Stranger in Dadland

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

The flight attendant knelt in the aisle next to me. “Anything you need, honey, just push this,” she said, tapping the button
clearly
marked for calling the flight attendant. “The boys’ room is down there,” she added, loud enough for-everyone to hear.

I wanted to snap, “I’m twelve, not three!” But instead, I grabbed a magazine out of the seat pocket and flipped it open to a picture of golf clubs. It’s hard to appear suddenly fascinated by golf clubs.

Finally, we backed away from the gate, started moving faster, and lifted off. All of Kansas shrank to dots and dashes before being swallowed by clouds.

I knew my mom had waited to watch me take off. In case—what? Hostile Martians tried to hijack the plane and only Mom could reason with them? Now my sister, Liz, was probably dragging her to the parking lot, which would
remind my mom that it was even more dangerous on the freeway than in the air, so she’d switch worries. Mom was a champion worrier. That was one of the reasons I was glad to be leaving: Worrying is contagious, and I didn’t want to catch any more than I had already.

The man next to me opened his laptop and began typing. His fatness spilled over the armrest between us as if he were inflating. At least he was a man, so we didn’t have to talk. If he’d been a woman, he probably would’ve asked me a million questions, would have been too friendly, babying me like the flight attendant had. Speak of the devil, she was back again, asking if I was okay.

“I fly to California for a week every summer,” I muttered. “My dad lives there.”

“Oh. You’re an old pro,” she said, smiling.

I nodded and looked back down at my magazine, still opened to the golf clubs. She’d think I was either a slow reader or a serious golf fanatic.

What I didn’t tell her was that although I made this trip-every summer, I’d never actually gone without my older sister. But that was none of her business. Let her think I flew alone all the time, between golf games.

“Your daddy must be so excited,” the flight attendant said.

As if I still called him Daddy! Give me a break! But I wondered if he
was
excited. He wouldn’t jump around hooting like a kid, of course, so it would be hard to tell.

When we hit turbulence, my gut lurched to my throat and I clutched the armrests. I heard one lady gasp and a girl
squeak. The man beside me calmly typed along with no expression on his face. I guess he didn’t think we were going to plummet to the ground and shatter in flaming bits on impact.

Had he noticed me grab the armrests? I hoped I hadn’t squeaked like that girl. I relaxed my hands, emptied my face of expression, and made sure my eyes didn’t bug out at the next roll of the plane.

The flight was l-o-n-g. I couldn’t see the movie over the seat in front of me—but it was a stupid movie I’d already seen twice anyway. And the meal was gluey clumps of yuck. It was a relief to look out the window and finally see the gray expanse of Dadland (as Liz and I called it).

They must be having another drought, I thought, because there was nothing green below the layer of smog—just an endless spread of buildings, roads, and freeways.

I reminded myself not to panic if Dad wasn’t there, but the thought made my heart pound anyway. He’d been late the year before last and it had worked out okay. But my sister, Liz, had been with me. She was fourteen then.

Well, if Dad’s not there, I told myself, I’ll just go down to baggage claim, get my suitcase, and wait for him outside. I tried to imagine doing all that without freaking out. I-wouldn’t know what kind of car to watch for, because Dad changed cars all the time, so I’d just have to stand on the curb near the shuttle buses until he honked or waved or something.

I wondered if Dad would be alone. Last year his girlfriend Bobbie was with him when he came to get us. Boy, Liz was
ticked about that. She’d hated Bobbie’s guts, instantly and completely.

I triple-checked to make sure I had my baggage claim ticket as we pulled up to gate C-3. The same flight attendant offered to check my overhead compartment. She must’ve thought I was too short to reach it. I knew I could ask her to help me find baggage claim and all that. But on second thought, I’d rather get lost.

I filed down the tube into the waiting area. It was huge and crowded and hard to focus on. Then I spotted Dad. Phew! He was shoving toward me. I suddenly wondered what to do. Shake hands? I’d
hated
having to hug my crying mom in front of all those strangers at the gate back home.

Dad thumped me on the back, hard. “Hey, Big Guy!” he said. Then he mussed up my hair.

I was definitely
not
a “Big Guy,” but Dad had been calling me that forever.

“Hey, Dad,” I said back.

Then we were sucked into the herd, mooing away from the gate. I felt good. I hadn’t had to hug, I wouldn’t have to handle the whole suitcase business myself, and I was alone with Dad.

It stank of exhaust outside the airport, and I patted my pocket, making sure my inhaler was there in case my asthma kicked up. We crossed to parking lot E. Dad was telling me that he was taking me somewhere special for lunch and that he hoped I was hungry. I was.

This year his car was a Porsche Boxster—a bright yellow two-seater with space in the back for a dog or tennis rackets.
If both Liz and I had come, I guess that would’ve been
my
seat.

Then we were off, moving past bleached-out buildings and billboards. At a red light, Dad said, “Watch this.” He pushed a button and the car shuddered as the top went down and folded itself away.

“A convertible! Cool!” I said, blinking in the sudden glare, wishing I had sunglasses. Dad smiled past me. I looked over and saw a guy at a bus stop give us a thumbs-up. I bet he thought I was just some son out for a ride with his father—and he was right! For once it wasn’t like when I’m with friends’ dads and sort of hope people think they’re mine.

“How’s Liz?” Dad asked.

“She’s good.” I thought about saying more—maybe tell him about Liz’s boyfriend, Jet, or something—but the traffic and wind were loud. Anyway, he didn’t ask for details.

I wondered for the hundredth time what I’d say if Dad asked me why Liz hadn’t come. I hoped I could get away with a shrug and an “I don’t know.”

When Liz had first told me she wasn’t coming to California, I’d thought she just couldn’t tear herself away from her boyfriend. But she’d said, “No, it has nothing to do with Jet. There’s just no
room
for me in Dadland.”