Bucky Stone: The Complete Adventure (Volumes 1-10) Read online

  Here’s what e-readers are saying about the Bucky Stone Adventure Series of ten books . . .

  This is a great series. The books are exciting and fun to read. I highly recommend it for 10-15 year olds. – Birmingham

  This first book introducing the adventures of Bucky Stone is fun and fast-paced. A great read. – Los Angeles

  I’m now 30 and still enjoy pulling out a tattered Bucky Stone book and reading it in one sitting on a Friday night. As a teen it was great to have a Christian hero I could look up to. I was really upset when Bucky graduated from high school and the books didn't follow him to college! God really used these books to help me get through my teenage years, and has used the volumes I've loaned out to help many others too. - Australia

  I was deeply moved by #10, "The Final Game," and saddened by realizing that it would be the last! The baptism scene with Lisa was beautiful and touching. I can't imagine young people reading this without sensing the significance of their witnessing and testimony. This whole Bucky Stone series is a tremendous story, beautifully and thrillingly presented. What a tremendous contribution to God's people! – Arizona

  Check out details about the other nine exciting Bucky Stone stories at the author website, www.davidbsmithbooks.com.

  Bucky Stone Book #1

  Making Waves at Hampton High

  By

  David B. Smith

  Chapter One: “Where’s Room C-132?”

  Chapter Two: “Stick With It”

  Chapter Three: First Day of School

  Chapter Four: Church or Band

  Chapter Five: Mr. Storyteller

  Chapter Six: Into the Playoffs!

  Chapter Seven: The World Series!

  Chapter Eight: Party Date

  Chapter Nine: Walking Off the Dance Floor

  Chapter Ten: Christmas Eve

  Chapter Eleven: To the Slopes!

  Chapter Twelve: Ski Accident

  Chapter Thirteen: Helicopter Search

  Chapter Fourteen: Rescue!

  Chapter Fifteen: Safely Home

  Danger

  The cold was all around him now, beginning to bite into his guts – and Bucky knew that the empty peaks above Tahoe would deliver a deadly iciness as the night wore on. He and the girl were well off the established ski trail; the lifts were closed. The parking lot of Heavenly Valley had emptied out, leaving an abandoned slab of concrete and slushy puddles.

  An invading gust of freezing wind whistled through the hollow and the injured high school girl stirred, moaning in her semi-consciousness. He tried to shift himself to shield her from the cold, but his own feet were painfully numb by now, and it seemed fruitless to keep trying. What was the point? No one was coming. Despite his prayers and earlier confidence that Sam would pound his fist on a counter at the help desk and demand a rescue, too much time had passed by now. The place was closed for the night and he was on his own, locked in a chilling wilderness prison with this dumb chick he’d never even met . . . and certainly didn’t owe any favors.

  I could have just left her and skied down this hill ten times by now! He forced the selfish thought away and peered through the darkness at his watch. Nearly eight. The temperature was plummeting, and the cold created a frantic helplessness as his mind bounced from one useless idea to the next. He wasn’t even on the run Sam had expected him to take. And like an idiot, he’d left his cellphone in the car.

  Far below, shining through the inky darkness of the slopes, the casino neon displays of Nevada were a distant dream, with cocktail waitresses delivering free Scotch and premium beers to slot players, cheerful and relaxed after a day of skiing. Industrial-strength central heating bathed the party scenes along the border with comfort; people had hotel room keys in their pockets, and were even now heading for showers and cozy queen-size beds. He, on the other hand, was marooned at the top of a desolate mountain, the white snowdrifts blocking out all his hopes. So near and yet so impossibly far away . . .

  Chapter One: “Where’s Room C-132?”

  “Thirty-two right, eight left . . .” Bucky muttered to himself as he tried for the third time to open his newly-assigned locker.

  Around him the hallway was filled with back-to-school sounds. “Hey, man, where ya been all summer?”

  “Cindy, your hair! What happened to it?”

  “Ooooh, check out the tan. That’s some serious sun, dude. You musta got that lifeguard job you were hopin’ for.”

  The tinny beat of a summer rock hit turned the corner and came toward Bucky, throbbing through a pair of iPod earphones. He shook his head in amazement and turned back to his locker.

  “Thirty-two right . . . . Why doesn’t this thing open?” he muttered, slamming the lock against the metal locker.

  “Havin’ trouble?” An older student in knee-length shorts and sandals wandered over.

  “Yeah,” Bucky admitted, embarrassed. “These are kinda new to me. What am I doing wrong?”

  “What’s your combination?” The junior caught himself and laughed. “Hey, don’t worry, you can tell me. With my memory, I’ll forget what it is before I get out to the parking lot. I have to carry mine around in my wallet for the first month because I keep forgetting it.”

  Bucky grinned. “You and me both. Anyway, my number’s 32 right, 8 left, and then 19 right. But it doesn’t seem to work.”

  “Do it again while I watch.”

  Bucky spun the dial. “Thirty-two right, now 8 left – ”

  “Hold it! That’s your problem.”

  “What?”

  “It’s 32 right, but then you gotta go past 0 once and stop on 8 the second time around. Try it again.”

  Bucky spun the dial once again. Twirling it past 0 did the trick and the locker popped open without further protest.

  “There ya go! Now you’re officially a student of Hampton Beach High.”

  The younger boy nodded. “Thanks. By the way, my name’s Bucky.”

  “Phil.”

  “That’s my dad’s name, too,” Bucky remarked. “Listen, as long as you’re being so helpful, can you tell me where C-132 is? I’m supposed to try out for band there.”

  “C-132 . . . C-132 . . .” Phil mused for a moment. “Ack, I should know that. Oh, I remember. That’s in the next building over. I think it’s the third room on the left-hand side, by a long row of green lockers. I keep hearing strange sounds coming from there on my way in from football practice. So that’s gotta be the band room.”

  Bucky laughed. “I’m afraid my trumpet specializes in strange sounds. I’m a little rusty. Listen, thanks again.”

  “No sweat, boss” Phil hollered over his shoulder, already on his way to greet another long-lost friend.

  Bucky picked up his bag of books and began loading them, one by one, into the blue locker. Algebra, U.S. history, general science, Spanish, computer skills – the volumes made an impressive stack. After a moment’s hesitation, be pulled the computer book back out. I think I’ll look that one over tonight, he thought to himself. Looks interesting.

  Picking up his trumpet case, Bucky began to make his way over to the next building. Threading his way through the swarming students, he walked across the quad to the next building, then hiked along the left side as Phil had directed until he came to the third door.

  Poking his head in, Bucky inspected the room carefully. Four layers of raised platform supported a disarray of chairs and music stands. In one corner, two tubas leaned precariously against a double set of drums. A blackboard on one wall proclaimed in huge, pink-chalked letters: “HAVE AN AWESOME SUMMER!”

  As he continued to inspect the music room, a chubby man strode
breathlessly through the door in the far wall. “Hi! Been waiting long?”

  “No,” Bucky replied, startled. “I just got here two seconds ago.”

  “Let’s see,” the portly director mused, looking at a schedule on the podium. “You are . . . Suzanne Detrich? You don’t look like a Suzanne to me.”

  “Great observation,” Bucky grinned. “I’m Bucky. Stone.”

  “Bucky Stone . . .” The director scanned his page. “I’m sorry; I was on the wrong page. Here you are, right on schedule. One Mr. Bucky Stone, trumpet. Right?”

  “Yeah.” He pointed to his trumpet case.

  “Great!” The director seemed genuinely enthusiastic. “We lost five good trumpet players last year – four graduated and one moved to Southern California. Oh, by the way, I’m James Walter.”

  The two shook hands quickly as Bucky asked, “How long have you been teaching here?”

  “This will be my second year is all,” Mr. Walter replied. “It’s a great band for a school this size. This your first year here?”

  “Uh huh,” Bucky affirmed.

  “Freshman?”

  “Yeah. I went to a Christian school last year. We didn’t have a band there, but I’ve taken lessons for the past three years. I’m a little rusty right now, though, I’m afraid,” he confessed. “We just got back from vacation, so my lip’s a little out of shape.”

  “Not to worry,” the director said easily. “We’ll work you back into fine form. And don’t worry about these little auditions. We just want to make sure you don’t hold your instrument upside down and that you at least know the scale. We’ll rank everyone next week and decide who sits where.”

  He motioned Bucky toward a music stand supporting an open exercise book. “Can you run through a few of these for me?”

  Bucky examined the book, recognizing some easy scales. After a warm-up tone or two, he fingered the simple exercises without much effort, although a few of the higher notes sounded a little strained.

  “Sorry,” he apologized after the lines were finished. “Those high G’s should be better by next week.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mr. Walter assured him. “You should hear some of the students the first week back. I think the majority of them pawn their horns for surfboards during the summer.”

  He propped a sheet of music on the stand. “Try this one. Let’s see how your sight reading is.”

  Bucky studied the piece critically.

  “Just play it straight through,” the director suggested. “It’s a standard oldies band hit. Beach Boys. Just give it a try; you’ll probably recognize it once you get started.”

  Bucky played through the first five lines, stumbling only once or twice on the syncopated rhythm of the second trumpet part.

  “Not bad, not bad!” Mr. Walter rubbed his hands together with new enthusiasm. “Maybe my job here is secure after all!” he joked. “OK, Stone, that’s it for now. We can use you for sure, and you know when rehearsal is. Why not warm up with a few good practice sessions before next week, and we’ll really hit opening day running at full speed.”

  “OK,” Bucky agreed, putting his trumpet back in its case. “I’ll see you then.”

  The bearded director tossed a friendly wave his way, but was already greeting the next student standing in the doorway. “Jose, old man, bring me that trombone. What a lifesaver you are!”

  Band was going to be fun, Bucky decided, as he walked back across the quad to the main building. Consulting his student registration guide, he noticed that all he still needed to do was qualify for final check-out. Leaving his trumpet case in his locker, he located the main desk in the gymnasium under a huge banner labeled “Final Checkpoint.”

  “Hey!” A girl with short brown hair smiled up at him from her chair behind the form-covered table. “All ready to check outta here?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Bucky answered, trying hard not to stare too obviously at the perky student assistant. He handed over his registration form.

  “Let’s see,” she said, reading it carefully. She glanced up, scrutinizing his five-foot-nine-inch frame, taking note of his friendly blue eyes and straight blond hair. Nice looking, in an ordinary sort of way, she decided. She read out loud. “Bucky Stone, male. I guess you’re that. What else? Freshman? Good! One more for our side . . .”

  Carefully she ticked off the various classes Bucky had registered for, scanning the bar codes and noting the signatures by each computerized entry. “Spanish, computer science . . . I see we’re in the same algebra class. Are you any good at math? I’m afraid I’m going to need a smart friend in that class.”

  “I think I’ll do OK,” Bucky said modestly, deciding instantly that algebra was likely to be his favorite class.

  “I guess that does it,” the girl smiled, initialing the bottom line on the form. “We may as well get acquainted, mister. My name’s Lisa.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bucky answered, hoping she couldn’t see how nice he really thought it was. “I hope you do struggle in algebra . . . just a tiny bit, anyway!”

  She laughed. “Good line, sir. And I’m afraid it just might work, if last year’s math was any indication. I barely got to the finish line.” Her grin was infectious. “‘Bye, Bucky.”

  “See you later.” He took one more look, then resolutely turned away, walking out of the gym and back to the main building. So this is high school, he thought to himself, picking up his trumpet case and computer book. He untethered his bike from the long rack, pausing for a moment to look over the sprawling school complex, mentally comparing it with the smallish Christian school he had said goodbye to just three short months before.

  He still wished he could be on his way to Christ the King Academy along with the five classmates he’d graduated with. But Dad had said no, and Bucky had decided that if it had to be high school, he might as well make it the best year possible. No sense spending too much time conjecturing about what might have been.

  Stuffing the trumpet case into his oversized backpack, he flung his leg over the bar of his ten-speed and wheeled out of the parking lot, pedaling swiftly toward home.

  Chapter Two: “Stick With It”

  The brakes on Bucky’s bike squealed in protest as he turned the final corner and pedaled onto Woodman Avenue. Gliding to a stop at his house, he pulled into the open garage and leaned his bike against Dad’s overcrowded work bench.

  He was about to go into the kitchen when he noticed the evening newspaper lying out on the curb. “Hey, don’t get the paper wet!” he hollered at the three small Dixon children. Water from the garden hose splashed liberally over the children and a small corner of the Stones’ driveway. But the newspaper appeared to be safe. So far.

  “See our new toy?” the youngest asked, his blond crew cut matted down by the water.

  A stream of water gushed straight into the air from a special hose attachment, balancing a small plastic bucket. Every time one of the kids dashed through the stream, the bucket would waver, then tumble to the ground, much to the delight of the children.

  “All right!” Bucky beamed. “Can I play?”

  “You’re too big!” Cherie protested, taking off her ever-present glasses. She tried to dry them off by blowing on them, shrugged, and put them on again, squinting through the water spots before dashing through the fountain once more.

  Bucky grinned and headed into the house. “I’m home,” he called, pausing to lay down the newspaper.

  “I’m in here,” Mom responded from the kitchen. “Come tell me all about registration.”

  Bucky put down the trumpet case and settled into a chair by the kitchen counter. “For starters, it’s a lot bigger school than Beecher. I think something like a thousand kids go there. And all computerized. They just go zoop with their scanner on my bar code stickers, and, just like that, you’re registered.”

  “Did you get signed up for all your classes OK?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Everything we planned on. Plus band.”

  �
��So you didn’t have any problem with the tryouts. Your dad and I can’t wait to come hear you play. How often do you have concerts?”

  “I was going to ask the director about that and I forgot.” Bucky shook his head ruefully. “I was thinking so hard about sight reading the music that it completely slipped my mind. But I’ll ask. I think most of the time they just play for games and stuff.”

  “Did you meet anyone you know?”

  “Nope. Everybody was new to me. Oh, I guess I did get to know one guy. He helped me get my locker open. And I met a girl at the checkout table who seemed pretty nice.” He tried to hide a grin.

  “Now that is one big reason I sure wish you were on your way to Christian high school with the other kids,” Mom said firmly.

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Girls.” She got out another carrot and began grating it into a big bowl of salad. “At Christ the King you’d have a chance to get to know some Christian girls. Here at the high school it’s bound to be a problem.”

  “Well, I’m not going to give up on academy. Dad may still change his mind. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just do my best to make this a good year anyway.” He grinned wickedly. “I promise not to fall in love with any of the Jezebels. Not this week, anyway.”

  “I may remind you of that statement later on,” Mom teased. “You know, I really believe your dad is thinking about letting you go to CTK after all. Little things he says from time to time . . . Anyway, just keep praying about it.”

  “That reminds me. What did Rachel Marie think of Beecher?”

  She began to laugh. “You should have seen her. At first she was scared to death. You know how she kind of clings to my leg. Well, after five minutes, she was just bubbling! She can hardly wait for school to begin next Tuesday. We stopped by Kohl’s and got her a couple new outfits, so right now she’s higher than a kite. Crazy kid.”

  “Well, I better go check those new duds out,” Bucky said, picking up the trumpet case again.