Dan Versus Nature (3 page)

Mom swats Hank’s arm. “See. Didn’t I tell you? Dan’s the greatest. You guys are going to get along like gangbusters.”

Hank is making dinner for us. To celebrate the big announcement.

The menu is a surprise — as if I need any more of those tonight. The only hint Mom would give me is that the meal would center on the spoils of one of Hank’s hunting trips. So, rancid game meat, I guess.

And really, should a guy who spends all day with his hands in people’s mouths be allowed to prepare food? Charlie would
not
approve.

I shift the sketch pad on my desk and drag my pencil down the page in a long, swooshing arc, trying to make the cloak of the Night Goblin flow behind him. The scene is Temple Araxia, home of the Sacred Scarab, one of the seven Bewitching Amulets belonging to Warrior Princess Erilin, supreme and benevolent ruler of Melifluose.

The Night Goblin has already stolen three of the Amulets: Godstone, Noble Birth, and the Onyx OxSkull. If he gets his hand on a fourth, the balance of power will be tipped in his favor.

In this next panel, the Night Goblin is headed for the Temple keep, where he will be confronted by a sword-wielding Princess Erilin, who has been alerted to the threat by Sir Stan Stalwart of Summerhall.

I’m basing my drawing of the princess loosely on this girl I like at school, Erin Reilly. I needed a model, someone who was beautiful and strong but not intimidatingly so, and Erin was the obvious choice. It’s been a bit of a challenge getting her look just right because I don’t have the balls to ask her to sit for me in person, and I
certainly
don’t want to be caught staring at her from across the room for long stretches of time like some creepy stalker. As a result, I have to work off of a combination of memory, stolen glances at school, and Erin’s Instagram feed. She really likes to make goofy faces in her photos, which, while super cute, doesn’t exactly scream Warrior Princess.

I swipe my phone, click the Instagram app, and find a shot of Erin making googly eyes and a fat tongue at the camera. Not great, but better than the one where she’s wearing giant heart glasses and pulling up her nose in a pig snout. At least I can get the shape of her ears and the swoop of her neck.

“Engaged!” I mutter to myself as I draw. Un-freakin-believable. How did I not see that coming?

Well, you never met the dude. Perhaps that had something to do with it?

Yeah, but there must have been signs. I just wasn’t paying attention. I got complacent. And why wouldn’t I? All of Mom’s dates tend to blend into each other. Ryan, Ted, Allan, Jesse, Peter, Hank. Such gentlemen. So funny. So sweet. “The real deal this time.” And me nodding, smiling, and zoning out as Mom blathers on giddily.

Until the day the truth comes out — the other girlfriends, the mean streak, the fur suit fetish — and Mom comes home crying.

Unless they’ve moved in. Then I come home to find her crying on our couch. Or in her bed. Or locked in the bathroom.

But there’s always crying. And yelling.

I don’t see how she didn’t give up years ago. If I were her and my taste in guys was so bad, I’d probably try being a lesbian.

But that’s just the way Mom is, eternally optimistic.

Me, I conceded defeat on the surrogate dad front a
looong
time ago. And honestly, it hasn’t been such a big loss. All that father/son crap — learning how to shave, tying a tie, dribbling a basketball — you can pick up off the Internet, no prob.

It’d be nice, though, if Mom found someone she could rely on before I leave for college. A real partner. Like you see in the movies or on TV.

Unfortunately, this Hank character is
not
that guy. I can just tell. It’s the “too perfect” angle. It’s a dead giveaway.

But clearly he’s got Mom totally snowed.

I sigh and press my graphite-stained palms into my tired eyes. I pull my hands away from my face and look at my sketch pad.

I blink at the picture I’ve drawn. What the —? The Night Goblin has a tuxedo on! And Princess Erilin is wearing a wedding dress and is clutching a bouquet of flowers!

And they’re holding hands!

No. No way. I snatch my eraser and scrub out both their faces. I start redrawing the heads. We’re not at Temple Araxia anymore. Nope. We’re in another part of the city completely, a church miles away where Sir Stan’s mother, naive physiotherapist Sarah Stalwart, is about to wed the evil Lord . . . Fang Plaqueston.

And now Sir Stan is faced with a dilemma: go help Princess Erilin battle the Night Goblin and save all humanity, or race to the church in order to thwart this unholy union which threatens to destroy his entire family. . . .

“I think you’re going to like wild boar, Dan,” Hank says, placing two more platters of food on the table. He’s wearing Mom’s pink cowgirl apron and somehow is able to make it look macho. “It’s what pork used to taste like before pigs were domesticated.”

“Everything smells delicious. You’ve outdone yourself, Boogabear,” Mom says.

Ugh. Cue the string of sickeningly sweet pet names I’ll now have to endure. The last loser was “Crumpkin” and Mom was “Taffy,” whatever the hell
that’s
supposed to mean.

Mom’s broken out her favorite multicolored Fiestaware for the occasion. She takes generous servings of everything: boar chops, stuffed mushrooms, green beans amandine, homemade coleslaw. “My mouth is watering!” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It all looks so . . . hot.” I spear the smallest of the boar chops with my fork. I add a single mushroom cap, three green beans, and a tiny lump of coleslaw to my blue plate.

“Not hungry, Dan?” Hank asks, reaching for the largest chop.

I shake my head. “Charlie and I hit the deli after school, and we had chips and stuff.”

Mom laughs. “Dan’s not the most adventurous of eaters. His comfort zone is more spaghetti and meatballs than haute cuisine.”

“That’s not true,” I say, my face prickling with heat. “I eat lots of other things. It’s just that tonight I’m not feeling so well.”

“Hey, listen,” Hank says. “Don’t sweat it. I’m honored that you’re even trying it. When I was fifteen, I wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t have ‘burger’ or ‘McNugget’ in the title.”

Wow, patronizing much?

Mom raises her water glass. “To new beginnings,” she says. “And to togetherness and family.”

Hank grabs his glass and clinks Mom’s. “Cheers to that.”

They hold their glasses out toward mine, which remains on the table. “Sorry,” I say with an apologetic smile. “It’s bad luck to toast with water.”

“Oh.” Hank looks at me, then at Mom. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s from Greek mythology. They thought the dead left their physical bodies behind after drinking from the rivers of the underworld. So a toast with water is basically a toast to death.”

“Huh. Interesting. Well.” Hank laughs. “Uncheers, then.” He does a little reverse motion with his water glass.

“Uncheers,” Mom echoes, waving her glass in the air.

“I don’t think it works that way,” I say. “It’s like trying to unbreak a mirror.” I scrunch up my face, like I’m embarrassed at having to be the bearer of such bad news.

“Well, I don’t believe in superstitions,” Mom says. She takes a big bite of boar chop and chews with her eyes closed, a look of rapture on her face. “Oh my God, Boogabear, it’s so tasty.”

“Oh, good.” Hank sits up tall and proud, a goofy smile dimpling his stubble-covered cheeks.

I cut the skinniest sliver off my wild boar chop. Examine it on the end of my fork. Sniff at it. Dab it on the tip of my tongue. Then, finally, slip it into my mouth and chew.

I so want to hate it. I want it to taste like rancid pig slow-poached in an old man’s colostomy bag, so I can make a show of “furtively” spitting it out in my napkin.

But it actually tastes good. Really good. Like, the best pork chop I’ve ever eaten. It’s sort of sweet and nutty and smoky.

Goddamn it.

“So, what’s the verdict, Dan?” Hank asks. “Is it yea or nay on the wild boar?”

I knew he was eyeing me. I hate it when people watch me eat. I should have grimaced a little as I swallowed. Gagged a bit.

“It’s . . . um . . .” I trail off. “Interesting.”

Hank grabs his heart like I just speared him. “
Interesting?
That’s the kiss of death right there.”

“Sorry. I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that I’m not that hungry, like I said.”

Hank wipes his mouth with his napkin. “No apologies necessary. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. I’m not one of those clean-your-plate kind of guys. My father was like that.” He shakes his head. “Had to finish everything you were served or he wouldn’t let you leave the table. He liked to give you extra when he knew it was something you really hated. True story, I once fell asleep in a giant plate of liver and wilted spinach. Nothing you ever want to eat. But it does make a pretty comfy pillow.”

Mom chuckles at his joke.

I push some food around on my plate, trying to ignore the siren call of the boar chop.
Eat me, Dan. Eeeaat meee.

I turn to Hank, eyes wide with innocence. “Is it true that dentists have the highest rate of suicide in the world?”

“Dan,”
Mom admonishes.

“What?” I shrug. “It’s what I heard.”

Hank laughs, nods, takes a bite of mushroom. “It’s OK. I’ve heard the same thing. Everyone has. People think because nobody likes coming to the dentist that we have an inferiority complex. But actually, psychiatrists have a much higher incidence of suicide than dentists.”

“But dentists are still pretty high up there,” I say. “Right?”

Mom gives me a cold stare.

“If you look at the data,” Hank explains, “which most dentists have, I guess you’d have to admit there is a slightly elevated percentage of suicide. Though not by much. Certainly no higher than other doctors. And in reality, we tend to live several years longer than the general population.”

“Huh,” I say. “Interesting.”

Guess I can’t count on Hank taking himself out of the picture.

“So, Dan,” Hank says, after chewing and swallowing a piece of meat. “That’s a nice watch you’ve got there. You don’t see many kids wearing watches these days.”

I glance at Dad’s scratched-up Timex, wondering if he’s making fun of it. “Thanks,” I mumble, taking note of the gargantuan man-watch Hank is wearing.

“Maybe that’s what I can get you for your birthday,” Mom says. “A new watch — one that actually works!”

I instinctively slide my left hand off the table, like Mom might actually rip Dad’s watch from my wrist.

“I didn’t know you have a birthday coming up,” Hank says.

What you don’t know could fill a book, buddy.

“Next week,” Mom says. “The big one-six!”

“We should celebrate!” Hank says, like he’s just invented the idea of birthday parties. “Maybe you guys can come over to my place for a movie night or something.”

A movie night with my mother and her boyfriend? I’m not sure I’m ready to party quite that hard.

“He
does
have the most incredible media room,” Mom gushes. “Just wait till you see it, Dan!”

Suddenly, another terrible thought drops into my mind.

I look at Mom. “We’re not going to have to move, are we? When you guys get married.”

“Oh, honey.” Mom says gently. “We can’t stay here. There’s barely enough room for the two of us.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve made it work before,” I insist. “With Randy and Steve and Frank and Tony and —”

“We get the point,” Mom says, laughing nervously. Hank puts a reassuring hand on her arm. “But Hank’s house is a
home,
Dan. We were thinking that I could move my physiotherapy practice to the studio in the backyard. Plus, you’ll have a much bigger bedroom —”

“The second-biggest room in the house,” Hank cuts in. Obviously they’ve talked about this at length.

“And there’s not only a studio in the backyard,” Mom continues. “There’s also a tree house in one of the big elms. You’re a bit old for tree houses, maybe, but it could be a nice place to sit and work on your graphic novels. We could have offices side by side.” She laughs. “Anyway, it’s a really great neighborhood. Very family-friendly. Not like here with Mrs. Nosy-Body next door.”

My stomach drops. “Where is it?” I ask.

Mom glances at the table. “It’s . . . east of here.”

“How far east?” I ask, my heart racing. Silence. “Would I have to move schools?”

Hank forces a smile. “We don’t have to discuss this right now. We’re celebrating, right? Why muddy it up with details we can work out later?”

“I’m not moving schools,” I insist. “No way.” I can’t imagine finishing up high school without Charlie. And then there’s Erin. I’m the closest I’ve ever been to actually talking to her, which means there’s a chance that by the time graduation rolls around, I might have worked up the nerve to ask her on a date. I’ll be damned if Hank “Fang” Plaqueston is going to stand in the way of me and my dreams.

“Let’s talk about this another time,” Mom pleads. “Tonight I just really want to focus on our happy news.”

I nod numbly, but my mind is whirring. This isn’t just an assault on my life, it’s a full-out nuclear explosion. I need to stop this thing before it’s too late. “So,” I say, a heavy pulse in my right temple. “When are the nuptials, anyway?” Translation: Just how much time do I have to disarm this bomb?