by Heidi Lang
“You know, I think we’re gonna pass for today,” her dad said.
She froze.
“You sure? You can slip through here right now, won’t cost a thing.”
“Nah, that’s alright. But thanks, Julian. I appreciate the offer, I really do.”
Claire felt like she was standing on a line, and on one side there was nothing, nothing at all. For a second she thought of Wrong Way Jacobus, and how he must have felt when Johnny offered him a chance at the fortune of a lifetime, in exchange for one little theft. Horses . . . for gold. He’d turned it down, too. And then missed the Gold Rush.
Not that it mattered. It was just a stupid story. It didn’t mean anything at all. Still, she couldn’t help looking at that open gate.
“See you this evening?” her dad asked. “I was hoping we could talk about . . . you know.”
Julian sucked on his lower lip, that patch of hair bristling. He nodded. “Brian mentioned you might want to chat. Not sure I have the best news for you.”
“Julian. Come on, we’ve been friends for a long time.”
“I know. I know, man. It’s just . . . you see where I’m at, right?” Julian jerked a thumb at the park behind him. “And, no offense, but I got my degree. I mean, it’s stupid, bunch of bureaucratic nonsense. But . . . supply and demand, my friend.” He shrugged.
Someone called his name, and he glanced back over his shoulder. “I gotta run. But yeah, come on over, and we’ll talk. Right? We’ll talk. You have the address?”
“I have the address.”
They exchanged a few shoulder slaps, while Claire mulled over the “you know,” and the “we’ll talk,” and the “supply and demand.” What was her dad up to?
“Alright, kiddos,” he said. “Let’s roll.”
“Wait, Dad.” Patrick tugged at his shirt. “Wait, we can just go in and—”
“Not today, Patrick. We’ll come back here. Someday.”
Someday. Which meant never. Patrick knew that as well as Claire did.
Patrick hung his head, staring down at his feet. Then he lifted those feet, first one, then the other, and trudged after his dad across the parking lot. Claire fell into step beside him. “Sorry, Patrick,” she whispered.
He shrugged his thin shoulders and didn’t look at her.
“It’s just—” she began.
“You always ruin everything.” He whirled toward her, the fury in his eyes stopping her mid-step. She expected him to start crying, but his eyes stayed hot and dry, and that was somehow so much worse. “Dad is trying. He’s trying. And you . . . you just keep messing things up. Every time he has a fun idea, you just, you . . .” He threw up his hands. “You make it unfun.”
Claire flinched. Unfun. In their family, there was no worse insult. Her dad had a motto. Okay, he had many mottos, but one of his favorites was Be anything but boring. “I don’t mess up every—” she started.
“Whatever.” Patrick spun on one sneakered foot and hurried away, leaving her behind.
“—thing,” Claire whispered. It felt like all the air had left her lungs, her foot still raised as if she had forgotten how to walk in the middle of taking a step. Slowly, she lowered it. Ronnie had basically accused her of not having fun, too.
You always ruin everything.
She didn’t. She was here, wasn’t she? She was living in that stupid van, and she hadn’t even made that big a fuss about it.
But you didn’t help with the van. You didn’t allow yourself to get caught up in the excitement. You won’t even say hashtag vanlife.
Claire swallowed the lump in her throat. It tasted like the river of dust from her dad’s story, and she watched as her brother caught up to him. Her dad tousled Patrick’s hair and then hugged him briefly, before they both disappeared inside the van.
Neither of them looked back. Neither of them noticed her falling behind. Or maybe they did notice, and they just didn’t care.
Unfun.
Claire squeezed her hands into fists, squeezed them until they went numb, but it didn’t help.
CHAPTER 10
They spent the day hanging out on the shore of Lake Erie. Claire sat on the sand and pretended to read a book, but her eyes kept sliding over the words, the pages wavering like they’d been caught in a vicious heatwave.
Her dad and Patrick played in the water and looked for shells. Patrick had been mopey at first, but after his dad pointed out a piece of beach glass and told him about shipwrecks, her brother’s mood had lightened.
Patrick never was able to stay upset for long. No wonder everyone liked him best.
Claire sighed and turned a page. Why did she have to be the way she was?
A wet blanket. She’d heard her dad use that expression before. Never to describe her, though. Her dad never said mean things about her, ever.
Even today.
Sitting there on the warm sand, watching the waves crash and tumble, Claire felt like a wet blanket. Heavy and uncomfortable and no fun at all.
She wasn’t fun. She ruined everything. She was the worst. The worst. The worst.
“Claire-bear, you hungry?” Her dad sat next to her, water dripping off his nose and arms and trickling down his legs. “Your brother is making us all peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with a healthy dose of sand. Good for the teeth.” He bared his in a grin.
Claire shrugged.
“You okay?”
She shrugged again.
“There’s no shame in wanting to follow the rules, if that’s what this is about. There’s no shame in that at all.”
“You don’t follow the rules,” Claire accused.
He laughed. “True, but that’s because I’ve learned that a lot of rules weren’t really made for everyone. But the ones that matter? Those I follow.”
“How do you know which ones matter?”
“If you think they’re important, in here,” he tapped his chest, “then they matter.”
“Even if no one else thinks they matter?”
“Especially if no one else thinks they matter.” He ruffled her hair, the same way he did Patrick’s. Claire pushed his hand away, but her heart felt a little lighter. “My moral compass doesn’t always point north, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Your mother’s didn’t always, either.” He looked away, like he was trying to see her across the lake. “How two such people managed to produce such a responsible kid . . .”
Claire’s skin tightened, like the world was holding its breath. Her dad had brought up her mom, had said something true about her mom. Maybe they could finally, finally talk about her. A real conversation, without trolls or magic. She could tell him what she and Ronnie had found last summer. The photo, the new life, the condo in California . . . And he could tell her why her mom had left them. She opened her mouth—
“Do you think this place is haunted?” Patrick said, spraying sand all over the place as he rushed over, his hands full of beach glass. “You know, because of all the shipwrecks?”
“Absolutely,” their dad said.
Claire closed her mouth again, the moment gone.
“Over two thousand ships, Claire!” Patrick dropped his finds on the sand next to her.
“More than any of the other Great Lakes,” their dad said, “on account of how shallow it is.” He ruffled Patrick’s hair. “Now, what happened to those sandwiches?”
“Oops.” Patrick laughed. “They’ve become sand-wiches!”
“Look at you, getting all clever. Just like your sister.”
Claire waited for Patrick to make some snide remark, something about how he’d never be like her. He was fun, after all. But instead, her brother just smiled. “Want to swim with me, Claire?” he asked. “We can see who goes the farthest out. Loser has to make new sandwiches.”
And for the first time all day, Claire relaxed. It was the same feeling she got when she tightened her hands into fists and then let her fingers uncurl on their own, like that tension she’d created was fading away.
After th
ey were done swimming in Lake Erie, they rinsed off in the showers and then argued with their dad about visiting the Lake Erie Nature and Science Center. “Those are always boring, Dad,” Patrick said firmly.
“Boring? Boring? I can’t believe my ears. How could you possibly find a place like that boring? My child, sprung from my own seed.”
“Eww, seriously, Dad?” Claire had refused to go to the museum after that, too, just on principle, and in the end, he drove them straight to Julian’s house instead.
Julian’s house was small, even smaller than their house. Former house, Claire corrected herself.
“Look at this driveway,” her dad said as they pulled up. “Nice and wide and flat. Perfect for ole Van-Helsing.”
“Can we please, please come up with a different name?” Claire asked as they climbed out of the van.
“Scottie!” Julian practically burst out his front door. “Welcome, welcome! You’re just in time for dinner, and wait’ll you see what I made.”
“What, Chef Boyardee?” Claire’s dad laughed.
“Just like the old days!” Julian clapped him on the back, laughing his loud, braying laugh.
“Wait, really?”
“Hey, you of all people can’t complain. Remember that time you worked in the cafeteria?” Julian cackled. “Worst food I’ve ever eaten, and that’s really saying something. I’m still surprised to this day they didn’t fire you immediately.”
“Oh, they wanted to. But it took them a week to finish the paperwork.”
“He makes a mean crepe,” Patrick spoke up.
“Is that so?” Julian looked their dad up and down. “Well in that case, I’m glad I went all out and added side dishes for you all.”
Julian’s side dishes turned out to be slightly stale garlic bread and a few wilted lettuce leaves pretending to be a salad. And a six-pack of beer, which he offered all around.
“Julian!” Claire’s dad snapped. “Jeez! They’re twelve and eight. They’re not drinking beer.”
“It was a joke. A joke.” Julian waggled his eyebrows, but Claire noticed her dad was not laughing. Julian noticed, too. His eyebrows stopped their dancing. “What happened to you, man?” He glanced at Claire, then Patrick, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
Claire’s dad frowned. “Maybe it’s time for that talk you promised me.”
Julian sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Do you have any games or anything for the kids?”
“Oh, sure, yeah. PlayStation in the back room. It’s all set up. Have at it.”
“Ooh,” Patrick said, jiggling in his seat.
“Go on, then,” their dad said.
“We haven’t finished eating yet,” Claire said. Not that she wanted to. But she kept thinking of that “you know” her dad had said at the park, and she wanted to hear more.
Her dad gave her a look she’d never seen on his face before. It reminded her of the looks Ronnie gave her when she was in danger of violating the friend code, only worse, sharp as a troll’s fingers and twice as scary. Claire got up without another word and went with Patrick into the back room.
“Which game?” he asked.
“Whichever. Your choice.” Claire strained her ears, trying to overhear the conversation in the other room. It was very quiet, but she caught a few words.
Julian’s voice saying something, something, “tight around here . . .” something else . . . “better luck in Elmsborough . . . Mac might . . .”
Better luck? Claire tilted her head.
“. . . not sure about seeing Mac again,” her dad said.
So frustrating! Why didn’t her dad talk louder?
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Water under the bridge!” Julian guffawed. He, at least, was plenty loud.
“Which controller?” Patrick asked.
“Hmm?” Claire blinked, missing the next thing Julian said. Sounded like a question. “Oh, whichever,” she told Patrick.
She thought she heard her dad say something about “the kids,” and everything inside her went still.
Video game music blasted through the room. Patrick tossed a controller at Claire and settled down, his small face scrunched into a very serious expression.
“Can we turn down the music?” Claire asked.
“Nope,” Patrick said. “It helps me concentrate. Plus, you owe me.”
Claire thought of the glimmering rides she’d forced him to pass up and didn’t argue. But she didn’t let Patrick win, either.
He still beat her twice anyhow.
CHAPTER 11
“If you need to use the bathroom, use it now or forever hold your pee.”
“Ha ha, Dad,” Claire said. “You’re so funny. So funny.”
“I’ve often thought so.” He grinned as he got his mattress situated, turning it from a couch into a bed, then pulling the pillows and blankets out from the rolling shelf hidden beneath. “Give me a hand with these sheets, and then we’ll get your hammocks set up.”
They were still in the driveway next to Julian’s house; he’d chatted with Claire’s dad for only about an hour before they called it a night. Claire got the feeling her dad was ready to be away from his old friend. Would she feel the same way about Ronnie, the next time she saw her? Like they’d grown into separate people who didn’t actually like each other all that much?
She thought of those postcards, stuffed into the bottom of her backpack. Ronnie wanted her to illustrate them with the things she saw on this trip. So it would be like I’m seeing them, too, but through your eyes. Would that help her and Ronnie stay friends?
“It’s not so bad here, is it?” her dad asked.
Claire hesitated. She hated to admit it, but it was actually kind of nice in the van right now. They had both of the back doors open, as well as the side door, and a gentle summer breeze swept through their van. Outside, stars sprinkled across the darkening sky while lightning bugs buzzed and glowed in the yard across from them. “It’s . . . survivable,” she decided. “Although I’m still not so sure about these hammocks.”
“They’re comfortable,” Patrick said. “I already tested them.”
“When?” Claire asked.
“I slept in here last night.” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
“You did?” Their dad raised his eyebrows, surprised. “By yourself?”
“Don’t worry, Dad. I checked for snipes first. None of them saw me.”
Claire pictured her little brother, so excited about this newest Grand Adventure that he’d crept out into the van by himself. Her brother, who was scared of trolls, sleeping alone in his little hammock. Guilt washed over her, followed by an immense wave of sadness. She remembered being like Patrick, eager to join in on her dad’s newest fantasy. She wished she were still like that.
No, she didn’t. You couldn’t live forever in a fantasy, in a lie. Claire pulled the edge of the sheet so hard, it almost slipped out of her dad’s grasp.
“Watch it there, Claire-bear.” He tightened his grip, laying the sheet down carefully. “And see? Hammocks are officially Patrick-approved, the very highest certificate of approval there is.”
“Patrick approves almost everything,” Claire grumbled.
“Hmm. Maybe Claire-approved is the ultimate goal, then.”
“Claire never approves anything,” Patrick said.
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse—ah, hey, Julian. I thought you’d turned in for the night.”
Julian poked his head around the side of the van. “Just wanted to get a look at the old beast.”
“Here she is, in all her glory.” Their dad extended his arms proudly.
“Very cool.” Julian looked up and down the small space. “Not a lot of room, though.”
“What are you talking about? It’s downright spacious in here. Right, kids?”
“Right, Dad,” Patrick said. Claire didn’t say anything.
“Well, Scottie, my offer to use the guest room still stands, if you and the kiddos woul
d like.”
“No can do. We’re living the hashtag vanlife right now.”
“Dad, seriously,” Claire muttered.
“Hashtag hashtag,” Patrick whispered next to her.
“Stop it.”
“If we ended up sleeping inside a house on this, our maiden night, well . . . that would make us what, Patrick?”
“Vanlife tourists.” Patrick wrinkled his nose.
Their dad laughed. “Exactly. And nobody likes a tourist.”
“We’re traveling everywhere in a van,” Claire said. “Doesn’t that make us, like, continual tourists?”
“Not at all. As long as we’re sleeping in our van, we’re golden.”
Claire couldn’t see the logic in that, but then, she couldn’t see the logic in a lot of things her dad said. Like the whole troll thing, which had been going on for as long as she could remember. Why? Why trolls? Or this new story, this “Wrong Way” story. What was the point?
“Something wrong with your neck?” he asked. “You keep shaking your head.”
“Yeah, I have this strange pain in it,” Claire grumbled. “He’s about five foot ten and extremely irritating.”
He laughed. “Aww, Claire-bear, we’re going to have so much fun on this trip! Here, take the end of this hammock, would you?”
“Alrighty then.” Julian rubbed his hands together. “See you in the morning for breakfast?”
Claire glanced at her dad. He was making his thinking face, like he was trying to come up with an excuse not to stick around. Was there a Chef Boyardee breakfast equivalent? “Er,” he said. “Well, we’d hate to impose any further—”
“Not at all! Besides, I figured you’d be the one making it!” Julian laughed again, the sound echoing through the van. Claire had never met anyone who laughed as loud or as often. “I have it on good authority that you make one heck of a mean crepe.”
“He does,” Claire said immediately. He might be a weirdo with a troll obsession, but Claire could admit her dad did make a mean crepe.
“Too bad he only makes them on Sundays,” Patrick added.
Julian gave him a strange look, then shrugged. “See you bright and early.” He saluted all of them, then left.