The summer I was thirteen, and Sandy was fourteen, I began to realize she wasn't one of the boys. Sandy was the neighborhood tomboy. She climbed trees, played baseball and, in general, ran with the guys. Wearing a dress was OK for Sundays, but for the most part, it was shirts and jeans.

Late in the summer, it seemed as if I was the only guy left in our block. Most of my pals were away on trips.

Some to the mountains, at the lake for a few weeks, or, like Robert, spending the summer at his Uncle Wally's farm.

The last week in July, I had orders to mow the lawn. As usual, I found more fun things to do and put off the chore. A painful threat in the form of an ultimatum was issued--cut the grass, or lose my bike for the rest of the summer.

There wasn't any choice. I followed the clattering beast around the lawn until it was finished.

As I sat on the top porch step and whittled on a weeping willow stick, Sandy cut across the yard and sat on the bottom step.

"You did a fine job with the lawn, Tom."

"Yeah, I hope Dad thinks so. At least it's done."

Sandy plucked a grass stem and chewed on it while scuffing her worn sneaker on the concrete walk. She seemed to have something on her mind. Finally she looked up at me.

"Everyone else is gone. Do you want to go fishing this afternoon?"

"Sounds OK, I guess." I shrugged.

"Such enthusiasm. Oh, well, it was just an idea."

I looked down at her and was surprised to see the hurt and disappointment in her eyes. "Hey, Sandy. I really want to go."

"You shouldn't feel you �have to, but I heard old man Showalter caught a seventeen-pound flathead right below the bend yesterday, and I stayed up half the night catching dew worms. Mom says I can't go alone. You know how mothers are."

"You make sandwiches, and I'll bring some Coke. I'll be over in a few minutes." I folded my jackknife, and brushed willow shavings off.

"Will your bike make the trip okay?" she jumped up and ran for home.

I had to admit it wasn't much of a bike. It was a hand-me-down from two older brothers, but it beat walking. I was the youngest in the family. Mom always called me her surprise baby.

After watching Sandy head across the street, I went inside and let the screen door slap behind me. Mom watched a soap opera on TV and smoked a cigarette.

"Hey, Mom? I'm going fishing. Do we have any Coke?"

"Look in the fridge, Tommy, and don't slam the screen door. Did you finish the lawn?"

I looked in the fridge and found some Coke. I took two of the cans and went out the back door, careful not to slam it.

I picked up my fishing pole from the back porch and my bike from where it lay. Sandy lived across the street and two houses down. I wheeled my bike over, knowing Sandy had a basket on her bike. She wasn't out when I got there, so I laid down my bike and stepped onto the porch.

"Hi, Tommy." Sandy's mom smiled at me through the screen. "You'll see that Sandy stays out of the river, won't you? She's not careful. That's why her father, rest his soul, died at a young age, and she's just like him. It's a chore raising a daughter without a father." She sighed.

"Sure, Mrs. Richmond, I will." That was a lie. If Sandy decided to go swimming, a Farmall tractor wouldn't keep her back.

"Sandy, Tommy's here!" she called.

"I'm making sandwiches," Sandy called back. "Meet me by the garage, Tommy."