Happy 4th. Please enjoy this excerpt …

Here’s an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, “The Sumer of Falling Stars.”

Chapter 29

Wednesday, July 4, 1979

I wake up to “Pop! Boom! Bang!” It’s the Fourth of July! Sounds like the guys are already setting off firecrackers. I get dressed and run out to meet them.

“Hey, Riley!” Ronny shouts. He holds a Black Cat in his hand and puts a punk to its fuse. It lights, and he tosses it in my direction.

I jump, turn, and put a hand over my nads as it goes off.

“Asshole!” I exclaim.

“Haha!” he says. “Grab yourself some. We have a whole sackful over there.”

I walk to the lawn chair that he’s pointing to. A paper sack is full of firecrackers and cherry bombs. Some bottle rockets stick out of the heap. I grab a handful and shove them into my pocket.

“Where are the punks?” I ask Ronny.

“They were rolling off the chair,” he says. “Look under the sack.”

I find one.

“Come here with your lighter, you punk!” I call to Ronny.

“Here you go, you punk-ass bitch,” he says back.

For about an hour, we toss firecrackers at each other. We also look for things we can blow up, like a plastic flowerpot and an old Tonka truck. That truck—man, it’s tough—didn’t even leave the ground. Soon, Donny joins us, and then Jonathan. I keep looking over at Kendall’s house, wondering where he is. I am missing him a lot.

In the midst of our firecracker war, Jonathan yells, “Tree’s on fire!”

We look, and sure enough, the hollow tree in Ronny and Donny’s yard is glowing a fiery red inside. As we watch, a supposed dud suddenly goes off within it.

“Get a hose!” Jonathan yells.

Donny runs to their house and drags a hose toward the tree.

“It’s not long enough!” he yells. He only makes it to about 10 feet from the tree. He puts a thumb on the nozzle and sprays the water toward the tree. I run to my garage and find a bucket. I turn on our garden faucet and fill it up. I run back across the street and pour the water into the hollow. Soon, the fire goes out.

“Whew,” Ronny says. “That was close!”

“Yeah,” I reply. “It could have burned the whole tree and gotten to your house.”

“What are you boys doing?” Dad calls from the front door.

“Nothing,” we all yell.

“Uh-huh. Well, come on, Riley, we need to get downtown to the parade,” Dad says.

“Bye, guys,” I say. “If I see you, I’ll toss you some candy!”

Dad and I arrive at the newspaper office, and in the parking lot, there is a parade float that looks like a giant paper airplane. It is about as high as a house, and its point aims for the sky. The wings, made out of sheets of drywall, are about 10 feet wide at the tail end. Old newspapers have been pasted to the wings. The contraption was constructed around a conveyor belt that farmers use to haul hay, so there is a 2-foot platform within the plane’s fold where people—namely me, Dad, and two other newspaper employees—can stand.

“We’re going to get up in that?” I ask.

“Yep!” Dad says. “We’ll stand in it and toss candy along the route.”

“O-okay!” I say.

The parade begins with the high school ROTC honor guard carrying the flag, followed by the marching band. Then, cars carrying politicians come next. They wave to the voters. Several companies have decorated their trucks with red, white, and blue paper ribbons. The roller rink has a good float, with some girls skating around a flat surface. Some of them keep falling down, but they laugh, pick themselves up, and keep going. A church has a huge cross on its float, and instead of candy, its members are handing out little booklets containing scriptures about sin and fornication. Our paper airplane is, in my opinion, the best float in the parade.

Little kids—and some older people—line the street holding up their bags and yelling for candy. Whenever I see someone I know, I wave and toss a few treats their way. Sure enough, I spot Ronny, Donny, and Jonathan. I heave a big handful of Jolly Ranchers at them. Kendall’s not there with them, though. …

We make our way down Main Street, laughing and enjoying ourselves. After all the tough days that Dad and I have faced, this feels good. We smile at each other.

“Having fun?” he yells over the crowd and band noise.

“Yes!” I shout back.

Suddenly, the truck towing the float ahead of us slams on its brakes. I lean out to see what’s happening. I see Herk rushing in front of the truck. He scoops a little boy into his arms. The braking truck nudges the giant man, but Herk has turned his back to the truck, allowing it to strike him while keeping the boy safe. The driver of the truck pulling our float hits the brakes, and we jerk to a stop.

I slip and lose my footing. I tumble over the airplane’s wing. I manage to grab the edge of the wing to hang on, or else I would be plummeting to the pavement below. The bag holding my candy hits the street, and little kids swarm below me, scooping up the scattered treasure. Dad grabs my arms and hoists me up.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah!” I say. “Wow!”

He hugs me tightly, as if he will never let me go. When he loosens his grip, he looks directly at me. I can see the worry in his eyes. He looks like he’s about to cry. He must be going through hell these days. This is the last thing that needed to happen.

“Dad, Dad,” I say, patting his back. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Your mother would kill me if anything happened to you,” he says, hugging me again.

“Yeah, she would,” I say. “But I’m fine, Dad.”

Tonight, Dad and I spread a blanket on the 50-yard line of the high school football field. A couple hundred other people are gathered there, too. The field is the best place in town to watch the fireworks show. The school sits high above the river, where the experts will set them off from a pontoon boat.

“This year’s fireworks are supposed to be the best they’ve ever had,” Dad says.

“Welp, let’s wait and see!” I reply.

We sprawl out, our elbows propping us up. We do a lot of people-watching—pointing out and laughing about some of the more colorful members of our community. Lots of red, white, and blue clothing, including stars-and-stripes halter tops and bikini bottoms—worn by both men and women. We don’t say much to each other. Amazingly, no one needs to talk to the editor tonight. No one approaches him to discuss some issue. I’m glad. Dad and I need this time together, just the two of us hanging out. I wish Mama were here, though.

“Mama likes the fireworks show,” I say.

“Yes, she does,” Dad says.

“When do you think she’ll get to come home?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Monday or Tuesday, maybe.”

“I hope she feels better,” I say.

“Me too, kiddo, me too,” he answers.

We continue to look around at the crowd. Then, I feel the need to “go.”

“Gotta pee,” I say, as I jump up.

“Okay,” Dad says. “Hurry up, though, the show’s starting soon.”

I walk to the edge of the field where some porta-potties have been set up. Most of them show the red “Occupied” bar on the door, but I find one green “Vacant” one. I step in, and—Whew! What a stench. I thought the latrine at camp smelled bad, but this is ridiculous! I slide the front of my shorts down and let ‘er rip. Ahhhh! I’ve been drinking a lot of root beer today, so this feels good. As the stream fades into a trickle, I shake it off. I chuckle when I remember Doug’s admonition: more than three shakes means you’re jerking it. I exit and head back to our blanket.

“Riley!” I hear.

I turn and see Paige waving at me. She is sitting with her mom and dad, and her little brother and sister. Melody isn’t there. I walk over to her.

“Daddy, this is Riley, the boy at the parade,” she says.

“Hello, Riley. How are you?” a big, round man with a full beard asks.

“Fine, sir,” I say as I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Whitson.”

Dad taught me well about being polite in public. Always repeat their name, he said. It impresses them and makes it easier to remember later.

“Riley, we saw what happened when you fell off that float,” Paige says. “That was so funny!”

“Um, yeah, it was hilarious,” I say.

“Lucky for you that you didn’t drop to the pavement and bust your skull,” Mr. Whitson says.

“Lucky? Yeah, I sure was,” I answer. “Good thing my dad grabbed me. I don’t know how much longer I could have held on.”

“That damned bum just had to run into the street,” he says.

“Oh, Herk?” I say. “Well, I think he saved that little boy who ran into the street.”

“Oh yeah?” he says. “I didn’t see that. You going over the edge got all of our attention.”

He lets loose a hearty laugh.

“Well, I’m glad I put on an entertaining show for you,” I say. “I, uh, gotta get back to my dad. Bye.”

“Bye, Riley,” Paige calls.

Well, that was … something. Paige thought my near-death experience was funny. She didn’t seem too sympathetic. She didn’t seem too worried about me. I do want to go on rides with her, get cotton candy and corn dogs with her, and tour the livestock pavilions with her … but her attitude kind of bothers me. As I frown and pinch my bottom lip, I hear:

“Hey, Mopey McDope. What’s going on with you?”

I turn, and it’s Kendall! He walks up and stands in front of me. He’s eating an apple.

I smile. He smiles back. My heart leaps up. I can’t stop smiling and looking at him right in the eyes. We both stand there, staring at each other.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask him, slapping his chest with the back of my hand.

“Oh, here and there,” he says. “I’m ... sorry that I haven’t seen you for a few days.”

“A few days? More like two whole weeks!” I say. “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, I’ve been busy. Working on something that is gonna knock your socks off,” he says.

He munches his apple.

“I missed you, Wile E. Coyote,” he says.

“I missed you, too, Ken-doll,” I say.

We smile at each other.

“I saw you at the parade,” he says. “Seeing you fall out of that airplane scared the shit out of me.”

“Me, too!” I say.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you had splattered your brains on the street,” he says.

“Well, now I can honestly tell people that I fell out of a plane and lived,” I say, laughing.

“Yeah, and I’ll back you up,” he says. “I witnessed the whole thing!”

“Ha-ha.”

We look at each other, not sure what to say next.

“Kendall, I’m sorry for everything,” I say. “I’m sorry for saying those things about Melody, and I’m sorry for calling you a dope. With everything that’s been going on, I wanted to talk to you so bad—I needed to talk to you ...”

“What’s been going on?” he asks.

“Mama’s at the Hill …” I say.

“Oh, no!” he says.

I start spilling my guts, letting loose with everything that has happened. I tell him about Herk saving me from choking, and about what he said to tell Mama. I tell him how she reacted, and how I wonder if what I told her was the reason she had to go to the hospital. I tell him about Aunt Eva throwing out Mama’s treasures and how she slapped me across the side of my head.

“Damn!” he shouts. “That bitch!”

He throws his apple. It hits the wall of the stadium and splatters. Then, he turns to me, and calmly and softly, he says, “I’m sorry. You must feel awful. Is there anything I can do?”

I look up at him. There he is, my best friend. He’s the best best friend anyone ever had. I gaze into his eyes. I can’t tell him how I feel about him. I don’t want him to knock my block off. But all of the feelings I’ve been having about him suddenly come to the front of my brain. Everything I’ve been going through begins to overwhelm me. My eyes start to water. He just stands silently, looking at me. I wipe my eyes.

“You must think I’m a big wuss,” I say.

“No, Riley, I don’t,” he says.

He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tightly into one of his patented hugs.

“I don’t,” he says, as he puts a hand on the back of my head. I lean into his shoulder. I start crying.

He holds me like that for a long time, and the fireworks start to go off above us.