by Lubar, David
Jason laughed and held out his hand. “Pay up, chump. You mentioned school.”
“No mercy?” I asked.
“None.”
“Give me a break,” I said. “I dragged you from the icy clutches of death.”
“And I appreciate it. But you still owe me a dollar.”
He owed me one, too, from back when he was in the hospital. But I didn’t mention that. Instead, I dug into my pocket and handed him a buck. “Here. Put it in the California fund.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go there.”
“Who knows?” I said. “It might be a good place to spend some time.”
“Think so?” Jason asked.
“Yeah. Be kind of weird, though. Watching the sun set into the ocean. Seems kind of unnatural.”
“Yeah, like putting cheese on the bottom of a burger. I suppose I could get used to it,” Jason said. “You really think you’d go?”
“Yeah. I think I might.” I thought about the world beyond the boardwalk. Malcolm had given me a taste for acting. Santa Monica was close to Hollywood, which was a good place to be if you wanted to work as an actor. Not that I was sure I was crazy enough to try something like that. I smiled as I thought how Mom would react. She wouldn’t be thrilled about me making that kind of career choice. On the other hand, she’d let me work as a Bozo, so anything was possible.
And everything was possible.
I saw that now. You didn’t have to live the rest of your life with your first choice. A choice isn’t a tattoo. You can try things out, test the waters. Santa Monica didn’t have to be forever.
A sense of peace settled over me as I watched the surf creep higher with the rising tide. Life wasn’t a passing mark you had to hook or lose forever. I had time.
Maybe Mom could get a job out there. Maybe Gwen would go to college somewhere not too far away. Maybe I’d even go to college. Become a doctor or a lawyer. Or a scientist. Or maybe even a professor of dunkology.
Don’t laugh. Stranger things have happened.
Acknowledgments
It’s time for some thank-you notes.
This book had a long, strange odyssey from idea to reality, and there are many people who helped. During one of the lean years, Marilyn and Richard Gomes generously allowed my family to spend a week in their condo at the Jersey shore. It was there, on a boardwalk, that Dunk was born. Even then I had help. I tell people I’m the world’s least-observant writer. It was my wife, Joelle, who pointed to a particularly sinister Bozo and said, “He’s just like a character from one of your stories.” I’d recently published a collection that featured various dark and hungry creatures, carnival monsters, strange roadside attractions, and other horrors. She was right. The Bozo was compelling. When I got home, I wrote a chapter about a boy who is mesmerized by such a performance. I even volunteered to take a turn in a dunk tank at a local school carnival, just for the experience.
The chapter sat for years. I wrote other books, mostly fantasy. But I started writing some realistic short stories, too. Those stories inspired me to try a major novel set fully in the real world. The dormant chapter called to me. As I wrote, I felt the unease that comes from exploring new territory. No monsters in this book. No wizards or vampires. At times I was excited. At other times I was positive I was creating hundreds of pages of rubbish. Deep in my heart, I nourished the faint hope that I was writing something special.
Like any highly insecure writer, I sought feedback. Various people were kind enough to read the chapters that I thrust at them. Brian Macdonald was one of the first. Marilyn Singer and the ever-reliable Doug Baldwin each read an early draft and provided many excellent suggestions. Doug’s daughters, Fern and Heather, and his wife, Connie Cook, are also members of my allstar critique squad. Carolyn and Ashley Grayson read various drafts. Dian Curtis Regan provided all sorts of feedback. My daughter, Alison, served as critic-on-demand, sounding board, and brainstorming resource. My wife, who probably regrets ever pointing out that first Bozo, was handed the thankless role of constant reader.
An extremely patient Dr. Matthew S. Pollock, whom I shamelessly cornered in the waiting area of a karate dojo while we watched our kids punch each other, answered dozens of questions about various medical aspects of the book. To his credit he never ran or flinched when I waved pages in his face. Any errors in this area are mine, not his.
Alick Smith III served as my roofing expert. Any leaks are mine, not his.
Once the easy task of writing was out of the way, I faced the hard part: finding an editor. It was Marilyn Singer who suggested Michele Coppola and provided an introduction. Nobody has ever done me a greater favor. Shelly is a dream editor. Her gentle suggestions helped the book grow in many ways. I give heartfelt thanks to her, and to everyone at Clarion, for sharing my enthusiasm. I need to give special thanks to managing editor James Armstrong for lending an ear and an eye that are far more skilled than my own. He caught every ball I dropped.
Anatomy of an Illness is a real book. We all owe a debt of thanks to the late Norman Cousins for sharing his insights. The boardwalk where Chad lives is loosely based on the one I visited. My thanks to the barkers, Bozos, pitchmen, merchants, cooks, waiters, policemen, lifeguards, and visitors who make it so special. Any seedy or unpleasant aspects are entirely my own invention. I love every inch of that place.
Finally, thanks to Doc Watson and J. S. Bach for creating such wonderful music. Their artistry is as much a part of my workday as my cats, coffee cup, and computer.
I could go on. There’s nothing easier for writers than to write about their books. But I’ve already overstayed my welcome. Visit me at my website (www.davidlubar.com) if you have a chance. I can promise you a few laughs.
About the Author
DAVID LUBAR lives in Pennsylvania and is the author of many books for teens and young readers, including the fantasy Hidden Talents. VOYA magazine says: “Dunk confirms Lubar’s growing stature as an author of distinctive, intriguing, and highly original young adult fiction.”