But this morning Gabe didn't have to worry about his friends seeing him or getting a peek at his family's living room. As he walked down the front steps of Number 22 Cherry Street in normal Willow Ridge, USA, he saw Willis and his dad in their bright new truck, pulling out of their driveway across the street, and looking like they were headed toward the lake. He hoped they hadn't seen him, but it was too late; they had.
“Hey, Gabe,” called Mr. McTeague, waving. “Go wake up your old man. We're going to the lake. See if he wants to come!” He leaned out the window and banged his arm on the side of his truck. From the passenger seat Willis yelled, “You, too, Gabe!” Mr. McTeague nodded and said, “Yeah, you, too.”
Gabe hung his head. “My dad's sick today,” he lied. “Thanks anyway.” Gabe's face felt hot, and he hoped it wasn't too red. He didn't want them to see. He knew they meant to be nice. But he was starting to hate all the nice, normal people in normal Willow Ridge, USA. Why couldn't his family be normal, too? Well, actually, it could. If it wasn't for Dad. He waved limply at Willis and Mr. McTeague as they drove off, and watched the fishing poles strapped to the top of their truck bobbing behind them, as if they were waving goodbye too, making fun of Gabe, and saying “Bye-bye, loser! We're going fishing. What are you gonna do with your dad today?”
“IZ-ZEEEY,” yelled Gabe, suddenly, whirling around. “What's taking you so long?” He glanced at their house and then turned toward his family's own driveway where their dad's car was parked, crookedly, as usual. He probably drove over my soccer ball when he parked like that, thought Gabe. He approached the dirty old car, which seemed dirtier and more beat up than ever somehow, and wondered if that was a new dent along the fender. As he got closer, he felt sure it hadn't been there yesterday, and the closer he got the more certain he was. That definitely wasn't there yesterday, he told himself. Behind him, the front door slammed. Princess Izzy was finally ready to appear. He turned to face her, but before he could say a word, she screamed.
“LOOK,” Izzy yelled. “Blood!” She pointed to the ugly red scrape that stretched along the bottom of the crushed fender.
“Shut UP!” hissed Gabe, looking around to see if the neighbors could hear. “That's just rust, you big baby! Anyone knows that's just rust! And get your thumb out of your mouth!” Izzy's thumb had flown to her mouth, as it did whenever she was scared, and now, as she pulled it out and looked up at her brother, her eyes were full of fear. “Rust?” she repeated, uncertainly. “Are you sure?” She moved around to take Gabe's hand, and her little hand was cold in his. “Of course,” he said, absently. “Anyone can see that.”
But he didn't see that. Gabe was afraid that Izzy, for once in her dumb little seven-year-old life, might be right.
“COME ON, DOPEY” Gabe whispered through clenched teeth. He yanked Izzy's arm, moving back toward the house. “And keep your mouth shut! Do you want everybody to know?” Izzy's brown eyes showed white all around as she looked from the blood-red fender of their dad's car to the neat, shiny homes of their very normal neighbors.
Mr. Santiago, three houses down, was mowing his lawn. “Wave at him,” Gabe said, waving and smiling. Gabe's smile was forced and wooden, but it would look like a normal smile from where Mr. Santiago was, he was sure. Izzy watched Gabe, and did the same. “Now come on!” Gabe tugged Izzy's arm and the two kids ran back into the house. Dad was up; they could hear him talking to Mom in the kitchen. “Ssshhhh,” Gabe warned. Izzy knew what to do; they had done it often enough before. On tiptoe, hardly breathing, they approached the kitchen where their mom had tried so hard to make them a special breakfast just an hour ago.
She didn't hear us; good. Gabe watched from the hall as his mom paced the kitchen floor, a lit cigarette in her hand. He kept Izzy behind him, pushing her back with the hand she was holding so tightly. This must be bad, thought Gabe. Mom never smokes in the house. Dad was smoking, too, but that wasn't odd. Dad did whatever he wanted, whether the kids were there or not.
Mom hadn't heard the kids come in and didn't see them standing just outside the kitchen door. Izzy's hand was still in Gabe's, and she squeezed so tightly he almost yelled at her. But he stopped himself; he wanted to hear what was going on in the kitchen between his mom and dad without them knowing. He put a finger to his lips and widened his eyes at Izzy. She nodded. He noticed what a mess her hair was. Mom hadn't brushed it that morning. Then a clattering sound drew his attention back to the kitchen.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to drink coffee from his “World's Greatest Dad” mug. World's Greatest Dad! Yeah, right, thought Gabe as he sighed loudly. Mom bought that stupid mug and made us give it to him for Father's Day. Izzy gave his hand another squeeze, and glared at him as if to say, “Hey! YOU need to be quiet, too!” Gabe looked back through the doorway at Dad; his hands were shaking so much as he put the cup down on the table—that's what was making that clattering sound.
Dad looked miserable. His eyes were red and his hair poked out all over his head. His clothes were a mess, like he had slept in them. In fact, he had just gotten out of bed. But both kids were relieved to see he didn't look hurt. There were no bandages. There were no big bruises the kids could see. Gabe felt Izzy bouncing on her toes behind him; she wanted to see more.
They heard Mom dialing the phone. Dad stared at her back with empty, hopeless eyes. Izzy couldn't help it; she had to know, so she whispered, “Who is Mom talking to?”
“How the heck should I know?” Gabe hissed back. Dad looked up, finally, and saw them peeking around the kitchen doorway. He didn't say anything, though. It's like he's looking through us, thought Gabe. Mom was still talking on the phone and writing something down on a notepad. “Right,” she said, to the person on the other end of the line. The police? Gabe wondered. Who else could it be? It must be about the car. “Thanks,” said Mom, and hung up the phone with a sigh.
She walked over and put her hand on Dad's shoulder. She rubbed his back and kissed his cheek. Then she looked right at Gabe and Izzy and held out her free hand to them. Izzy broke from Gabe's side and ran to her, holding her arms out to catch both parents in an awkward hug. Gabe took his time.
“Gabe? Come on in, please,” Mom said. “Dad and I need to talk to you both.”
“Oh Daddy, are you okay?” Izzy cried, leaping on him and sniffling into his neck.
“Are you hurt? Are you in trouble? What happened to our car?” Dad hugged Izzy tightly, but he didn't say anything. He looked like he was about to cry, too.
Gabe dragged himself into the kitchen. Let Izzy blubber into Dad's neck, he thought. He had questions, too. But he wasn't about to let Dad know he wanted anything from him—not even answers. Gabe plopped down in the chair across from his dad.
“I know seeing the car with a dented back end was a little strange and scary,” Mom began. Gabe wriggled in his chair, but still he didn't say anything. Dad smiled weakly at him. Gabe glared back. Strange? he thought. Not really. Our car is always beat up because of the way Dad drives!
“Everything is going to be all right,” Dad said. By the way Gabe wasn't talking, Dad could tell he was upset. Izzy was
