“In case you haven’t noticed, we have moved, and we are staying! Get used to it, and get over it!” Last night, my dad pinned me with a red-faced stare and shouted me into submission. I almost always got along with him just fine, but when he put his foot down, it made a loud thump. Then, there was no moving him. I heard “the thump” when he ran out of patience with my complaining.

          It surprised me when tears started rolling down my cheeks. At long last, it hit home. My fate was sealed – no more big time San Jose, California. I was stuck in little, backcountry Carbonado, Washington. To me, it was the end of the earth.

          “Naa-than,” my mom’s melodic, cheery voice drifted through the open glass slider to the deck where I sat on the first Saturday since starting school. “Beautiful, isn’t it.” I assumed her comment referred to the mountain. The early April sky held a few puffy clouds, and the massive hulk of Mount Rainier pulled at my gaze like a magnet. The snow was just beginning to melt, and the icy, ivory river of the Carbon Glacier flowed ever so slow down the mountain’s steep slopes toward the tiny town.

          “Yep, it sure is . . . the few days you can see it from here. Most of the time, it’s covered over with rain clouds . . . you know.” I couldn’t break out of my gloomy tone. My dad’s new job forced us to pull up stakes near the end of the school year.

          “Sorry about yesterday evening. You know, your dad hates to be hard on you, but you didn’t give him much choice.”

          “Yeah, I know, Mom. I guess I was just worrying about school and making friends.” I half lied, thinking of last night’s blowup.

          “I realize that – and your father does too – this is a bad time to move. But you’ll make new friends if you haven’t already.” Then her voice lightened. “All you have to do is run your hands through your wavy dark hair, beam that cute grin, and bat your baby brown eyes. The girls will be carrying your books to class in no time flat.” She chuckled under her breath and shook her head. “You never had any trouble at ho . . . in San Jose, I mean.” She knew she blew it when she messed up her comforting words. She stomped into the kitchen, muttering to herself. Then, I heard the refrigerator door open.

          For the first time in my life, I was the new kid. As a fourteen-year-old, I couldn’t imagine facing a more miserable life. Back home, popularity came easy. Here, in just a week of school, I could count my friends by holding up three fingers.

          Soaked in self-pity, with my chin cupped in one hand, I picked at splinters on the deck and stared at the mountain, realizing I’d better enjoy the view while I could. Today’s sunny skies weren’t normal.

          “Nathan!” Mom’s voice rang out. “Would you please walk over to Kelley’s? We need some bread, milk, and cold cuts.” She opened the slider wide and held out a five dollar bill.

          “Sure, Mom, what kind of lunchmeat?” Walking the six blocks to Kelley’s Corner Market would give me something to do and occupy my brain with other thoughts for a while.

          “Oh, pick out what you want. I haven’t had enough time to do a decent shopping for groceries yet. It’s been so crazy with moving here and your father starting his new job.”

          I walked inside and grabbed my long-sleeved brown flannel shirt that hung on the back of a kitchen chair. The air was getting nippy, and I slipped it on before I began my trek to the store.

          Letting the screen door slap shut behind me, my brain wrote a mental grocery list as I ambled along the ten minute route between our house and Kelley’s Corner Market. My steps fell into a steady rhythm, and a song ran through my head.

          Little boxes on the hillside,

          Little boxes made of ticky tacky,

          Little boxes on the hillside,

          Little boxes all the same.

          Dad hummed that song a lot where we used to live in the Bay Area. I hadn't heard it since we moved.

          When I reached the grocery, a heavy duty Schwinn bike with chrome fenders was parked in front, resting on its kickstand. A wire, mesh basket, fastened with clamps, hung from the handle bars, and a crude rack lay above the rear fender mounted with metal struts and baling wire. It looked ready for heavy hauling.

          As I opened the door and entered the small grocery, the tinkle of the bell overhead announced my presence. Right away, its unique odor engulfed me. Seasoned by time, Kelley’s store smelled old and musty, mixed with whiffs of bananas and other seasonal fruit from its small produce section. The stained, wood floorboards creaked like an aged rocking chair with each step.

          Like all “mom and pop” grocery stores, racks of canned fruits and vegetables, cereals, bread, packaged foods and other dry goods lined the aisles. Fresh vegetables, juices, dairy products, and meat lay in the two coolers bolted to the back wall.

          Mr. Kelley, stationed behind the counter, was helping an old man with a grizzled beard, bushy eyebrows, and wild, Einstein hair checkout his groceries. He was too busy to pay much mind to me.

          The old guy looked like he was making a serious food run. He stood by the register loading stuff like dried beans, rice, powdered milk, canned vegetables and fruit, and a big bag of jelly beans into a brown, canvas shopping bag.

          I grabbed a loaf of bread and headed for the dairy and lunchmeat case. There I noticed a skinny, pimply-faced kid with dark, slicked-back hair fishing a bottle of Squirt out of the cooler. Then, it sunk in. My God, it’s Reno Clark - the school jerk. He lifted his droopy eyelids in my direction, regarding me with passing interest, more intent on his bottle of soda. I grabbed a quart of milk and a package of bologna.

          Following him to the counter, I watched his lazy eyes stray toward the candy bar display. He took a well-rehearsed glance toward Mr. Kelley before settling his gaze on a row of Snicker’s bars.

          He leaned his head back over his shoulder and gave me a brief nod and a wink. His left hand meandered toward the box where it latched onto two candy bars. One slithered into the front pocket of his faded Levi's, and one plopped beside the bottle of soda on the counter. I could see Mr. Kelley was much too busy adding up the old guy’s purchases to notice.

          It didn’t surprise me that Reno would steal. But it shocked me that he’d be so brazen about it – trying to show off by stealing right in front of me. That pissed me off!  Since my dad managed a supermarket, he’d drummed into me the importance of honesty and how even a part time shoplifter could eat into profits. I didn’t condone stealing in any “way, shape, or form” – my father’s words.

          Reno had done nothing to endear himself to me. At school he acted like a King Kong-sized pain in the ass. I wasn’t afraid of him and didn’t care what he thought about me, so when he only tossed fifty-cents on the counter, I called him out. “Hey, Reno. Aren’t you going to pay for the other candy bar in your pocket?”

          When he heard my words, he jerked around, startled, with his face flushing crimson. “Wha'dya mean the other candy bar? I only got that one.” He waved a hand at the Snickers bar next to the bottle of Squirt. “You crazy or somthin’?”

          The old guy jammed the last of his weekly provisions into his bag. Then he twisted around to watch the commotion beside him. Mr. Kelley’s head swiveled our way, too.

          I kept my cool. “You’re the crazy one, Reno. I saw you stick a second candy bar in your pocket.”

          “You’re a liar, you stupid Californian,” he shouted and then turned toward the door.

          Mr. Kelley leaned across the counter. “Just a moment, Mr. Clark. If he’s a liar, you won’t mind emptying your pockets.”

          “I ain’t gonna empty my pockets for no one.” Then, he made for the door.

          But the old guy with the wild, stick up hair anticipated his move and stood with his back against the entrance.

          “Move outta the way,” Reno whined, his voice more shrill than normal.

          The old man just stood there and said, “I’ll move when you do what the owner of this here store says. Now, empty your pockets, boy.”

          Seeing no way out, Reno Clark leveled an enraged stare at me and pulled the other candy bar out of his pocket. “Oh, that kid must’ve stuck it in here.” He jabbed a finger at me.

          “Not too convincing, Reno Clark. You can’t steal very well, and it appears you can’t lie very well either. Get out of my store and don’t come back. You’ve worn out your welcome here.”

          Reno stomped through the doorway, going out of his way to brush against the old guy who’d blocked his way. Stopping outside the door, he slammed the bottom of his foot against the bike and knocked it over. It hit the pavement with a crunch. Then he took off, running down the street.

          Mr. Kelley flew out the door and yelled, “You little hoodlum, come back and apologize!” When the skinny thief kept on running, the proprietor turned to the old guy. “Ben, I’m sorry about your bike. I don’t know what’s got into kids these days.”

          “Oh, John, you don’t need to worry none about my transportation. It’s been through worse. And . . . I wouldn’t blame all kids. I reckon they ain’t changed all that much. That one over there just blew the whistle on a thief.” He looked at me with a big, even-toothed smile.

          My face heated up a little with the compliment.

          “Yes, Ben,” said Mr. Kelley, “I gotta agree.” Then he faced me. “Young man, thanks for your honesty. I’ve suspected young Mr. Clark of taking stuff for quite a while, but I never could come up with the proof -- till now . . . thanks to you.”

          “It wasn’t anything, really. That kid’s a jerk, and my dad runs a store, too.”

           A look of understanding lit up the proprietor’s face. “Ohhh, you must be the son of Dave Carr." I nodded. "Your father came in the other day to introduce himself. Yep, I guess you know what it’s like to be in the grocery business.” Mr. Kelley seemed impressed with my dad.

          Then, he turned back to the old guy. “Ben, this young man’s father is the new manager at the Buckley Thriftway. The family’s new in town.”

          “Well, now, welcome to Carbonado, young man.” He spoke in a resounding, gritty voice that seemed to fill up the store.

          “Thank you, Mr. . . .  Mr. . . .

          “Just call me Ben. Most folks don’t use my last name anyways. Your name is . . .?”

          “I'm Nathan Carr,” I answered. I paid for my purchases and received the change.

          Mr. Kelley said, “Thanks again and say 'hello' to your dad.”

          I nodded and followed Ben, his arms filled with the canvas bag full of supplies, out the door. I helped pick up his bike, noticing the rear fender was bent.

          “Looks like Reno damaged your bike a little.”

          “Yep, but it won’t hurt the way it works none. And I can straighten it out once I get back to my cabin.” He placed the canvas bag in the basket in front and strapped it in place with a bungee cord.

          “Nathan, that kid might try to jump you on your way home. I can ride with you – if you like – ain’t no place in this town that’s outta my way.”

          “Thanks, Ben, but Reno’s a coward and a bully. He won't jump me unless he’s got an army hidden somewhere. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

          “As you wish, young man. It’s been a pleasure meetin’ you. You’re welcome to come and visit if you’ve got the time and got the notion. My cabin’s out toward The Notch past Pardou’s Pit. I don’t live too far from the old Carbon Hill mine.”

          I thought, Gold mining like California around here? Never suspected that. I nodded but didn't plan on any visit. After all, I didn't really know him. I waved goodbye as he mounted his heavy Schwinn.

          “Hope to see you again sometime,” he yelled over his shoulder and pedaled up the street eastward out of town.