The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [3]
The stew smells ready to eat. I set out a bowl and a spoon on the breakfast counter and go to the fridge to get the milk. I’m just about to take a swig from the carton when the basement door opens.
“Get a glass.” Dad locks the door and flicks the switch on the wall; the hum of the generator stops. He gives me a noogie on his way to the sink to wash his hands.
“Are you joining me for dinner?” I can’t help but let a little snark into my tone.
“I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” He gets another bowl and two glasses from the cupboard. “Did you wash your hands?”
I put the milk on the counter and head to the sink. When I come back, Dad has two bowls of stew ladled out and he’s poured us each a glass of milk. He’s even put out a couple of paper napkins.
“Smells delicious, Nick.” We busy ourselves with eating for a few minutes. When I look up from my bowl, Dad is giving me what I call his visual assessment. Mom used to do this too. Checking to see if I was too tired, or coming down with something. Dad’s visual assessment is much more scientific, and I think he’s checking to see if I got high or something. Still, at least it shows he cares.
“How’s school?”
“Over,” I say. “Today was the last day.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“Wow, time really got away from me.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, Nick. I know I’ve been . . . distracted.”
It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows.
He nods. “I know, I know. Listen, what if we plan a camping trip? We haven’t gone camping for so long. What do you think?”
What I think is that he must be feeling really guilty. Camping used to be our special time together—I loved going with him.
“When would we do this?” Camping with Dad used to be fun. We haven’t done it in a long time.
He looks at some inner calendar. “Hmm, maybe this weekend? I think I could hustle on a few things tomorrow and Friday, and we could go Saturday.”
I picture the scrap of pink paper in my backpack. The scrap of paper with Lara’s address and a little heart—a heart—that she drew herself. I want to go camping with him, but I want to go to Lara’s party too. “I sort of have plans for this weekend.”
“Plans, huh? What sort of plans?”
“There’s a party.”
“Well, there will be other part—”
“I want to go, Dad.” It pisses me off that he’s been buried in that lab for months and the minute he wants to remember he has a son, I’m supposed to rearrange everything for him. Still, I try to soften it for him. “There’s this girl.”
He smiles. “Ahh. I see.” He picks up his spoon again, ready to eat some more stew. “Well, maybe next weekend then, what do you say?”
“Sounds good.” I pick up my spoon too, and we eat the rest of our dinner together in a companionable silence. I don’t bring up the gun. It just doesn’t seem like the right time.
Chapter 3
I wake up late on Saturday—it’s almost noon by the time I roll out of bed. My body clock has already adapted to a summer schedule. It’s sunny, one of those warm, breezy June days that make you glad to be alive and out of school for the summer. When I get downstairs, the light above the basement door is on. I don’t think it’s been off for the last two days. I know Dad’s still alive because he leaves dirty dishes in the sink, but I haven’t seen him since we had our stew dinner together. He’s left me two sticky notes on the fridge. One, left yesterday,