We swam and splashed about for maybe an hour, then sat on a rock with our legs dangling in the water.

Some of the time, it’s as easy to read white people as it is to read the forest floor.

Red wanted to ask me something but didn’t know how. That meant it had something to do with my skin colour or my hair or some other difference between us. I was surprised since he was friends with the Holmely boy. Most often, white people act like this only if you’re the first black person they’ve met.

I let him wiggle uncomfortably for a bit, then said, “So what is it you want to ask me?”

He stopped swishing his legs in the water.

“What? I didn’t want to ask anything.”

I waited a second and said, “Except …”

He looked at me, hesitated, and finally said, “Well, I was sort of wondering if you’d been injured in some type of explosion?”

“What?”

“I hope you don’t take offense, but when you pulled off your shirt, I noticed how your arms and face are so much darker than the rest of you. The only time I’ve seen anything like that was when Miles Dennis was blasted by a fireball at the smithy and his arms and face, anything that wasn’t covered by his clothes, remained much darker than the rest of him ever since. I thought maybe you’d had the same misfortune.”

Some of the time, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was going to come up with a tall tale but then stopped. I supposed it was an honest question.

“No, Red. I haven’t been in an explosion. I spend a lot of time working and playing outdoors. Just like white people, our skin gets darker the more it’s in the sun.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

I rolled my eyes and said, “OK, since we’re asking stupid questions, it’s my turn.”

“Go ahead, but Father says there’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

“He was being kind to you, probably because you ask a lot of them. What I want to know is are your mother and father such … well, such big redheads like you?”

“No. Father says his hair used to be dark brown and Mother was quite blond.”

The word was really stuck out. But now wasn’t the time to ask.

Red sounded sad. “I guess it’s just genetics that I turned out this way.”

There was a long silence before I tried to move the conversation on to something else.

“So what on earth made you want to be a scientist?”

It worked. He got some starch back in his sails. He gave me a pitying look and said, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Father was just being kind. That really is a stupid question. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be a scientist?”

“Well, I’d say half of the people at this swimming hole, for a start.”

My words caused a flood to pour out of the redhead boy. He started talking about science the same way Stubby and Patience talk about carpentry, probably the same way I sound when I talk about newspapers. Or the woods.

He said, “Can you honestly tell me any other vocation or even avocation that gives one an infinite number of mysteries to wonder about? You say the forest is your classroom and you can read it; have you thought about why it’s so predictable that you can make an accurate guess as to what each thing means? You’re studying and reading patterns. That’s what scientists do. If I were given time and a bit of forest in which to conduct experiments, I would eventually be able to read the forest as well as you do. It may take many years, but I could do it. Science gives one that power.”

I didn’t say anything because he sounded like he was talking about religion or something, but truth told, there’s a lot more to knowing and loving the woods than that.

*  *  *

“So what’s the headline going to be for today?” Red asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’m debating between two.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The first one says ‘Sympathetic Ace Newspaperman Pities Doltish Chatham Boy and Befriends Him.’ ”

He said, “How kind of you. What does the second one say?”

“ ‘Best Swimming Hole in the North Woods Mysteriously Evaporates When Red-Hot Chatham Boy Dives into It! Many Fish Left in Great Distress.’ ”

Red said, “How about this for a third choice? ‘Lonely Buxton Boy Found Drowned in Pond Filled with His Own Sarcasm and Hubris.’ ”

We laughed. He talked too much like a grown-up. I had no idea what hubris meant, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment.

I didn’t say anything, but the more we talked, the more I knew what the day’s headline would really be:

UNUSUAL FRIENDSHIP BLOSSOMS BETWEEN STRAPPING BUXTON NEWSPAPERMAN AND CARDINAL/BEET ABOMINATION.