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CHAPTER ONE
ROMAN
1983
There!
I leap forward, my feet slicing through the cold water of the lake. My toes melt into the grainy sand, and I curl them, feeling the roughness scrape against the soles of my feet. The small, green, plastic pail swings in my hands and knocks against my knees. The thump echoes on the quiet beach, startling the school of tadpoles swimming around my ankles.
“Ugh!” I grunt, slapping the water with the palm of my hand. The water splashes up and hits my stomach. “Stupid tadpoles.” I sit back against the chipped dock, the backs of my legs warming from the heated wood. My toes kick in the water, barely breaking through the surface. The tadpoles have scattered, long gone and leaving me only with the clear blue waters of Shallow Lake.
I tilt my head up, pushing my damp brown hair from my eyes as I look at the sun. It feels hotter down at the beach, like the sun and water decided to make it almost impossible to sit here on the sand without dipping into the water.
But that’s a Wisconsin summer for you.
I watch the neighbor’s pontoon glide through the water, and Mr. Sorenson waves to me with his free hand, his other gripping the steering wheel. His tan fisherman’s hat creates a shadow over his eyes.
Once he’s out of sight around the bend, I watch the water ripple all the way to the shore, the small waves rocking the dock back and forth.
I’m bored.
My friends, Clyde, Flynn, and Lonnie are all on summer vacation. Usually, I’d be with them. We like to go to the park down the road, Tip Town. It’s over on the other side of the lake and our parents let us stay there all day until the streetlights turn on. With them gone, I’ve got nothing to do.
I look over my shoulder at my house. The big white cabin-styled home with a two-story wrap-around porch on the second level. It’s one of the biggest cabins on the lake.
A lot of people around here only stay here during the summer months, but we’re one of the few families that stay here year-round.
My dad, he’s the lead singer of The Ripsons. They’re one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now. My dad has toured with Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and AC/DC. He’s touring with them now, actually, leaving my mom here by herself to watch me and my baby sister.
Momma and I have gone with him on tour before, but she always tells my dad that a tour bus is no place for a kid. I don’t mind it. It’s kind of fun, actually. But Momma seems to think I’m too young for whatever happens on the road.
I like the music my dad plays. I love going to his concerts and letting the drums pound against my stomach. It’s so loud sometimes that it really feels like they’re playinginsideme. My ears always ring after a concert, and I have to shout afterward so I can hear my own voice.
My dad, he always looks so famous standing on the stage. I watch as everyone reaches for him, like he’s the President of the United States. It’s funny to think that’s the same dad who tucks me in at night and who lets me climb on his back when we swim in the water.
He even lets me pretend to play on his spare drum set in the basement. I’d like to play the guitar like my dad, but my fingers aren’t big enough to pull on the chords to play a tune.
Someday, I’ll be a rock star just like he is.
I watch the tadpoles come back. The water is still again, no ripples in the current besides my toes trailing along the surface. I dip my foot under the water, and they swim curiously around my ankle. One of them brushes against my skin.
I wipe my forehead with a smile.
The humidity is making my hair stick to my skin, and I want to slip into the water with the tadpoles to have a swim. They’d flee the moment I entered the water, though.
I’m so bored.
“Roman!” I glance up the hill, seeing my mom calling for me from the deck. She places her pointer finger along the line of her eyebrows, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “Roman! Meet me up front, please.” She turns around and walks back inside. Her long brown hair hangs in a curly ponytail at the back of her head and swishes with every step she takes.
Her jean shorts are frayed with her striped shirt tucked beneath the waistband. She’s much like my dad in the rock style department, although hers is watered down. She tries to be a good mother to me, but I can tell when she gets nervous, biting her nails on the nights my dad has a show. She wants to be with him, but I’m getting too old to be on the road all the time, so she needs to stay home with me.
Isn’t that funny? I’m too young to be on the road, and I’m also too old to be on the road.
Life is funny.
My dad is much more rock, with the bell-bottom ripped jeans, the leather jackets, his long brown hair, and his metal chains. He’s a rock legend, even here in our little town of Shallow Lake, Wisconsin.
I pull my feet out of the lukewarm water, making wet footprints as I stand on the dock. I walk across the beach, which is only a few feet of dried sand before it turns to grass. I do a small jump, slapping my hand on the clothesline that hangs from one side of the yard to the other. Walking up the hill, I go around the side of the house and to the front yard. Across the street is a corn field—nothing but corn for as far as I can see from all the way to the top of the hill and over the other side. Sometimes I wonder what’s on the other side of that hill, but another part of me doesn’t want to know. A small part of me likes the mystery.
