Stranded on Thin Ice

By Sharon CassanoLochman

Twelve-year-old Tanner Phillips fishes the Oneida Lake Ice Fishing Derby every year with his dad. Last year, he ruined everything — losing the competition and losing some of his grandfather’s gear. This year, Tanner is determined to not only prove his skills on the ice, but also show his dad, once and for all, that he’s no long

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ontario Shore Publishing LLC
• Release date: Oct 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781944878696

Book preview

Best pre-teen book I’ve read in a very long time! Adventure, relationships, moral dilemmas. It’s all there woven in true storyteller fashion!

—Paula Rogala, CFP®

A resonant and insightful story that crackles with authenticity and suspense. I felt as though I was right there, on that ice-fishing adventure alongside Tanner and Richie.

—Kate Angelella

Stranded On Thin Ice

Sharon CassanoLochman

Copyright 2017 Sharon CassanoLochman

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-944878-69-6

Ontario Shore Publishing, LLC

Dedication

To my son, Timothy James Cassano

Forever my cheerleader.

Thank you for seeing the writer in me before

my words flowed freely.

Dedicated to the memory of my beloved uncle

and grandparents.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their help to bring Stranded on Thin Ice to print:

My son and writing partner, Tim Cassano, for hearing my writing voice before I knew I had one.

I would like to thank Tim Smith for accepting my night-writing and circling thoughts and conversations. He is and has been a constant support both on and off Thin Ice.

To my editor Kate Angelella for her patience, clear explanations, and never-ending words of encouragement.

To my publicist, Denise Cassino for her guidance in and around the publishing process.

To Debbie O’Byrne for an amazing cover design and the format team, including Chris O’Byrne and Laura Griffioen from JETLAUNCH Book Design for an amazing experience and finished product.

Kristi Collier Thompson from the Institute of Children’s Literature, for her gentle prodding through too many tags and a need for more descriptive language.

A special thanks to final readers Tim Smith, Nancy Atherton, Tim Cassano, Glen Rogala, and Paula Rogala for their words of encouragement, insights, and reviews.

Special thanks to Andrea Page for seeing beyond my chicken scratches to what I could do instead of faulting my many mistakes. Thanks for taking me across the country on writing adventures and sharing the space of this moment in time.

For my early readers Lisa Norman, Taryn Mullen, Vicki Rawlins, Richard Diehl, Jane Diehl, Wendy Dunham, and Karen Read for looking beyond a first draft and offering words of encouragement.

Special thanks to Ernie Colombo and Suzanne Singer for our special connections and support that go beyond this place into another.

To Darcy Pattison and my novel revision team, Marcia Strykowski, Trinity Peacock-Broyles, Diane Davis, and Nancy Pistorius for wading through boring fishing terms to the bones of my story.

To the Institute of Children’s Literature for awarding Stranded on Thin Ice Fifth Place in their Novel Competition.

Special thanks to Oneida Lake for inspiring the writing of Stranded on Thin Ice.

Contents

Chapter 1-Getting the Scoop

Chapter 2-Twisted Intentions

Chapter 3-Gone Missing

Chapter 4-Fightin’ Words

Chapter 5-Iron Clad

Chapter 6-Spiked Camp

Chapter 7-Shovel Out

Chapter 8-Too Close for Comfort

Chapter 9-Fiery Ice

Chapter 10-Handy Catch

Chapter 11-Heaved Across Ice

Chapter 12-Lost to the Hole

Chapter 13-Buried Treasure

Chapter 14-Unusual Catch

Chapter 15-Dig In

Chapter 16-Broke Through

Chapter 17-Ankle Deep

Chapter 18-Cutting Loose

Chapter 19-Familiar Face

Chapter 20-Close Company

CHAPTER

1

Getting the Scoop

5:00 a.m.

I ran my clammy palms down the front of my jacket. It was too early to be out of bed on a regular weekend, but this was hardly a regular weekend.

My heart pounded. I strained for another look. There it sat, in all its glory, parked in the middle of the shop floor, haloed in overhead lighting.

The first-place prize: a nearly new ATV and a fully loaded ice fishing hut. I could almost hear the purr of the engine. In my mind, I had already won.

Tanner! called my dad, loud enough to cause everyone in the bait shop to pause their chatter. What are you doing? His eyes narrowed.

Waiting for bait, I answered through clenched teeth. What did he think I was doing? I shifted toward the bait tub with the money in my hand.

Pay attention; you’ll miss your turn.

My cheeks burned. I was paying attention, and I’ve already missed a bunch of turns, I answered, trying to stow my temper.

We’re signed up, he said, tucking the receipt into his wallet. Try to stay focused long enough to buy bait. I’ll be right back.

I exhaled a breath of frustration. I don’t know why I bother. No one listens to me anyway. Eight months shy of my thirteenth birthday, and I’m still invisible to anyone over the age of twelve. I craned my head toward the ceiling; the teeth from my jacket’s zipper gnawed at my neck.

Who’s next? asked Dom, the owner of Popper’s Bait Shop.

I am! I waved a ten-dollar bill over the bubbling bait tub.

Over here! I’ll take four dozen, bellowed the man to my right.

Ouch! I snatched my pinched fingers from under the bottom edge of the man’s aluminum bucket. It’s my turn, I insisted.

Well, it’s my turn now. Get out of my way, kid, snarled the finger-pincher. He was a burly outdoorsman with an overgrown beard that clung to the collar of his plaid woolen shirt, along with the aroma of his greasy breakfast. Stained overalls barely stretched over his potbelly stove of a stomach. Pooled splotches of sun-bleached canvas freckled the back of his jacket. On it, there was a patch that read Earl’s Automotive.

I leaned away from the massive man and his offensive odor. The man, already taking up more than his share of space, leaned into my right shoulder as he filled his bucket from the bait tub. The spilled water ran down the front of my jacket. I shook water from my boots and brushed water droplets from my sleeve. He gave me a whatever shrug as he pressed a crumpled ten-dollar bill into Dom’s hand.

Over here! echoed the voices of fishermen leaning in and around the bait tub.

No, my turn! I shouted, forcing my money in Dom’s direction.

My shoulders and spirits sank as Dom passed me by two people. I slammed my fist against the edge of the bait tub. Another missed turn.

I edged tighter to the tub as fishermen wrangled for space. Squeezed between shoulders, bellies, and tempers, I sighed. Were all kids invisible, or was it just me?

My finger-pinching foe forced his way through the ornery collection of Oneida Lake’s best fishermen. His bucket and belly swayed left to right with each heavy step, nudging the other fishermen in his path off balance. Their insulated fishing boots with thick rubber soles and ice grips clinked and clanked against the antique linoleum flooring.

Stop shoving! shouted someone from the middle of the crowd.

I listened to the muffled voices of huddled fishermen as they spoke in coded language about where to fish and what lure to use. Some lingered and fiddled with the dust-laden packages of fishing lures that hung along the far wall near the bait tubs. Old-timers contributed to the thick foggy cloud of cigarette smoke that mixed with the wood-burning stove’s smolder and the burnt coffee aroma from the empty pot forgotten on the heating element.

Men raised their voices to be heard over the blaring television behind the counter and the constant hum of the bubbler aerating the large aluminum tubs of minnows that ran along the back wall.

Come on, Dom. We want to fish, yelled one of the waiting men.

I’m next! I shouted in the deepest voice I could muster.

Guys, hold on, pleaded Dom, pressing against the weight of the crowd with open hands. This is bait only. Berta’s taking entry fees and forms at the counter. Dom dappled sweat from his forehead with the cradle of his elbow then rerolled and tucked the worn fleece sleeve.

Rosy cheeks contrasted against his snow-dusted complexion.

Can’t you figure out a better system for selling bait? asked another fisherman. It’s hot in here.

Dom commenced scooping minnows from the large bait tub. Why did I let Doc Reynolds donate that four-wheeler? He’s left me to deal with the bunch of you! Dom lifted his head to the growing cluster of agitated fishermen. You’re all worse than ever! Everybody, back up and stop pushing. Who’s next for bait?

It’s my turn, I yelled. I stood on the tip of my toes, extending my reach with the crisp ten-dollar bill. I struggled for space against the grimy-rimmed tub. The teeth from my jacket zipper clawed at my throat. I rubbed my stinging neck. I’m sure to have permanent teeth marks on my throat for the rest of my life. I yanked the zipper down to my waist.

Down here, shouted someone from the far end. Dom’s attention diverted away from me once again.

Darn! I forced the fisted bill into my pocket. Guess I’ll help myself like usual. I crouched below shouts and shoulders and scooped bait from a school of fleeing minnows in the narrow tub.

Isn’t that stealing?

I paused for a moment. A lanky boy in baggy jeans was leaning over my shoulder. His camo jacket, hangered on a straight and narrow frame, hung loosely around his waist. Untied, slush-stained shoelaces dragged behind his loose-fitted sneakers.

Not if you pay for them. Help me count.

They’re moving too fast, said the boy.

The long-limbed boy leaned over my bucket and crouched on one knee. He counted under his breath as he followed the miniature fish. Thirty-seven, I think. He cocked his head to the right and peeked through slatted strands of swamp-brown hair that covered his eyes.

Close enough, I counted forty-nine. I dropped the net into the bucket. Do I know you?

Probably from school.

I nodded and wiped the sweat from over my upper lip with my sleeve.

Richie Donald. I live in town, he said and smiled, displaying large teeth, twisted and overlapped. His arms hung loosely at his side.

Tanner Phillips. I hoisted the bait bucket from the linoleum floor. I squeezed through the maze of fishermen. Richie followed, turning