David A. Poulsen's Young Adult Fiction 3-Book Bundle. David A. Poulsen

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СКАЧАТЬ stood up as Mom came out onto the steps right behind him. She was smiling, but her eyes were wet. I wondered if he’d said something to make her feel bad. Or maybe she was just sad because I was going away. It popped into my head that the longest I’d ever been away from my mom was day camp. A couple of times we’d camped out overnight, which made it two days and a night that I wasn’t home. So this was a big deal, I guess.

      She hugged me like it was a big deal and said a couple of things in a squeaky voice. Be good, look after yourself kind of stuff. Eat lots of zucchini. Trying to lighten things up. We’d already done all the reminders — don’t lose the passport, don’t let the old man pay for everything (I wasn’t sure about that part — the whole thing was his idea), and try to look like I was enjoying myself. (I wasn’t sure about that part either.)

      I held onto the hug a couple of seconds longer than usual. “You take care too. I’ll phone, okay?”

      She stepped back, but kept her hands on my arms. “Okay? You better phone, mister.” She smiled again. I smiled back at her and turned to go down the steps. The old man sort of waved and started down the sidewalk toward the truck. His boots clicked on the pavement like there was something metal on the bottom. I thought about calling, What are you — fourteen? But I kept my mouth shut, probably the better idea.

      He went around to the driver side of the truck, climbed in, and started it up as I was getting in the passenger side. I looked back at the house, and Mom was waving. I nodded at her, hoping I was letting her know that everything would be okay. And then we moved out — ready to get my summer started.

      “They got car washes where you live?” I guess I wanted him to know right from the get-go that I wasn’t happy.

      I don’t think he got that, though. He just laughed and floored it. “They got ’em, but ol’ Betsy’s allergic to water.”

      The truck has a nickname. I’m about to spend half my summer holidays with the old man and Betsy the pickup. Can’t get better than that.

      2

      “Think of it as a buddy movie.” That’s what the old man said about an hour into what turned out to be the most boring drive in the history of the automobile.

      I didn’t bother to tell him that we weren’t buddies and that this wasn’t a movie, but I did mention that it was the most boring drive in the history of the automobile. I mentioned that a few times.

      Country music, a thousand miles of bald-ass, dick-all prairie, and rain that started about an hour into the journey. What buddy movies had he been watching?

      I figured out real quick that the old man wasn’t a big conversationalist. Which was okay for the first while since I was working on what Mom calls the teenager pout. The teenager pout doesn’t come with sound effects. In fact, silence is a big part of the pout. It’s designed to make any thinking, feeling adult within several city blocks feel like crap.

      If the old man felt like crap, he was amazing at hiding his pain. He sang along to some of the songs, chuckled a couple of times like he’d just thought of something funny, and ate sunflower seeds, spitting the shells out his side window, which he kept half open, even in the rain.

      After what felt like three days but was probably three hours, I changed tactics. “I think we ought to have some rules,” I said.

      “Sure, rules are a good idea,” he nodded. “Hungry? Feel like a sandwich? Your mom made up a bunch.”

      Actually, I did feel like a sandwich. “Sure.”

      “Okay, rule number one, you’re in charge of the sandwiches.”

      I reached into the back seat and grabbed the bag Mom had sent. It was heavy. I pulled it into the front seat and opened it. There had to be six or seven of those see- through baggies things in there. That’s a lot of sandwiches. Plus fruit and a couple of juice boxes.

      I studied the baggies. “Looks like roast beef, cheese with jam, and maybe tuna. What do you want?”

      “Roast beef … unless you want it.”

      I shook my head and passed him a baggie. “Want a juice box?”

      “Not right now.”

      “Rule number two,” I said.

      He opened the baggie, pulled out the sandwich and took a bite the size of a small town. Then he looked over at me, chewing and nodding like he was ready to hear the rule.

      I started unwrapping a cheese and jam. “We switch up on the music every couple of hours. If I have to listen to that shit all the way to wherever we’re going, my brain will turn into Cream of Wheat.”

      “Not a bad rule. You say ‘shit’ in front of your mom?”

      I shook my head and bit into the sandwich.

      “Then maybe you shouldn’t say it in front of me.”

      “Is that a rule?”

      “Not a rule. A suggestion. Don’t talk with your mouth full. That’s a rule.”

      “You asked me a question.”

      “Good point.”

      “And your mouth is full.”

      “Was full.” He opened it and showed me, which was about as mega-gross as you can get.

      “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

      “Why don’t you switch up the music? You remember, rule number two?”

      I messed with the radio for a while until I found a rock station. I listened to a couple of songs — one oldie, Fleetwood Mac, I think, and “Rock Star” — Nickelback. I wasn’t a big Nickelback guy, but it was way better than what we had been listening to. I looked at my watch. “Twenty after one. You can change it back at twenty after three. I’m giving you a break. We had country a lot more than two hours.”

      “Gettin’ more like a buddy movie all the time.”

      “No, it isn’t, you know why?”

      He looked in the rear-view mirror and shrugged.

      “Because in a buddy movie both buddies know where they’re going. I don’t know sh—crap.”

      “Fair enough. I’ll tell you at twenty after three.”

      “Why then? Why not now?”

      He nodded at the truck’s radio. “I don’t want to take away from your two hours.”

      I reached out and hit the on-off button. Silence. “I’d like to know now.”

      He crumpled up the baggie from his sandwich and flipped it over his shoulder into the back seat. “Minneapolis.”

      “Minneapolis.”

      He nodded.

      “Why Minneapolis?”

      “Airport.”

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