We can stop at BookBarn on the way back, Mom says, as if to entice me. BookBarn
is a giant, dusty old used-book store. In the back they keep a stash of twenty-five-cent
classical records that nobody ever seems to buy except me. I keep a pile of
them hidden under my bed. A collection of classical records is not the kind of thing
Ive shown them to Adam, but that was only after wed already been together for
five months. Id expected him to laugh. Hes such the cool guy with his pegged jeans
and black low-tops, his effortlessly beat-up punk-rock tees and his subtle tattoos. He
is so not the kind of guy to end up with someone like me. Which was why when Id
first spotted him watching me at the music studios at school two years ago, Id been
convinced he was making fun of me and Id hidden from him. Anyhow, he hadnt
laughed. It turned out he had a dusty collection of punk-rock records under his bed.
We can also stop by Gran and Gramps for an early dinner, Dad says, already
reaching for the phone. Well have you back in plenty of time to get to Portland, he
adds as he dials.
Im in, I say. It isnt the lure of BookBarn, or the fact that Adam is on tour, or that
my best friend, Kim, is busy doing yearbook stuff. It isnt even that my cello is at
school or that I could stay home and watch TV or sleep. Id actually rather go off
with my family. This is another thing you dont advertise about yourself, but Adam
gets that, too.
Teddy, Dad calls. Get dressed. Were going on an adventure.
Teddy finishes off his drum solo with a crash of cymbals. A moment later hes
bounding into the kitchen fully dressed, as if hed pulled on his clothes while
careening down the steep wooden staircase of our drafty Victorian house. Schools
out for summer . . . he sings.
Alice Cooper? Dad asks. Have we no standards? At least sing the Ramones.
Schools out forever, Teddy sings over Dads protests.
Ever the optimist, I say.
Mom laughs. She puts a plate of slightly charred pancakes down on the kitchen
table. Eat up, family.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...