Caneville Summer

By Andrew Phillip Decker

Seventeen-year-old Sam should be enjoying his last summer before his senior year of high school, working in his mom's nursery for some extra cash and hanging out with his best friend El (Eleanor). With the presence of a coworker, Evan, however, Sam must come to terms with a secret which, if revealed, would not go over well in the small community of Caneville, Louisiana. Sam's discovery that he may not be the only one keeping secrets and some near-tragedies make this particular summer a memorable Caneville summer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781469103747

Andrew Phillip Decker

Andrew Phillip Decker grew up in Louisiana and now lives in the midwest. He writes short stories and plays mostly about the lives of young people in small southern communities. Caneville Summe is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2010 by Andrew Phillip Decker.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Well, it’s almost here, another exciting summer break in big ol’ Caneville. Oh, that’s Caneville, Louisiana, and maybe big and ol’ are not the right words, but li’l ol’ seems so stereotypically southern. Maybe big ol’ is too. Let me put it this way. Caneville is a small town, not close to New Orleans; it’s about three hours northeast, not too far from the Mississippi border.

I guess there are those who are wondering about the cane in Caneville, and I can tell you a little about it, but I’m more interested in our claim to fame as the place where the 1950s horror movie, now a camp classic, Die Now, Sweet Adele, was filmed! But back to the cane in Caneville. It’s quite simple. Back in the day—when was that exactly anyway?—when the town was being formed, it was a chief grower of sugar cane. Not so much anymore, even though a few farmers still do it. My grandpa used to tell me about how kids at that time used to sneak into cane fields and chop off little chunks of the cane to gnaw and suck on as a sweet, tasty treat. I guess that was before ice cream.

My dad could tell you more. He’s the history teacher at Caneville High, even though I go to St. Bernadette’s. Don’t get me started on that. The public school teacher sending his kid to the parochial school. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam LaHay, only son and only child of Matthew and Linda (Lin) LaHay of Caneville, LA.

As I was saying, summer break was about to begin, and I would be putting in more hours at my mom’s nursery and hanging out with my best friend El—that’s short for Eleanor. She doesn’t like Ellie, which is what most people call her.

That’s probably her calling on the phone now.

Hey Sam.

So?

So what?

You know.

Huh?

Come on! Did you get it?

Get what?

All right now, ELLIE!

Now you’ve done it. I guess I have to punish you by telling you. I got the job!

Woo Hoo!

I have an automatic summer job at my mom’s nursery, but El and other kids in Caneville have to find work about 30 minutes away in Gaston, a larger town with a mall and stuff. She had applied at an arts and crafts store and now had the job.

We need to celebrate, I added to my Hoo!

Naturally. I’ll pick you up around 7.

Sounds good.

It looked like the pieces of great summer plans were starting to fall into the right places.

2     

It was a little after 5 when my parents walked in, and I got the iced tea out of the refrigerator. It’s a family-ritual-bonding thing—not that I’m being critical of it. It might seem kind of strange to some. My parents aren’t so strict that they want us to have every meal together, but we do try to get together to talk around this time, just before we go off to do whatever we do. The nursery is open until 8, but my mom lets the staff close—I would be doing that sometimes—and my dad, if he has no afternoon duties on campus, usually goes over to the nursery until my Mom is ready and then they come home together.

During the summers, my dad starts his stint as a college history teacher at the community college in Gaston. He never said this, of course, but I’m sure he did it to pay for St. Bernadette’s tuition and maybe to help out with college later. My parents are pretty good people.

We got a couple of applications for summer work from the school kids, announced my mom, moving her purse to one end of the counter. I handed her a glass of tea.

Cool. Who did?

Her lips smiled along the rim of the glass.

So?

My father shook his glass, causing the ice cubes to tinkle.

We won’t get anything out of her, he explained.

Of course not. I don’t want you all to tell me anything to influence my decision. After that’s made, then I’ll tell you.

Well, I hope it’s someone I like.

It could be someone you don’t know. Someone from Caneville Public, offered my dad.

I still might know them. Caneville isn’t Metropolis or Gotham City.

It was true. Because of the size of the town, kids from St. Bernadette’s and Caneville Public often knew each other. Some Caneville Public students had siblings at St. Bernadette’s, and there was even dating among Bernadette and Caneville boys and girls.

Oh, Evan came by, asking if he could have his old summer job again. Of course I said yes, but I was surprised to see him.

Why? I asked, just before gulping the last of my tea.

Well, he’s graduating in about a week.

And then he’s off to LSU, added my father.

I just thought, continued my mother, that he would want to spend the summer having some fun with friends before moving to Baton Rouge. I hope nothing went wrong with his plans.

I haven’t heard anything like that, answered my father, and he would know through the Caneville High gossip grapevine—that did eventually extend itself to teachers.

El got that job at the Cajun Craft Corner.

Good for her, congratulated my mother, taking her glass and dad’s to the sink.

We’re gonna go celebrate. Is that ok?

As long as you are home at the usual time, replied my dad, heading down the hallway to his room to change clothes.

She’ll be here around 7.

Supper will be ready before then, called my mom as she moved into the utility room to put on a load of laundry. I thought I would go to my room and do homework a while before supper and my celebration with El—which would probably mean eating more at the Gaston Mall food court.

I didn’t crack open a book, and even getting online to check email didn’t interest me. I kicked off my