy, but they’re almost as good.

Greg glanced in the direction he was traveling, sure he must be almost there, but he wasn’t. It appeared each shore was the same distance away, and the rain seemed colder, wetter.

“Great idea,” he muttered. “Try to race the storm to get candy. Well, tell me something, smarty-pants. How much candy can I enjoy if I’m at the bottom of this lake?”

Aw, is little Greggy scared? Does the storm terrify you?

“Shut up! Why do I ever listen to you? You think you’re so smart, but you’re not. You’re dumb.”

Yes, I’m the dumb one… So, besides calling me names, what are you going to do, sport?

Greg rested the kayak’s paddle across his lap and lifted his shoulders. Again, he glanced over his shoulder at the yellow and white lake house, and again, he pivoted his head back toward the other shore.

Is looking back and forth helping? Because I can stop making suggestions here… You know, because I’m dumb.

Greg dithered, unsure of which direction to go. He was tired of talking to his invisible, nameless friend, but when it came right down to it, who else was he going to ask for help? The lake?

With a shake of his head, Greg sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I called you dumb. Now, will you tell me which way to go?”

You remember why you listen to me? It’s okay for me to make suggestions?

“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

Hmmm. Let’s see…should we start with you telling me how smart I am? It seems only fair and right since you felt justified in telling me how dumb I was.

“I know you’re smart, I was frustrated.”

Hmmm. I suppose that will have to do, but we must work on your ability to apologize.

“For an invisible friend, you sure do enjoy busting a guy’s balls.”

You know this from your extensive experience with other invisible friends?

Greg sighed. The wind at his back seemed to have dropped ten degrees in temperature, and the raindrops were falling harder. He thought the sting that came with the drops was ice falling with it. “Come on! It’s summer!” he shouted.

Was that directed at me?

“You know it wasn’t! Tell me what to do, I’m cold.”

Say please.

“Please!” Greg snapped.

Say pretty please.

Greg stuck his paddle in the water again but withdrew it without taking a stroke. “Pretty please,” he grated.

That’s better.

Greg suppressed a sigh. Of all the invisible friends in the world, I had to get one who’s a smartass.

You know I can hear your thoughts, right?

A sigh gusted out of Greg despite his best efforts.

Relax, Maddie McMadhead. You’re halfway across, you might as well go to the other side and get your candy because the same amount of rain will fall on you no matter which way you go.

“But—‍”

Just do it, Greg. Do it, do it, do it.

Greg dipped his paddle into the water and pulled for the far shore. The rain lashed at his back, so cold and coming so hard that it felt like hail. “At least this way, the wind is helping me, right?”

You’re not as dumb as you look, kiddo.

“If you’re my imaginary friend, why aren’t you nicer to me?”

Imaginary? Who said I was imaginary? I am invisible… I suppose that much is obvious even to someone of your determined lack of smarts.

“Imaginary, invisible. What’s the difference?”

From my point of view, the difference is enormous.

“Whatever. Why can’t you be nice? You were nicer back in Florida.”

You think I’m being mean? Kids these days… You’re so soft. We need to toughen you up, chump.

Greg shook his head but kept his mouth shut. He had to tilt his face down toward the front deck of the kayak because of the stinging rain. He no longer pretended at being in the Olympics, but he pulled just as hard.

Greg Canton hated the rain, and in his effort to minimize its impact, he never saw the slimy, greenish-gray hand rising from the water in front of him.