Camouflage by Gloria Miklowitz Page B

army, firing in all kinds of different positions—prone, kneeling, and standing. Even now his blood raced just remembering.
    And the praise! At first he’d thought they were saying it just because he was Ed Klinger’s son. But then he realized they meant it. “Good eye, boy!” “Nice score!” “Chip off the old block!” and lots more. The best praise had come from his father. Not in words, but in the satisfied grin, the look of pride, and the light touch on the shoulder.
    Kyle stretched, groaned at his sore muscles, and rolled cautiously out of bed. He whistled as he showered. All yesterday’s worries seemed overblown. Whatever his dad did, he decided, would be all right with him. After all, Dad wasn’t a criminal! How had he ever considered turning him in?
    He rushed through his chores—sweeping up the spent shells behind the barn, cleaning Blackie’s stall and getting his feed, putting kibble and water out for Prince. And then he fixed three sandwiches, in case Verity and her sister didn’t bring lunch, added cookies, drinks, and fruit, and stuffed it all into his day pack.
    Ready! Ready to find Verity and bring home a string of trout for dinner!

    Kyle pedaled hard, a feeling of happy anticipation driving his legs. Strange that he wanted so much to see Verity, wanted so much for her to think well of him. At home he’d never paired off with any particular girl. Mostly he’d gone in guy groups to the mall, where they hung around with girl groups. He didn’t know why he felt this way about Verity, especially when he knew what he could have from Marta. Out of breath from excitement, he stowed his bike under the bridge, grabbed his pole, and hurried downstream.
    â€œHi!” he called before Verity saw him, so he wouldn’t scare her like he had the last time. She was bent over, threading bait on a hook. Her head shot up and a broad, welcoming smile lit her face. “Hi!”
    Charlene rushed at him. “Look, Kyle!” She held out a hand. A worm crawled up her palm to her wrist, and she nudged it back with a finger.
    â€œHey, neat!” Kyle said, dropping his pack.
    â€œWe got lots more. Come see!” Charley ran down the slope and hurried back with a coffee can full of worms. “See? Verity grows them! She’s got zillions!”
    â€œOh, Charley!” Verity chided as Kyle reached her side. “I don’t have
zillions.
She loves to exaggerate.” Verity raised her pole and artfully cast the line toward a dark pool across the stream.
    â€œI brought a fishing pole,” Kyle said, holding out the dusty pole he’d found in the barn. “Can you show me how to fix it?”
    â€œSure, give it here and hold my pole. If you feel a little tug, don’t pull in the line until you’re sure he’s hooked.”
    He divided his attention between the spot where Verity’s line disappeared into the water and Verity, as she added a sinker, a bobber, and a hook to his line. Finally she dug into the bait can and pulled out a fat worm. “You want to cover the hook like this,” she said, “but leave just enough worm dangling so it looks appetizing to the fish. Then . . .” She paused, smiled warmly at him, and added, “Cast it into that pool, and maybe you’ll catch a fish and maybe you won’t. Here.” She held his pole out and reached for her own.
    For a long time, while Charlene played nearby, Kyle and Verity stood side by side, not speaking. A gentle, sweet-smelling breeze stirred the bushes. Now and then a frog slid off the bank into the stream. Kyle stared unblinking at the red bobber floating on the light-flecked water. If it dipped, it meant he’d snagged a fish. Nothing else seemed to matter except that bobber, not even Verity’s presence beside him. “I’ve got one!” he whispered, after a time, stopping an urge to jump up and down. A trout leaped