by Don Calame
“What kind of friend would I be if I took advantage of you at your lowest points?” Charlie leans close, his camera bumping my arm. “I do, however, have all the photos backed up on six different hard drives and the cloud. Don’t ever cross me, Weekes. I will destroy you.”
I blink at him, wondering if he’s kidding.
Then he cracks up. “Where’s your sense of jocularity, Daniel? I am, of course, being facetious.”
“Heh,” I say weakly. I’m not exactly sure what I think about this new, cockier Charlie. As if the old version didn’t get us into enough trouble . . .
Charlie’s phone chimes.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Could it possibly be thy leman, thy adoreth, thy one true love . . . eth?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Charlie says, messaging back with just the one hand.
“So, what, you guys planning the wedding already?” I say. “Going to get married and have a gaggle of super-obnoxious genius babies?”
Charlie laughs. “Not us.” He slides his phone back into his pocket. “But it does appear as though Barbara and Max may be heading to the altar rather soon.”
“It boggles the mind,” I say, shaking my head, “how both you and Penelope’s mom managed to hook up on that trip.”
“Speaking of affairs of the heart, how are things between your mom and Hank?” Charlie asks, his expression concerned.
I wince. “Yeah, that.” My gaze drops to the linoleum tiles on the floor. “Not so good. It’s funny how quickly incredible relief can turn to extreme outrage. There was a lot of yelling when Hank and I came clean. Then there were tears. And more yelling. I’m not sure who she was more disappointed in. She hasn’t talked to either of us since Saturday night. But she did take off the engagement ring, so . . .”
“Oh, Dan. I’m sorry,” Charlie says. “I feel somewhat accountable. If I hadn’t goaded you into testing Hank’s parental limits —”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I went along with it. And Hank did what he did, so . . .” I trail off again and shrug.
“Yes, well . . .” Charlie clears his throat. “Small consolation perhaps, however I’m fairly certain that your love life will improve now that I’ve made you famous.”
I scoff. “Infamous, more like.”
“Regardless,” Charlie says. “I would be beyond astounded if you are not chatted up by a large segment of the female portion of our student body today.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one girl I want to talk to, and —”
I stop short, because there she is, behind Charlie, stepping up to her locker with her friends; the only girl I’ve ever really cared about. God, she’s even more gorgeous than I remembered. I can’t believe I ever thought, even for a second, that I wanted to be with anyone else.
It’s Erin.
It’s always been Erin.
I give Baby Robbie a soft squeeze, remembering the promise I made to myself as the search-and-rescue plane flew us back to civilization.
Wish your dad luck, buddy.
Suddenly, the doll is yanked from my arm.
“Owie,” Robbie cries.
Rick Chuff waves Baby Robbie in the air. “How frickin’ adorable. Dolly Has Two Daddies.”
“Cut the crap, Rick,” I say, hoping Erin isn’t seeing this. Not only do I not want to be pummeled in front of her, I also don’t want her seeing me failing to protect our baby. “Give him back.”
“Or what?” Rick laughs, shoving me against my locker. “You gonna throw a jockstrap at me? I told you I was going to get you. And now the day of reckoning has come.”
Just then Baby Robbie grabs hold of Rick’s fat lower lip, pulling it out impossibly far.
“I wuv you,” the doll says.
“Ow! Fugg!” Rick shouts, trying to pull the baby off. He grips Robbie’s arm, looks like he’s going to break it. “Get your hupid bahtard off of may rip!”
As Charlie gleefully snaps picture after picture, I speak soothingly to Baby Robbie, “It’s OK, buddy, it’s OK, you can let go now,” patting his back and continuing to reassure him till finally he releases Rick’s lip.
“Well, well, well!” Charlie chortles, waving his newspapers in the air. “My good man Daniel here takes on a seven-hundred-pound, death-dealing beast whilst ‘’Roid Rage’ Rick is vanquished by the tiniest of toy toddlers.” He shakes his head. “Now you tell me, folks,” he says, appealing to the students who’ve gathered in the hallway, “which of these men is deserving of your veneration and plaudits?”
Rick presses his hand to his lip, then stares down at the blood on his fingertips.
“That’s it,” Rick growls, glaring at me. “Today. You. Die.”
All right. Here we go. My moment to shine. I hope you’re watching now, Erin.
I turn to Charlie and press the doll into his free hand. “Keep him safe,” I say.
I clench my fists and go over everything that Hank taught me — legs apart, arms raised, left hand forward, right hand back, thumbs on the outside . . . I take a deep breath and spin back to Rick —
BAM!
The pain rockets up my sinuses as Rick’s fist destroys my nearly healed nose.
There’s a scream, a flash of light, and a trickle of warmth over my lips.
Then the world tilts and tunnels, and I am gone.
Streams of light start to leak into my vision, like sunbeams through the clouds.
The agony comes next — sharp and strong. My face feels like it recently collided with Harley Quinn’s mallet.
“Uuugh,” I groan, my eyelids fluttering open.
Everything is so bright and white. There’s a figure nearby, but it’s smeary and out of focus.
I try to sit up. A warm hand touches my shoulder.
“Don’t move,” a voice says.
It’s a voice I would know anywhere.
“Am I . . .” I croak, my tonsils stinging. “Is this heaven? Am I dead?”
Erin laughs. “No. But you probably have a concussion. And your nose is definitely broken.”
“Again?” I ease my head back down. “Crap.” I reach for my face, but Erin grabs my arm.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she says. “The nurse will be back in a minute.”
She places my hand on my stomach, her touch warm and wonderful and electric. When she releases my wrist I instantly feel cold, like I’ve lost something essential to my very existence.
“What . . . What are you doing here?” I rasp, my vision clearing a bit. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here. So glad. But why . . .?”
Erin laughs again. “I couldn’t very well abandon you after what you did for Baby Robbie. That was incredibly brave — and incredibly foolish. But I guess you’re the foolishly brave type, huh? Taking on killer wasps and wild bears and the school’s biggest jerk.”
“You saw the paper.” I wince as I recall the front-page picture of pale, scrawny me in my ridiculous boxers.
She nods. “The whole school saw it. It’s pretty amazing! I can’t believe what you guys went through! I would kill to have an adventure like that.”
“Really?”
“Are you kidding? It’s like something out of Dragon Age or Thirty Days of Night ! Scary but cool.”
She touches my shoulder, and a warm, happy glow washes over me again. Erin. My Erin. Gorgeous Warrior Princess. Lover of high-fantasy role-playing video games and obscure horror films. Knitter of adorable little sweaters —
“Oh my God, Robbie!” I say suddenly, trying to sit up. “Is he —?”
“He’s fine.” She holds up the doll. “Though I should probably make him a new sweater.” She tugs at the torn and tattered wool. “This one has seen better days. Oh, and hey . . .” She scrunches up her face. “Did you update his programming or something? He couldn’t talk and grab things when I was taking care of him.”
“Oh, yeah, that.” I laugh — then wince as a fresh wave of pain radiates from my nose. “Sort of. I mean, I didn’t, but . . . It’s a lo
ng story,” I finish lamely.
Erin smiles. “Maybe when you’re feeling up to it, you could tell me. I’d love to hear it. And all about your time in the wilderness too.”
“Really?” I say, afraid I’m hallucinating. “You’d . . . you’d want to hear about that stuff?”
“Are you kidding? Totally! I have a feeling that article left a few things out.”
“Maybe one or two things,” I say, vowing never to let her find out just how much Charlie left out.
“Hey,” Erin says. “Why don’t I put my number in your phone, and you can text me when you’re feeling up for company? I’ll treat you to a mochaccino.”
“O-OK,” I say, digging frantically in my jeans pocket and finally wrestling out my phone. I watch in stunned disbelief as Erin — Princess Erilin herself — adds her number to my list of contacts.
“All set,” she says, handing my phone back to me. “Just relax now. Your parents should be here soon. Your friend Charlie called them a while ago.”
Suddenly I feel overcome with exhaustion. I press my head back against the pillow, the world blurring again. I can’t believe I’m talking to Erin! And I can’t believe she’s talking to me! Why did it take me seven years to get up the courage to do this? This isn’t so hard. It’s actually pretty easy. And nice! So nice. . . .
I close my eyes and feel myself drifting off. . . .
Time passes. I don’t know how long. Then someone rocks my shoulder.
“Dan, honey,” a woman’s voice says. “Wake up. It’s Mom . . . and Hank.”
I open my eyes. Mom and Hank are both standing beside the cot. I glance at Mom’s hand, which is still on my shoulder.
“Hi,” I rasp. “Hey, you’re wearing your ring! Does this mean . . .?”
Mom and Hank look at each other and smile — the big, goopy smiles that I once hated seeing on their faces. Now, though, they fill me with incredible happiness.
“Like you said, Dan, I can’t let a great guy like this walk out of my life,” Mom says, slipping her arm around Hank’s waist. “Besides, I don’t even like hunting. I was just trying to be supportive of his passions. And hey, now I can get my money back on those Man vs. Wild discs.”
“Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?” Hank asks, squeezing my mom to his side. “And don’t you worry. You won’t have to move schools. Your mother and I are going to find a nice house we can buy together in your neighborhood. I don’t really like the decor of mine anyway.” He laughs. “But enough about us. How are you doing? Charlie says you got into a little scuffle.”
“I didn’t get to use the stance,” I mutter, raising my fists, Hank’s watch sliding up my arm. “Or even throw a punch . . .”
“He was very brave,” Erin says, cradling Baby Robbie in her arms. I didn’t know she was still here; she and Charlie are standing in the corner of the room. “This big idiot wrestler was harassing him and threatening to hurt our baby —” She shakes her head. “I mean, our class’s baby doll. And Dan was going to fight him, but he got sucker-punched! He was very brave,” she says again, sounding embarrassed.
“Mom, Hank, this is Erin,” I say. “Erin, this is my mom — and soon-to-be stepdad.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Erin says.
Hank’s still staring at Erin, only now he’s frowning. “Your face is so familiar. Have we met before?”
Oh crap, my real sketchbook! He asked to see more of my drawings when we got home, and I showed him everything: the Night Goblin, Sir Stan, Princess Erilin.
“I don’t think so . . .” Erin says.
Please don’t say anything, please don’t saying anything. Not now. Not yet. Let me be the one to break the news to her.
“You’re not one of my patients . . .” Hank continues. “I’m a dentist,” he explains. “But it’s not the teeth I recognize. It’s definitely the face . . . You’re not, like, on TV or anything?”
Erin laughs. “Yeah, right!”
“Huh.” Hank shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s just so strange. I really feel like I’ve seen you before!”
Charlie clears his throat and steps forward. “If I may interject. It sounds to me as though you’re experiencing a simple case of déjà vu, which neuroscientists have described as a sort of memory-based analogue of an optical illusion located in the hippocampus region of the brain. Occasionally, the pattern-separation circuit misfires, and a new experience — or, as in this case, a face — that’s merely similar to an older one seems identical. In layman’s terms, Mr. Langston, I believe you’ve experienced a bit of brain flatulence.”
Oh, God, Charlie, you’re the best.
Hank chuckles. “If there’s one thing I learned on our trip, it’s not to argue with you, Charlie!”
Mom, Erin, and Charlie laugh. I lean back, wishing I had my sketch pad with me — I’d capture this moment so that I could keep it with me forever.
“I wuv you,” Baby Robbie coos from across the room. “I happy. I sleepy.”
I smile and let my eyes drift closed. My sentiments exactly, Robbie.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing any novel is a leap of faith. You never know exactly how it will turn out (or even if it will turn out). All you can hope is that you’ve set yourself on a decent course and that you have a solid foundation of amazing people who will help you through the dark hours when things get rough. And they will get rough because they always get rough.
I am extremely lucky to have such a group of incredible people on my side, and I would be beyond remiss if I didn’t thank them.
I offer my sincerest gratitude to:
Kaylan Adair, my phenomenal editor, who never remembers quite how much she helps me with my novels. I, however, remember quite clearly, and I know for certain that this book would not be anywhere near what it is today without her wisdom, intelligence, and humor.
Jodi Reamer, my amazing literary agent, whose encouragement and support have been unwavering.
All the awesome people at Candlewick Press. I can’t tell you how lucky I feel to be a part of the Candlewick family.
Matt Roeser for creating such a kick-ass cover.
Copy editor Erin Dewitt for sifting through the text with her fine-tooth comb. Please accept my deepest apologies for making you look up words like “ball sack” and “fecal-scented.”
Ken Freeman and James Fant for helping me kick off this new book.
John Stead, who regaled me with his fascinating wilderness and bow-hunting stories. Also, a big shout-out to his sons, Nick and Michael, who’ve read all my books.
Sophie Goulet, who introduced me to John over a meal of wild boar and bear.
All of the tireless teachers, librarians, booksellers, and parents who have been so wonderfully supportive to me and my books over the years.
My dad, whom I miss dearly, and whose heart (and watch) found their way into this book.
My mom, who keeps pestering me for “that next novel!”
Robert and Camille for their love and support.
Emily, David, Will, Amy, and Ory. Constant sources of love and inspiration.
And, as always, my wife, Meg, the love of my life, my rock, and my champion.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2016 by Don Calame
Cover illustrations: copyright © 2016 by Dorling Kindersley/Getty Images (bear and plane); copyright © 2016 by CSA Images/Getty Images (bugs, trees, and face)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2016
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2015954529
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