Color the Sidewalk for Me by Brandilyn Collins

I had a heck of a time carrying on a normal conversation. I trailed him as he walked over to the large rocks to set his tackle box down. Seeing our can of worms, he made the mistake of offering to bait my hook. Huffily I replied that if I cared to fish, I could do it myself. A minute later I tried to make amends by inquiring about his parents, to which he answered stiffly that they were just fine. Then when Kevy waved to him, I shouted across the water teasingly, “Look what the cat drug in!” only to reap a black look from Danny as if he’d taken me seriously.
    Good grief, I thought. Getting along with him was almost as bad as trying to get along with Mama.
    Danny was frowning at Kevy. “Hey! Ain’t you got a catch on your line?”
    â€œYeah! It’s pullin’!” Kevy started reeling in slowly. “Told you, Celia!”
    â€œIt’ll be the last fish he catches, he keeps makin’ so much noise,” I grumbled.
    â€œYou started it,” Danny said.
    â€œCelia, look how big it is!” The fish was out of the water, scales sparkling as it flopped fiercely on the hook. Kevy was standing at the edge of the boulder, leaning forward precariously as he tried to grab the line.
    â€œKevin, watch out!” Danny shouted.
    It happened so fast. One minute Kevy was on the rock, jabbering about his catch, and the next minute he was tumbling headfirst in the air. His pole flew upward, the reel spinning from the weight of the fish, then sailed down into the current. My brother hit the frigid water six feet below with a loud splash, then disappeared.
    â€œKevy, you idgit!” I leaped up and watched anxiously for him to appear. Stupid boy, he never should have gone out there in the first place. “Where is he?” I scanned the river, shading my eyes. “You see him?”
    Danny was on his feet, too, squinting. “There he is!”
    A good five feet downstream from where he’d plunged in, Kevy surfaced, his face blanched against the dark water.
    â€œCome on, Kevy, swim!” I cried. “Forget your pole!”
    My brother and I had both learned to swim at a young age, Granddad often walking us to the swimming hole below the rapids. Under his watchful eye I’d first learned how to roll onto my back and float, then mastered the forward crawl, and finally perfected the powerful arm and leg movements of the breaststroke. Years later I stood a few feet away from Granddad, helping him teach Kevy, backing up a little at a time, calling, “You’re doin’ great!” as I urged my brother longer distances.
    I trotted toward the water. “Would you come on!”
    Kevy gasped air in a terrorized rattle. Frantically he flailed his arms. “Kevy? Kevy! Swim!” I yelled. But something was wrong. He could only slap erratically at the water, coughing ferociously. While I froze in fear on the riverbank, my brother went under for the second time. A trapdoor opened in my stomach. “Kevy!” I wailed.
    â€œI’ll git him.” Danny was throwing off his shoes and socks, jerking the T-shirt from his waist. He ran into the river, dove shallowly, then lunged into a powerful swim.
    â€œPlease, God,” I prayed aloud, watching the current flow, desperately looking for Kevy—an arm, a head rising above the water. The river was so cold; falling into it must have shocked him something terrible. I should never have let him wade out to that rock. Mama would not forgive me for this. I ran down the bank, watching Danny slice through the current, but Kevy had popped up far ahead, spluttering. “Kevy! Swim to Danny!”
    He splashed crazily for another second, then disappeared for the third time.
    â€œKevy!” I sprang into the frigid water only to feel my spine pull away in terror, my calf muscles melting. I stumbled and fell, hands plunging into the river, unseen rocks cutting into my palms and knees. As the water soaked my shirt, I