Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

Tom winked at him as he flipped the lid off his pop.
―You must learn to resist, so you can fight the good fight. Now,‖ he cried, holding his
bottle out. ―Don‘t look so surprised. Pour!‖
―My gosh!‖ Charlie Woodman slapped his brow. ―That‘s good root beer, Doug. Mine‘s
good Orange Crush !‖
Doug turned his bottle upside down. The root beer froth hissed out to join the clear
stream rushing away to the lake. The others stared, the spectacle mirrored in each pair of eyes.
―You want to sweat Orange Crush?‖ Douglas grabbed Charlie‘s drink. ―You want root
beer spit, to be poisoned forever, to never get well? Once you‘re tall, you can‘t un- grow back,
can‘t stab yourself with a pin and let the air out.‖
Solemnly, the martyrs tilted their bottles.
―Lucky crawfish.‖ Charlie Woodman slung his bottle at a rock. They all threw their
bottles, like Germans after a toast, the glass crashing in bright splinters.
They unwrapped the melting chocolate and butter chip and almond frivolities. Their teeth
parted, their mouths watered. But their eyes looked to their general.
―I solemnly pledge from now on: no candy, no pop, no poison.‖
Douglas let his chocolate chunk drop like a corpse into the water, like a burial at sea.
Douglas wouldn‘t even let them lick their fingers.
Walking out of the ravine, they met a girl eating a vanilla ice cream cone. The boys
stared, their tongues lolling. She took a cold dollop with her tongue. The boys blinked. She
licked the cone and smiled. Perspiration broke out on a half dozen faces. One more lick, one
more jut of that rare pink tongue, one more hint of cool vanilla ice cream and his army would
revolt. Sucking in a deep breath, Douglas cried: ―Git!‖
The girl spun around and ran.
Douglas waited for the memory of the ice cream to fade, then said, quietly, ―There‘s ice
water at Grandma‘s. March!‖