Excerpt from Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly by Conrad Wesselhoeft, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

“Hold up! If you mean fly real planes, uh-uh, no way. I have no idea how to fly a plane.”

“Not a plane, Arlo, a drone. You definitely know how to fly one of those. We know that very well. It’s just like your game Drone Pilot. The difference is, we make it real.”

“Dude,” I say, “this is way too much information. And I’m late for school.”

“Sure, Arlo, I’ll check in later. Start thinking about Saturday.”

   Click!

“Yeah,” I say, tossing my phone. “Peace to you too.”

Then it hits me—it’s Lobo’s Uncle Sal again—our local joker and genius entrepreneur. Owner of the best coffee shop in town, and my sky-diving instructor for the past three years.

Uncle Sal has a gift for faking voices. For some reason, I’m one of his favorite targets. Last time, he wanted me to enter a Rocky Mountain oyster eating contest sponsored by the Daughters of the American Revolution.

Lobo would’ve told him about my win yesterday. About seriously kicking SergeiTashkent’s butt, knocking him to number two on the Drone Pilot leaderboard, which I’ve been trying to do all year.

I am now the number one drone combat pilot in the world—the virtual world, that is—until somebody kicks my butt.

In video games, when you reach number one, your butt is out there, cheeks flapping in the wind, for anybody to kick—Sergei-Tashkent, ToshiOshi, IpanemaGirl, anybody.

There are seven billion anybodies in the world.

Just the thought of Uncle Sal . . . I start to laugh. In fact, I laugh so hard I trip putting on my jeans. Damn, I’m late.

Dad walks in, all frayed, scratching, and barely employed. He taps his watch.

“Ass in gear, Arlo.”

“Can I have five bucks for lunch?”

He winces, opens his wallet—puffy with poverty—and holds out three faded ones. Says his daily mantra: “Spend it wisely.”

“Always do,” I say, and snatch the money.

“Don’t forget,” he says. “Snack Shack tomorrow night.”

Dad runs the concession stand at Rio Loco Field. It’s a huge comedown after running a newspaper, but, hey, it pays a few bills.

“Who we playing?” I ask. “Jeopardy,” he says.

“Yeah!” I say, and smack a fist into my palm.

Jeopardy is one of the highlights of the football season. The halftime show is ten times better than the game itself.

I dig two unmatched socks from under my bed and sniff them. It’s been five months since I’ve found clean, folded, matching socks in my top drawer. That’s one little difference in not having a mom anymore.

There are many—many!—little differences.

“And I want to get up to Burro Mesa again,” Dad says.

Excerpted from Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly by Conrad Wesselhoeft. Copyright © 2014 by Conrad Wesselhoeft. Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Books For Younger Readers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.