Midnight

Midnight Part 1

"I am going to Todd's," I say.

"Stay away from the bank," my dad says.

"Yeah, yeah." I push the door along the trim so I do not break the glass. Last winter, he hit me with a horse crop for letting the door slam. The January cold blows in my face as I climb over the large snow pile that rests in front of the door. I prance across the street to Roy and Mary Stewart's house. Todd's grandmother answers the door and invites me into the kitchen.

"What are you baking?" I ask.

"Would you like some?"

"Do you even need to ask?" I reply with a smile. As I eat the cookies, Mary tells me about another memory of my mom. I heed to her every word, gesture, and pause so I can remember it later. It warms my heart to hear her talk about my mom in such a loving, caring manner.

I visit the Stewarts even when Todd is not visiting. It is my home away from home. They have been helping me with my aching heart. This might be the reason why I have not seen Todd in quite a while.

I scour for Midnight. She has been a loyal companion since my mom died. Me and Midnight play on the bank all the time. She is familiar with the area, but I am not. Midnight disappeared a week ago. My dad suspects she was killed by a car. I will not believe it until I see it with my own eyes.

Snow makes it difficult but not impossible to follow animal footprints. I wander through a maze of maple trees for about a hundred yards. A thin blanket of snow covers a stick at my feet. I hit a branch with it and the snow crumples at my feet. I tap my boots like Jim Rice and get into my best baseball stance and swing.

The snow tumbles on my head and It slides off my neck. The stick falls from my grip. A chill speeds along my spine. It is worse than a brain freeze from eating Rocky Road during the summer. I hate the winter with a passion.

Well... that's not completely true. I despise bees with a passion. During the winter, the stupid yellow jackets sleep. In school, they call it hibernating. Whatever name you use, it is sleeping.

One time when me and Todd went exploring, he stepped on a yellow jacket nest. The bees swarmed around my head. I ran home screaming and waving my arms. Those darn yellow jackets stung me 23 times and Todd did not even get stung once. He stood there laughing while I ran home waving my arms like a lunatic trying to escape from the nuthouse.

The next day, I punched him in the nose and refused to talk to him for a week.

"Midnight" I yell. I listen and wait. Nothing. Running water echoes from the bottom of the bank. I weave in and out of the maple trees. A set of fresh rabbit tracks lead me deeper and deeper into the tree line. I stop. Each bush and landmark looks the same.

What would Davy Crockett do? He is my favorite frontiersman. Todd likes Daniel Boone. It is too bad Davy Crockett died at the Alamo. I grab a branch and shovel the snow. The thump of solid ground vibrates through my hands.

"What the hell, man." My homemade tool splits. I chip the dirt away from an exposed rock. My numb fingers pry the rock out of the dirt. It is not as sharp as I want, but it will have to do. Every so often, I scratch an arrow pointing up on a tree.

The Midday sun peers through the treetops. I squint. I walk into a tree and fall on my butt. A high pitch yelp followed by a low growl. That does not sound friendly. What did I blindside?

A St. Bernard hovers over me, baring its teeth. He drools as if I am lunch. His jaws inch closer and closer. I creep to my feet and sprint towards the edge of the bank. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.