1st 5 Pages July Workshop - Thornton Rev 1

Name: Patrick Thornton
Genre: Middle Grade, contemporary
Title: I’m Counting On You

I’m sitting on my front porch watching Stan, my best friend since kindergarten, toss a baseball in the air and snag it with his glove. The smell of freshly mowed grass is everywhere. Seventh grade is over and I should be summertime happy but . . .

Stan sits next to me, shoulder to shoulder and says, “So, you’ll be man of the house again.” 

“Very funny.” Kind of funny, since I’m a girl. Maybe not funny because I get teased for being a tomboy when most of the girls my age are into makeup and boys. I know Stan is only trying to cheer me up but that’s not happening; Dad leaves today. 

I get to my feet. “I gotta go.”

“Your dad’s going to be okay,” Stan says and adds, “Your mom too.”

“How do you know?” Stan looks down at his feet and wish I hadn’t said that. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for hanging.”

Stan tilts his head sideways and jerks on an imaginary noose. I don’t laugh and his face goes serious. “See ya tomorrow,” he says as I go inside.

Tomorrow. 

Upstairs, I sit on the edge of my bed and try not to think about what life will be like tomorrow. The chart I made matching up the two time zones—here in Virginia and in Afghanistan where Dad will be—is on the wall. I’ll use it to know what time it is for Dad when I’m getting up in the morning or having dinner or whatever. My computer, the only one in the house, is on my desk under the chart. The rest of my room is a scatter of posters of pro ball players and sports stuff.

           

I set there wanting to turn my brain off. I want to put the war—what could happen to Dad, what could happen to all of us—out of my head. 

“Think fast!” 

I look up just in time to grab a video game case flying at me before it hits me in the chest. It’s the new Xbox game Dad and I have been waiting for.

“Nice catch.” Dad stands in my bedroom doorway wearing his National Guard uniform, all brown and green camouflage. There’s an American flag on one shoulder and his MP patch on the other.  People say I’m a girl version of my dad, probably because of our dark eyes and curly hair. And I’m in pretty good shape from lots of sports. I’m hardly any version of my mom. She’s pretty and fragile. I’m not. 

My bed creaks when Dad sits down next to me. “Dill,” he says. 

My name is Dilla, after a great aunt I never met but everybody calls me Dill. Stan sometimes calls me Pickle. You know, because of dill pickle. 

“Uh huh.” I look into Dad’s eyes.

“I know it’s hard for you when I have to be away but you’ve always stepped up and done a great job with your mom and everything.”

No, actually, I haven’t.

“Your mom is getting better but this time will be harder on her since I won’t be able to call her every day like I do when I’m in the States. Phone service might not be so good from Afghanistan. And there’s the time difference.” 

And the war.

I shouldn’t bring this up again, but I do. “If I had a cell phone we could text. Mom wouldn’t have to know.”

Dad shakes his head. “No secrets from your mom.” 

Mom has anxiety issues and what her therapist calls cyberphobia. Tech things, almost anything to do with computers, can trigger a panic attack. She’s okay with the land line phone but cell phones, no way. 

Dad nods toward my computer—the one I had to have for school and the reason Mom seldom comes in my room. “You can email me anytime and we should be able to Skype once I get settled.”  He’s quiet for a second then says, “Remind your mom that letters are on the way and I’ll call her when I can. I know you’ll look after things while I’m gone.”

Gone.

Gone can mean never coming back. I want to tell him how afraid I am about that but I don’t because I know it would start me crying. So I say, “Got it covered, Dad.” 

“I know you do.” He taps a finger on the new game in my hands. “Hang onto that until I get back. Practice up so I don’t embarrass you.” 

It takes some effort but I twist my mouth into a fierce grin and look up at him. “Fat chance.” 

The Xbox is in the downstairs game room in a cabinet out of sight. It was a special Christmas present that Mom agreed to as long as the door to the room is closed when the cabinet is open. 

Dad runs a hand gently over my hair and stands up. “Time to go.” 

“Already?” 

“I don’t want to have to arrest myself for being AWOL.” 

Dad AWOL. As if. Dad’s a good soldier just like he’s a good policeman here in town when he’s not on duty with the Guard. He’s even got medals he wears on his dress uniforms. 

As we what we call ‘The Play Room’, I duck in and open the Xbox cabinet. I know it’s stupid but I give the game Dad gave me a kiss for luck like people do with a lucky penny or a rabbit’s foot. That actually makes me feel better, like it has a little magic that will make sure Dad comes home safe. I give the game a gentle pat before I close up the cabinet.

When we get to the living room Emily is hanging on Mom begging for something and, as usual, not taking no for an answer. Emily is wearing a little pink dress that used to be mine about a hundred years ago, before Mom had her first panic attack. Probably the last dress I ever wore. Mom is smiling down at Emily’s pudgy four-year-old face. But it’s a smile that looks like it wants to be something else. Mom is wearing what she calls a sun dress with bright yellow flowers on it and no sleeves. It seems to hang on her like she lost weight overnight.

“Jennifer, you and Em about ready?” Dad calls to Mom.

Nobody’s ready, Dad.

“Let’s go.” 

He puts an arm around my back and Mom slips under his other arm. As we walk out of the house Emily runs past us to the car. 

The ride to the airport is a depressing. Next to me in the back seat, Emily’s talking to a new doll, sometimes wagging a finger at the thing. Dad is talking quietly to Mom in the front seat. I feel like I’m in a weird, bad dream. Kind of floating but not in a good way. Next thing I know we’re pulling into the airport parking lot.

“Dill, come on. You need to keep an eye on Emily,” Mom tells me. 

Right. While Dad gathers his gear it’s my job to make sure Emily doesn’t run out in front of a taxi or a bus or something. 

Inside the terminal people with suitcases are run-walking while others sprawl on chairs or the floor. The place smells like air conditioning, sweat, sugar and coffee.  I wish there was a pause button like the one for the TV.