Dan Versus Nature (2 page)

I shake my throbbing head. “You don’t owe me anything, Charlie. We’re friends. That’s what friends do.” I rub my sore ass. “Is it really worth it, though? Just to get a dig in?”

Charlie laughs, then coughs, droplets of crimson spraying from his mouth. “I like being the thorn in their collective paw. Besides, it’s an adrenaline rush. Makes me feel alive.” He pounds his fist against his chest like a warrior, then grimaces in pain.

“Couldn’t we just go to Six Flags and ride the Barracuda?”

“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Always looking for the easy way out.” He pulls out the bottle of Purell that’s permanently tucked into the front pocket of his pants, squirts a quarter-size blob into his palm, then waves the hand sanitizer at me. “Decontaminate?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. Don’t you think it’d be more sanitary not to get beat up in the first place?”

Charlie laughs. “You can’t avoid germs, my good man. You can only destroy them.” He slathers the alcoholic goo all over his hands and then proceeds to dab some on his split lip. “You should really take some of this. I need you alive and healthy if you’re going to be fighting by my side during the coming zombie apocalypse.”

“Right. We can’t even fight off regular people. You think we stand a chance against zombies?”

“It’s all in the planning, my apprehensive friend. With enough ammunition, food stores, and an impenetrable bunker, I’m pretty sure we can handle the undead.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I say. “Besides, my aunt Agnes says we need to be exposed to lots of bacteria so our immune systems can grow stronger.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Sure. Believe that. Then Google ‘necrotizing fasciitis’ and let me know if you still want to take your chances.”

I trudge up my driveway, past Mom’s white Nissan, and check my reflection in the side mirror. I tug a strand of hair over my right temple to cover the red welt that’s blossomed there. The only conspicuous evidence from this afternoon’s thrashing.

The nice thing about being a klutz is that Mom buys my excuses every time. But at this point I’m running out of things I could have “bumped into” at school. With any luck Mom’ll be too busy — doing dishes, practicing her fly-fishing cast, or studying hockey box scores — to notice my head wound.

“That you, honey?” Mom calls out the second I step through the front door.

So much for being preoccupied. I sigh and dump my backpack on the floor of the entryway.

“Yeah,” I call back. “It’s me.”

“Could you come into the kitchen for a sec?”

There’s a warm ginger scent in the air. Mom’s been baking. Which means either she’s happy about something or wants to bribe me. Possibly both.

I tug off my coat and hang it up. Kick off my sneakers and proceed to trip over the stupid things as I step into the family room. Typical. I hobble past the couch and TV, this afternoon’s beating settling into a dull, full-body throb.

“Dan?” Mom calls out.

“On my way. I’m a little sore today.” I turn the corner and step into the fluorescent glow of the kitchen. “Stupid me, I fell down the stairs at school again and —”

I jerk to a stop. There, standing next to Mom, is Wolverine. Or a very reasonable facsimile.

“This is Hank,” Mom announces, beaming, her hands outstretched like she’s presenting me with a fabulous prize. “I told you he was coming over today, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Of course I didn’t remember. Otherwise I would have come up with a more manly excuse for my injuries.

“Hey,” I say, stepping forward, swiping my sweaty palm on my pant leg before I extend it. “Dan.”

“Right,” Wolverine says, his voice a radio baritone. “Hank. Langston.” He takes my hand — his palm desert-dry — and shakes it a little too firmly as he meets my eyes with his piercingly clear baby browns. “Great to meet you.”

“You too,” I lie, flexing my fingers to make sure nothing’s fractured.

Jesus. Mom’s flashed me a picture or two on her phone, but I sure didn’t expect this . . . this Men’s Wearhouse model.

“Your mom’s told me tons about you,” Hank says.

“Same.” I force a smile, trying to recall this one’s particulars. Hank Langston. The world’s most attractive dentist. College football star. Mountain climber. And fearless bear hunter. Terrific. I wonder how many scrawny graphic novelists
he
beat up when he was in high school.

“Well, hopefully she speaks as highly of me as she does of you.” Hank gazes lovingly at Mom. “She’s super proud. Brags all the time about what an amazing artist you are. I’d love to see some of your work. I’m impressed by anyone who can draw. I can barely doodle a stick figure.”

Hank chuckles at his little quip, but I’m not buying the chummy act for a second. I’ve seen it
way
too many times before.

It’s unfortunate, really. They actually look halfway decent together, Hank and Mom. They have a sort of Outback Ken and Barbie thing going on. But it won’t last. Hank will turn out to be a deadbeat. Or an alcoholic. Or an adult baby.

Or just a plain old dick.

They always do.

Poor Mom. It started in high school with Dad — a deadbeat
and
an alcoholic — and hasn’t gotten any better in the fifteen years since she birthed me. I feel bad for her. Beyond being not so bad-looking — for a mom, anyway — she’s also good-hearted. She deserves to find someone who appreciates her.

Of course, she doesn’t help her cause any with her chameleon act — studying up on things she never cared about before, all in an attempt to get a guy to stick. She’s clawed her way through
Ulysses,
tried learning to speak Mandarin, downloaded and listened to hip-hop music, subscribed to
Stained Glass Quarterly,
taken square-dancing lessons. She even got a tattoo of a baby meerkat on her ankle when she was dating some schmo from the Kalahari Meerkat Project.

You’d think she would have learned by now.

But it doesn’t seem like it. Not if the new teeth-whitening kit, copies of the
Hockey News,
and
Man vs. Wild
Blu-ray box set are any indication.

“So,” I say, just to say something.

“So,” Mom echoes.

The awkwardness in the kitchen swells like a septic boil.

I force another smile. Tuck my hands into my front pockets and rock back on my heels.

“I made cookies.” Mom gestures at a platter of marshmallow gingersnaps in the middle of the table. Three small plates and three glasses of milk have been strategically set out on flowered place mats. “Your faves.”

“Cool,” I say, though my stomach tightens. Why do I feel like I’m about to be told our dog just died? Even though we don’t have a dog.

“Shall we partake?” Hank suggests, stepping toward the table.

Mom nods. “Let’s.”

They slide out chairs and take their seats in perfect sync, almost like they’ve rehearsed it.

I don’t want to be rude, but honestly, the last thing I want to do right now is sit down with Mom and the macho dentist and make small talk over milk and cookies.

But I don’t see as I have much of a choice.

“Sounds good,” I say, pulling out my chair and plopping down. I grab a cookie and immediately take a huge bite so I don’t have to talk.

Mmm.
I always forget how they melt in your mouth, Mom’s gingersnaps, all sweet-spicy goodness. Definitely bribe-worthy.

Depending on the request, of course.

Hank reaches over and takes four cookies. He places two on Mom’s plate and the other two on his own.

How gallant. I bet he’s got a wife and brood stashed away somewhere. Or has a prison record. Or likes to sit on your head and rip toxic buck snorts.

“As someone whose whole world is oral hygiene,” Hank says, “I should probably be a better example here. But I have a sweet tooth the size of a blue whale. Let’s just say we’ll all brush afterward.” He laughs, and then he does something so unspeakably disgusting that it’s all I can do not to bolt from the table and barricade myself in my room: he crumbles his cookies into little bits and submerges them in his milk.

What. The. Hell?

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Hank explains. “I’m an extreme dunker. I know it’s not the classiest thing in the world, but I’ve done it ever since I was a kid. You let ’em get real mushy and then you drink them down with the milk. Sort of like a cookie shake.”

I retch. “Or
baby
food,” I say, glancing at Mom for a reaction.

But she doesn’t get the reference. Nor does she seem revolted by the desecration of her special cookies.

Instead, she just smiles and says, “This is cozy, huh?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I shove the rest of my cookie into my mouth so I can get the hell out of here.

“So, Dan. We have something we wanted to tell you.” Mom takes a deep breath. She looks over at Hank. “Do you want to —?”

“No, no.” Hank shakes his head and wipes a blob of milk-soaked gingersnap from his lip. “You go ahead. It’s your . . . you know.”

“OK.” Mom laughs nervously, shifting her cookies on her plate. “Well. All right. So. As you know, Hank and I have been dating for a while now . . .”

Oh, Christ. Is that what all this is about? This cookie defiler is going to be moving in with us? That’s just what I need — another one of Mom’s freeloading man-child boyfriends eating all our food, shedding body hair in the shower, and stealing money out of my change jar.

“I realize this is the first time you’re meeting Hank,” Mom continues, placing her hand on his woolly arm. “But things between us have gotten pretty serious, and . . .” Mom takes another deep breath.

“And?”
I say, because, really, I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible so I can go hide in my room. Maybe search for the earplugs I haven’t had to use since the last grunting loser took off, leaving cigarette burns in our couch and a thousand-dollar pay-per-view porn bill.

“And . . .” She glances over at Hank and smiles. “Well . . . we’re engaged.”

I blink hard. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Hank and I . . . are getting married.”

Her words punch me in the gut. A mass of gingerbready hurl rises in my throat.

I shake my head. “Wait. You guys . . . You’ve only been dating for a couple of months.”

“It’s three and a half months, actually,” Mom says. “I know it seems fast, but I told you from the very beginning that I thought Hank was the real deal.”

Right. Like I haven’t heard that before. “When did this happen?”

“Last night,” Mom says. “During our Valentine’s Day dinner. It was totally unexpected, but it all just felt so
right.
” She thrusts her left hand at me to display the ginormous diamond ring on her finger. Jesus, how did I miss that? “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“It’s . . . um . . . big.” And fake, probably. Hank claims he’s a dentist, but a thousand bucks says it eventually comes out that he’s involved in something only
vaguely
dental related.

A receptionist at a dentist’s office. Or a toothbrush sales rep. Or the ever-popular “No, no, no, I never said I
was
a dentist. I said that I
go
to the dentist. Because I’m concerned about good dental health.”

I look over and stare at my future stepdad. College football star. Extreme cookie dunker. Alligator wrestler.

Rick Chuff all grown up and ready to make my life a living hell.

I clutch the edge of my chair, the kitchen becoming a Tilt-A-Whirl.

“I realize this may seem fast to you, Dan,” Hank says.

“What? Fast? No, it’s — it’s great. Three months is . . . plenty of time.”

“The thing is,” Hank says, “when you get to our age, you sort of know what you want in a partner.”

“And what you don’t,” Mom adds.

Hank smiles shyly at Mom. “And you recognize pretty quickly when you’ve found someone truly special.”

“Yeah. No,” I say, the back of my neck sweating. “It’s great. I mean, it’s a little . . . surprising and all, but . . . if you both think —”

“We’d like your blessing, of course,” Hank says.

Now? You’d like my blessing
now?
What about before you bought the ring, jackass? What about before you freakin’
proposed
?!

“No. Yeah. No. I mean, if my mom’s . . . happy, then . . . I’m . . .” I swallow my scream. “Congratulations.”

I glance at the window over the kitchen sink, tempted to make a run for it. Dive through the glass and race all the way down to Mexico or Peru or wherever the hell Dad’s disappeared to, so I can beat the piss out of him for leaving us and making me have to deal with this crap.

“And I’d greatly appreciate it,” Hank says, “if you’d be my best man.”

“Your —” I cough. “Your best man? Why? Don’t you have any friends?”

Let me guess: You’re a loner? A loser? A drifter? The quiet neighbor who buries bodies in his backyard?

Hank laughs. “Of course I have friends. And they’ll be in the wedding party. But I thought . . . well . . . I thought it might be nice if we all stood up at the altar together. As a new family.” Hank shrugs. “Only if you’d like to, though. No pressure. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“No. Yeah. It’s . . .” I look over at Mom, who’s beaming, all hopeful. “That’d be . . . great.”