THE POND

THE POND PROLOGUE

Prologue

Kimberton, Pennsylvania

“Hurry and get in, Carl,” Susan Weber urged. Stretching across the seat, she grabbed the lunch box from her son’s hand and placed it behind her seat. “Mommy’s got a doctor appointment. I don’t want to be late.”

 Eight-year-old Carl slid into the front seat of the car. A draft of cold air swept over them as he slammed the door shut. Snow dusted the dirty carpet beneath his crusted boots. He stomped one foot, loosening the crud beneath one sole.

“Don’t do that,” Susan warned. “You’re making a mess.” With the elementary school behind them, she drove into the slow-moving traffic. After a few minutes, she turned off the main road, following it into a long stretch of roadway. The countryside was dotted with small farms and empty, barren fields with a fresh layer of powdered snow.

 “How was school?” she asked, darting a glance at Carl. His freckled nose was red beneath his checkered red and black cap. She pushed the lever for the heater, hoping it would provide more warmth, but the air remained cool. “Well?” His brows drew together, a notable sign of trouble.

 “Okay,” the boy mumbled. He pulled off his red mitten and rubbed at his nose. “Mrs. Dermot made me stand in the corner.”

 “Again?” Her brow rose incredulously. Dread filled her, his words biting deep. “It is the third time this month. Now what did you do?”

 “She said I was talking. But it wasn’t me.” He kicked his foot against the floorboards, aggravated. More snow scattered across the carpet. “Honest, it wasn’t.”

 “Hmmm,” his mother scoffed, staring at the mess he made. As if it mattered anyway. The carpet was old and faded. “Are you sure?”

 “Yes,” he protested. “It was Henry. He likes getting me in trouble.”

            “Conferences should be coming up. I’ll have a talk with your teacher and see what she says about the matter. I’ll get to the bottom of it.” Irritated, she knew just how far the bottom went. She, too, had felt the judgmental glare of the teacher when they had first met. The woman had an attitude problem, snotty, with her nose stuck high in the air. Still, her son needed to find a way to get along in the world, despite difficult teachers.

            “Mrs. Dermot hates me,” Carl whined. “She always blames me for stuff I don’t do. She’ll lie and say it was my fault.” Sulkily, the boy clamped his mouth shut and stared out the window. “You’ll probably believe her over me.”

            “I’m sure you are wrong about your teacher,” she lied, forcing a smile. “I met her in the beginning of the school year and she seemed very nice. She spoke highly of you.”

His scowl only darkened as he rolled his eyes in disbelief.

Tiredly, she sighed, gripping the steering wheel. Her son was one stubborn boy. But he was a good boy. Not much in the way of trouble. But folks had a way of looking down at you when you wore secondhand clothes and needed financial aid. Over the past couple of years their farm had a run of bad luck. Like a festering wound, it spread into their savings, leaving them to pinch every penny. Such was the life of a farmer. Still, they had food on their table. Their clothes, though faded or mended, were at least clean. Things could still turn around for them. Perhaps there was some truth in what Carl claimed, though she would never tell him so. But his teacher was another matter. She’d confront the old broad and see what she had to say about it. She found it hard to believe Carl was causing so much trouble. He was quiet and respectful, a good student.

            “Okay, here is Mike’s house,” she declared, turning the car into a driveway between two elaborate pillars. She drove the car into the Adams’ neatly plowed driveway, which looped around an enormous fountain. Tall statues of half-naked god-like people proudly stared at her as she stopped the car in front of the elite three-story stone mansion. If only she could have a peek inside. It must be quite an icon. But a person like her would never be invited in unless they came in the form of hired help. She would just have to settle with Carl’s vague descriptions, though it was hard to get him to answer her queries. Carl only cared about one thing and that was Mike. It was Mike this or Mike that. Her boy didn’t notice things like what kind of china the Adams used or what the master bedroom looked like. It still amazed her that her son was a friend of the wealthy surgeon’s son. Most rich folks looked down on people like them, never allowing their kids to play together.