Portrait of a friendship

 

By: Kenda

 

 

 

 

 

*This is the final story in the Dances With Rattlesnakes series. If you’re a new reader to Kenda’s Emergency Library, the ‘Dances’ stories might best be enjoyed if read in chronological order.

 

*This story is dedicated to all of the readers who have enjoyed the Dances With Rattlesnakes series. Portrait of a Friendship is rated PG-13 for the occasional use of strong language.

 

*Thank you, Jill Hargan, for the beta read.  When I wasn’t certain if this was a story waiting to be told, you assured me that it was.  In the process, a friendship has been born I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on.

 

*Thank you, Icecat, for assistance with the picture of southeastern Alaska, where the fictional Eagle Harbor is located, and for assistance with the picture that appears at the end of part 8. How fitting that a story centered on friendship, involves assistance from both a new friend, and from an old friends. 

 

*Thank you, Audrey, Jane L., and Jill, for friendship, as well as for the brainstorming session on movies that appeal to teenagers. Thank you, Jane, for being the first ‘official’ reader of this story, after corrections and revisions were made. 

 

*Thanks to Janet of Johnny’s Green Pen website, for allowing me to capture from her photo gallery, the two photographs this story contains.  Thanks, Janet!

 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

 

Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009

 

     There are only a few days of school left, but that didn’t stop my English teacher, Mrs. St. Claire, from giving us an assignment.  All twenty of us groaned at the same time. When a teacher tells you that she’s giving you ten months to complete an assignment, you know it’s going to be something you won’t like. 

 

Eagle Harbor High School has a student body of just eighty-three.  That means that some of the teachers we had as freshman continue to be our teachers through sophomore, junior, and senior year.  Mrs. St. Claire is one of those teachers.  When I was a freshman and complained to Papa about how tough she was, he’d tell me she was tough because she was trying to get her students to live up to their full potential, and then surpass it.  I’d just give him the ‘teenager’s look’ as he referred to it, every time he told me that.  I don’t know how he defined the ‘teenager’s look’ because he never told me, but ever since I came back home from the summer I spent with my mother, I’ve come to realize that Papa is a lot smarter than I gave him credit for when I was fifteen.  Because of that, I suppose he realized the ‘teenager’s look’ meant, “Yeah, right.  How stupid can you be? Mrs. St. Claire hates me.  She hates all kids. She became a teacher just so she could torture kids with tons of homework assignments.”     

 

     By the time I started my junior year last August, Mrs. St. Claire didn’t seem so bad any more.  I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. Most of the kids in my class feel the same way, and as the year progressed, we even started saying she was one of our favorite teachers. I don’t know if we’ve simply gotten used to her, or if we’ve matured since our freshman year, or if she’s loosened up on us because we’re no longer new to her classroom.  All I do know is that I’ve learned a lot from her.  She formed a book club at the start of my sophomore year and made me president of it, without even asking me if I wanted to be a part of the club in the first place. We read books I thought I’d hate, only to discover I was wrong. Or at least most of the time I was wrong.  I’ll never make it through the Scarlet Letter without wanting to slit my wrists, just because watching blood spurt from my veins would be more entertaining than trying read that stupid book.

 

We’ve written our own plays in Mrs. St. Claire’s class, and then performed them. We’ve published a monthly class newsletter, written short stories, long stories, poems – which I hate and totally suck at because I always make them rhyme, even when I try not to, and we’ve written from every point of view possible and then some.  Jake Shipman even wrote a story in the first person point of view as told by his iguana.  It seems whacked, I know, but Jake did a great job of sounding like you’d think an iguana would if it could talk. Mrs. St. Claire even gave Jake an A, and complimented him on being so creative.

 

We’ve kept journals during our junior year, too, and it’s in my journal that I’m recording all of this. Or maybe I should say typing it, since I keep my journal on my computer. A lot of the kids didn’t like this assignment – especially the guys, because they think it’s too much like keeping a diary, which everyone knows is a girl thing. But I’ve read that most of the military leaders in our country have kept journals, including Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee. I’ve also read that a lot of soldiers who fought in the Civil War – just regular enlisted guys - kept journals, and I think that’s awesome.  It gives us a view of the Civil War we never would have had otherwise.  A lot of history would have been lost without those first person accounts scribbled on any scrap of paper the soldiers could find.

 

One of the reasons I like recording things in my journal is because Mrs. St. Claire respects the fact that our journals are private.  She’s never asked to read our entries, and trusts us to follow through with the assignment and keep the journal current during this school year. (I don’t think she should have trusted Ethan Hackstrom or Travis Wieland, but since we’re not getting graded on our journals, no one’s ratting them out.) Mrs. St. Claire said someday when we’re grown we’ll read these entries and learn about ourselves as teenagers, while realizing why we’re the adults we’ve become.  It’s kind of hard to figure out now, but maybe when ‘someday’ arrives I’ll know what she means.

 

It probably sounds like Mrs. St. Claire’s Advanced English Class is all fun and games, but that’s not true.  She makes us do the kind of things English teachers are supposed to make kids do, like diagram sentences, and memorize the meanings to words like macabre and oligopsony, then tests us on them each Friday.  Man, how I hate Fridays.

 

     Because we’ve done all of these things and more, I was pretty confidant that we’d get to coast through our senior year.  The students in Mrs. St. Claire’s senior English class are the reporters, editors, cartoonists, and photographers of the school’s newspaper, so I knew that project awaited us when we return to school at the end of August.  I figure she’ll still make us memorize the meanings to obscure words, and the book club is going to get underway too, because she assigned us three books to read over the summer that are to be discussed in September.  I don’t mind that. I’ve always liked to read, probably because my pops started reading to me every night before I was even two.  By the time I was nine, I was reading on my own most nights before I went to sleep. Because of that, reading three books over the summer is no big deal to me.  I know I’ll have them done before Papa and I go on our annual trip to California in July.  But then today, Mrs. St. Claire gave us another assignment. One she said we didn’t have to turn in until April of our senior year.   

 

     “Each one of you is going to write a book,” she said, as though writing a book is as easy as composing a three sentence e-mail to a friend.

 

     Our groans were followed by exclamations of, “A book!” then everyone started shouting questions.

 

     “How long does it have to be?”

 

     “As long as you think is necessary,” Mrs. St. Claire told Dalton Teirman.

 

     “What’s it supposed to be about?”

 

     “Whatever you want it to be about,” Mrs. St. Claire said to Jenna Van Temple.

 

     “Are we supposed to tell it from the first person point of view or the third person?”

 

     “I don’t know,” Mrs. St. Claire smiled at Tyler Cavanaugh.  “You’re the writer.  You’ll have to decide what point of view best tells your story.”

 

     “Mrs. St. Claire,” I moaned, “do you know how hard this is gonna be?”

 

     “Only as hard as you make it, Trevor,” she said in a way that told me Pops is right.  She is pushing me to do the best job I can.

 

     “Does it have to be fiction or non-fiction?” I asked.

 

     “What do you think?”

 

     I sighed. “It’s up to me as the writer to decide that.”

 

     “You’re learning, Trevor.” Mrs. St. Claire winked at me. “You’re learning.”

 

      Mrs. St. Claire continued to field questions while she passed out what she referred to as Writers’ Guidelines.

 

     “If you ever attempt to be professionally published - regardless of whether you’ve written a short column for a newspaper, a story for a magazine, or even something as lengthy as a book, there are guidelines the publication you’re working with will want you to follow.  Therefore, these are the guidelines I expect each one of you to follow.”

 

     I scanned the sheet of paper Mrs. St. Claire had laid on my desk.  It told us how she wanted our manuscripts spaced, told us we were to number each page, told us that our names were to be on the upper left-hand corner of each page, told us the books were to be typed on a computer and what font we were to use, and told us we were to bind our books. The sheet provided suggestions about what types of binders we could buy at the Office Max in Juneau in order to get that job done without spending much money.  There were also pointers regarding research, a reminder of what plagiarism was, and a sentence that informed us we’d flunk Mrs. St. Claire’s class if she discovered our work was stolen from another source. The one thing Mrs. St. Claire’s guidelines didn’t tell us, was the one thing I was looking for – a topic to write about.  She didn’t even give us a list of ideas to choose from.  Before I could voice my disappointment over the lack of ideas, the bell rang that signaled the end of the school day.

 

     My classmates rushed by me as I slowly stood. I continued to read the guidelines as I scooped up my spiral notebook and English book.  I must have made a face, because Mrs. St. Claire asked, “Trevor, what’s wrong?”

 

     I looked up, and saw that everyone else was gone.  Evidently none of my classmates was nearly as worried about this assignment as I was.  I suppose that makes sense.  In three more days school will be out for the year.  I figured everyone else must be thinking that April is a long way off, and that we might as well enjoy our summer and not worry about the writing assignment until fall.  Usually, that’d be how I’d think, too.  Why I’m not thinking that way, I’m not sure. I guess there are several reasons.  The first being that I’m ranked number one in my class, and will graduate as valedictorian if I have another year of straight A’s on my report card.  Jenna Van Temple is ranked number two academically, so all it’s going to take is one slip on my part and she’ll ease past me.  I like Jenna, but I’m not going to let her take away from me what I’ve been working so hard for since I started high school. 

 

I know graduating number one in a class of twenty students isn’t nearly the accomplishment graduating number one in a class of six hundred would be, but still, the teachers here in Eagle Harbor are tough on their students, and we’ve always scored in the top percentile whenever we’ve taken tests that compare us with other kids in the nation.  Besides, whenever I mention to Papa that being the valedictorian at Eagle Harbor High isn’t anything to brag about considering how small my class is, Papa tells me he intends to brag about it on my behalf, and brag about it plenty.  Pops always gets this look of enormous pride on his face whenever he says that to me, which then makes me work twice as hard so I don’t disappoint him. That’s not to say Papa puts pressure on me regarding my grades, because he doesn’t. But ever since I was in kindergarten, he’s said he expected me to do the best I can in school. Since the best I can do usually means I earn all A’s, I’ve fallen into the habit of excelling at school, and haven’t given my efforts conscious thought in years.

 

     Mrs. St. Claire approached and stopped in front of me. “Trevor?” she asked again.  “Is something wrong?”

 

     “No...no. It’s just that...” I glanced at the guidelines, before giving her my attention again. I’m six feet tall now, and had to look down at the slightly built woman who’s eight inches shorter than me. 

 

     “It’s just what?”

 

     “It’s just that I don’t know what to write about.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed.  “Is that all?”

     “Is that all?  Mrs. St. Claire, come on!  I mean...well...look.” I thrust the guideline sheet toward her. “Have you read these?”

 

     “Certainly I’ve read them.  I wrote them, didn’t I?”

 

     “I don’t know. I guess. . .maybe. Yes.  Yeah, I suppose you did.”  I raked a hand though my hair, not realizing that action, or my stammering, or my upset, or the way I was standing with my left arm out and a pleading look on my face, meant that anyone who knew my father would have told me I was a chip off the old block.  “Look, Mrs. St. Claire, I...I don’t think I can do this.”

 

     “Oh, Trevor, of course you can.”

 

     “No.” I shook my head. “No, I can’t. I mean, it’s one thing to write a short story for you, or even a term paper...but a book?  No way.  I’m not gonna be a writer, ya’ know. I’m gonna be a doctor.”

 

     “And you don’t think doctors write books?”

 

     “Well...yeah, they do.  My mom and stepfather are doctors, and they’ve both written books.”

 

     “See there.”

 

     “But, Mrs. St. Claire, those are boring books. Medical textbooks. Nobody but medical students read them. If I wrote something like that, you’d flunk me for sure. You’d be asleep before you finished the first chapter. Besides, I don’t ever plan on writing a medical textbook. I wanna be an old-fashioned country doctor like my Great Grandpa Hamilton was. Just a guy who lives in Alaska, has a small office, and travels to see patients if they can’t make it to him ‘cause they’re too old, or too far away and don’t have transportation. I don’t plan to work in a big city, or be famous in the medical community like my mom and Franklin are.”

 

     “And what does that have to do with your assignment?”

 

     “Just what I said.  I’m gonna be a doctor, not a writer.”

 

     “Don’t be so sure about that.”

 

     “Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

     “Trevor, you just turned seventeen a month ago. You’re far too young to know what you will or won’t do.  Have you ever read any books by Robin Cook?”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     “What does he do for a living when he’s not writing?”

 

     I knew she had led me right into a trap. When I hesitated, she said, “Trevor?”

 

I sighed. “He’s a doctor.”

 

“Yes, he is.  Robin Cook is a doctor, but he’s also a fiction author.  Therefore, don’t be so quick to tell me what you may or may not do long after you leave Eagle Harbor High School.”

 

     “Okay, I won’t.  But if I’m a doctor, I’m not gonna need a sideline like writing in order to pay my bills and stuff.”

 

     “No, you’re probably not,” Mrs. St. Claire acknowledged, “but who knows? You just might find out you enjoy writing, and someday on down the road you might want to pursue it as a hobby.  Not unlike Robin Cook. Or John Grisham, who’s a lawyer.  Or Tess Gerritsen, who’s a surgeon when she’s not writing fiction. Or Jonathan Kellerman, a child psychologist who writes mystery novels from the point of view of the protagonist he’s created, Alex Delaware.”

 

     “My hobby is gonna be flying.  I’ve had my pilot’s license since March.”

 

     Now it was Mrs. St. Claire’s turn to sigh. I could tell she was getting exasperated with me, in the same way I’ve seen my Uncle Roy get exasperated with my pops, when Uncle Roy is trying to make a point that Papa refuses to see.

 

     “Trevor, don’t be so stubborn.  You can do this.”

 

     “Can’t you give me another assignment?” I pleaded.

 

     “No, I can’t.”

 

     “Now it’s you who’s being stubborn.”

 

     Mrs. St. Claire laughed again.  “Since I’m your teacher, I reserve that right.  You, however, are the student, and a student that I know without a doubt can complete this assignment. Therefore, you’re not allowed to be stubborn about it.”

 

     I folded the guideline sheet in half and shoved it inside my English book while shaking my head.

 

     “I just don’t think I can do this.”

 

     “Well, I happen to think you can.”

 

     “But a book...to write a good book, that’s a lot of work.”

 

     “Yes, it is. That’s why I’m giving you ten months to complete the assignment.”

 

     “It takes some authors years to finish a book.  Some of them never finish their books.”

 

My teacher gave me a knowing smirk. “Trevor, you’re bound and determined to make this more difficult than it is, aren’t you.”

 

“I’m not making it more difficult than it is. I’m just pointing out some things you might not have thought about.”

 

     “Allow me to assure you, I’ve thought of them, and I have no concerns.”

 

     “That’s ‘cause you’re not the one doing the writing.”

 

     “Trevor...”

 

     “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that...”

 

     “What?”

 

     “I already told you.  I don’t know what to write about.”

 

     “If you had half as much faith in yourself as I have in you, you’d already have an idea for that novel and be anxious to start typing it into your computer.”

 

     “Then I wish I had half of your faith,” I teased. I headed for the door with a sigh. “Thanks anyway.”

 

     “Trevor?”

 

     I turned around to face my teacher again.

 

     “Let me give you a little hint.”

 

     “Yeah?” I questioned, anxious for any hint, suggestion, or an entire plot line if it happened to come my way.

 

     “When you begin your quest for ideas, start that quest close to home.”

 

I could feel my brow furrow. “Whatta’ ya’ mean?”

 

“It’s my opinion that the best stories come from within the writer. I’m willing to bet that whatever story you have to tell, already dwells inside of you to a large extent. It’s part of who you are, and maybe through telling it, you’ll even learn more about yourself...or those you hold dear, than you already know.”      

     “Mrs. St. Claire, if I had a story inside of me, I wouldn’t be worried about coming up with a story to begin with.”

 

     The woman chased me out of the room by scurrying toward me and making shooing motions with her hands. 

 

     “Trevor, get going.  Go on with you.  Get home and start writing. Go, go, go!”

 

     I laughed as I ran from the room, but my good humor didn’t last long.  I stopped at my locker and filled my backpack with the books I needed to bring home, then walked out to the student parking lot and climbed in the Dodge Dakota pickup that Papa had bought used and given to me for my sixteenth birthday.  I’m responsible for maintaining the truck, including keeping it insured, and keeping the gas tank filled.  Because of that, I work at Gus Zirbel’s airport as often as I can.

 

I started the truck, put it in gear, and headed out to Gus’s.  The usual euphoria I feel in early June as a result of long summer days finally blanketing Eagle Harbor, accompanied by the end of the school year, was absent today.  Instead, I mulled over the prospect of writing a book.  By the time I reached the airport, I still didn’t have any ideas for a plot.  I suppose I’m getting myself upset over nothing, which my Uncle Roy says I’m good at doing in the same way my father was when he was younger.  Obviously, it’s unrealistic of me to expect I’d come up with an idea for a book thirty minutes after receiving the assignment, but as I drove to the airport I was sure Jenna Van Temple had a plot churning in her head, and was already home outlining it. And because of that, I’m certain my chances of being class valedictorian are hopelessly lost.

 

     I slammed my truck door and walked toward the hanger with my head bent and my shoulders slumped. It wasn’t until I heard Gus say, “Hey, Trev, you wanna test a new plane with me today?” that I lifted my head and smiled. 

 

I shoved thoughts of book writing aside as I soared through the clouds with Gus as my co-pilot. If I had a story inside me to tell like Mrs. St. Claire said, I couldn’t imagine what it was.  As I flew over the mountains that bordered Eagle Harbor on the east, and then banked the plane and soared over the ocean that bordered the town on the west, I momentarily forgot about the book.  I smiled as we flew over the roof of the fire department – the place I thought of as my second home.  I recognized Carl and my pops standing out in the back lot, and tilted a wing in greeting.  I was flying low enough now that I could see Papa look up and wave.  He couldn’t see my face, but he knew by my actions who was piloting the plane. I grinned, and then flew on.  The June sun glinted off the mountains.  It reminded me of how much I loved Alaska, and how much I’d come to realize that my life was here in the Last Frontier State, and always would be. 

 

The vastness and natural beauty of Alaska can’t really be appreciated until you’ve seen it from the air.  No matter what Mrs. St. Claire says; flying will always be my hobby.  Yeah, some doctors write books, but I’m not going to be one of them. 

 

 

Friday, June 5th, 2009

 

     School ended for the year at noon today.  I stopped by Papa’s office at the fire station to show him my report card.

 

     “This is great, Trev.” He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a sideways hug. “I’m really proud of you.”

 

     “Thanks.”

 

     “What’s with the glum, ‘thanks’? You make it sound like this report card is filled with F’s instead of A’s.”

 

     “I might get an F next year.”

 

     “Come again?”

     I sighed, which I seemed to be doing a lot of lately.

 

“Nothin.’ Forget it.”

 

     I could feel him studying me and trying to gauge my mood.  We’ve come a long way since my freshman year.  Back then, Papa’s scrutiny would have ticked me off and caused me to lose my temper, which in turn, would have caused Papa to lose his temper, and would have made me storm out of the fire station after we got done yelling at one another.  Papa’s learned how to handle a teenager better than he did in those days, and I’ve learned how to be a teenager in my father’s house better than I knew how to be back then.  Because of what we’d both learned together, he didn’t push me to explain my remark, but instead said, “Let’s go to the diner and have lunch.”

 

     “I have ta’ be at work at two.”

 

     “We’ll be done before then,” Papa assured me.

 

We walked to the kitchen that’s shared by the Eagle Harbor Police and Fire Departments.  I said hi to everyone sitting around the table, while Pops let his employees know where he was going. 

 

     Carl Mjtko entered from the hallway that led to the police department. He’s Papa’s best friend here in Alaska, and Eagle Harbor’s police chief. Carl’s mother, Clarice, has been our housekeeper ever since we moved here when I was a year old.  She doesn’t baby-sit for me any more, but she still cleans and cooks for us, and stays with me on the nights Papa pulls a twenty-four hour shift.  I don’t think she needs to – I’d be fine staying all night by myself, but that’s an argument I’ve lost a number of times since I turned fourteen, and one I’ve finally quit instigating.  Besides, Clarice is both a mother and grandmother to me in many ways, so I don’t want to hurt her feelings by making her think I don’t need her.  In another year, I’ll be graduating from high school. At that time, Clarice’s employment with Papa will pretty much be over, except for the two or three days a week he’ll keep her on to clean and do some cooking.  Not that he’ll really need her to do those things when I’m away at college, but Papa doesn’t want to hurt Clarice’s feelings any more than I do.

 

Carl greeted me with a, “Hey, Trev!”

 

“Hi, Carl.”

 

Carl poured a cup of coffee, then leaned back against the counter top.  “So, did you give your pops a report card filled with A’s again?”

 

My eyes dropped to the tiled floor. “Yeah.”

 

Carl chuckled. “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

 

“I’m happy about it.”

 

“Coulda’ fooled me.” 

 

Carl has never married and doesn’t have any children, therefore he looks upon me as the son he’s never had.  Or so Clarice has told me on several occasions.

 

Carl stuck his broad chest out as though my accomplishments were a direct credit to him. “You guys know you’re lookin’ at Eagle Harbor High’s next valedictorian, don’t you?”

 

There was laughter around the table, where a lunch of barbequed meatballs and buttered noodles was just getting started. 

 

Crazy Kenny said, “I think Chief has mentioned that a few times in the last year.” 

 

Rick LaMeer teased, “A few times? At last count we were up to one hundred and five.”

 

Everyone laughed, even Papa, while I stood there turning red and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. I wasn’t mad at Papa or anything – I know how proud he is of my grades and all, but the expectations weren’t something I wanted to hear considering the worries on my mind.  Now I felt like not only will I be letting Papa down if I’m not class valedictorian next year, but I’ll be letting down the entire fire and police departments, too.

 

Papa put his arm around my shoulders again. “Obviously, my son didn’t inherit the ‘brag gene’ from his old man.”

 

“Obviously,” Carl teased.

 

We said goodbye to everyone and turned for the hallway.  Papa never dropped his arm as we walked past his office, through the apparatus bay, and out the service door.  We stopped to check for traffic, even though the word ‘traffic; is misleading considering how quiet the streets in Eagle Harbor are on most days during lunch hour.  We could probably cross the road a dozen times with our eyes closed before our luck would run out and we’d be hit by a car.

 

Because it was twelve-thirty, Donna’s Diner was busy.  Everybody in Eagle Harbor knows my pops. He responded to greetings of, “Hi, Chief!” and “Hi, John!” as we headed for a distant table. Our progress was stopped several times when people engaged Pops in conversation. My grades were brought up again when Papa told Eagle Harbor’s mayor, Jim Beaumont, that we were having lunch to celebrate my report card. 

 

“Straight A’s again, Trev?” the rotund mayor winked and elbowed me in the ribs. 

 

On most days I love living in Eagle Harbor, but every so often I realize the drawbacks to small town life.  It seemed like all six thousand residents knew about my grades, and in truth, many of them probably did.

 

As we walked away from Mayor Beaumont and the town’s councilmen he was seated with, I rolled my eyes and said out of the corner of my mouth, “Please don’t tell anyone else about my grades.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Just don’t.”

 

“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.  Just the opposite. You should be proud.”

 

“You’re proud enough for both of us.”

 

“Well, if you’re not gonna blow your own horn, then I have to blow it for you.”

 

“Papa,” I pleaded with just that one word.

 

Papa laughed.  “Okay, okay.  I won’t say anything else about your grades...until I call your Uncle Roy, and your grandfather, and your Aunt Reah. Or aren’t I allowed to brag about you to them, either?”

 

“I guess that would be okay.” I pulled out a chair at the small table for two in a back corner and sat down beneath the caribou head that hung on the wall above my seat. “Just don’t call any of ‘em when I’m around.”

 

“No promises there. They’ll all wanna talk to you.”

 

I didn’t argue further.  My grandpa’s eighty-eight years old, so given his age, you never know when he might not be around to talk to any longer. Or so Papa has been telling me for the last couple of years now.  Aunt Reah is Pops only sibling and doesn’t have any kids of her own, so my accomplishments mean a lot to her, like they do to Carl. And Uncle Roy...well, he’s been Papa’s best friend longer than anyone else, and I have a lot of respect for him, so if Papa was going to make me tell Uncle Roy about my grades, I figured I could live with that. Besides, better than anyone else, Uncle Roy knows how Papa is.

 

     Donna, the owner of the diner, hustled over to take our order. She always gives us extra helpings no matter what it is we want.  Even if we just order cheeseburgers and French fries, like we did today, our burgers are thicker than anyone else’s, and our plates are heaped with fries.  Carl says that’s because Donna has wanted to date Papa ever since we first moved to Eagle Harbor.  I think sixteen years is a long time for a woman to have a thing for a guy who has no interest in her beyond raving about her cooking, but since Kylee and I started going steady, I’ve learned that women aren’t always easy to figure out.

 

     Donna squeezed her way through the tables. Her hips are as a wide as a barn door, which means she likes her cooking as much as Papa does.  She gave Papa a big smile that he returned. 

 

     “How are ya’, Chief Gage?”

 

     “Fine, Donna.  How’re you?”

 

     “I’m doin’ okay.” Donna shoved a thick patch of gray curls behind one ear and thrust her right hip sideways.  I think she was trying to be sexy, but if she was, it was lost on Papa. Or maybe he just ignored her hints. “There’s a good movie playing on Friday night.”

 

     That’s what Donna says every time she sees Papa, just like he always says in reply, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke to drink. How about you, Trev?”

 

     “I’ll have the same.”

 

     Donna scribbled our order on her pad. If it bothered her that Papa had once again deflected her offer of a date, you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. 

 

     “Say, Donna, you should see Trevor’s report card.”

 

     Papa started to pull my folded report card from his shirt pocket, but I kicked him under the table.  He’d just told me he wasn’t going to mention my grades to anyone else in Eagle Harbor, and already he was blowing it.

 

     “Sure, I’d love to have a look.” She smiled at me in the same way she’s been doing for years. As though being my stepmother would be second best only to being my father’s wife.

 

     “Uh...” Pops looked at me and saw me shaking my head.  “Guess I don’t have it with me after all.  Musta’ left it in my office.”

 

     “You can show me later.  Maybe on Friday night?”

 

     Pops countered the offer of the potential date. “How about those Cokes?” 

 

     And with that, Donna turned on the heel of her New Balance walking shoes, weaved her way between tables, and told one of the waitresses to get our drinks.

 

     “Now you’ve upset her,” Papa scolded me. “We probably won’t get extra fries today.”

 

     “I didn’t upset her. You upset her when you wouldn’t agree to show her my report card on Friday night.”

    

     Papa waved a hand at me in dismissal.  I never have figured out if he’s caught on to how interested Donna is in him, or if he thinks it’s all a joke on her part.  If he’s caught on, he’ll never admit it, because he knows how much the guys he works with will tease him about it, which is why I think he’s been feigning ignorance where Donna is concerned for years now.

 

     Mrs. Schwitec, an older lady whose husband was one of Papa’s volunteer firemen until he died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, brought us our Cokes. She talked to Papa and me for a minute, then hurried off to wait on other customers.

    

     The noise level in the restaurant rose as the bell over the door dinged over and over again, signaling the arrival of more people.  Pretty soon, every table and seat at the counter was filled.  Because we were at the back of the room, Papa and I could talk without shouting, but at the same time, no one could overhear our conversation.

 

Pops took the paper off his straw and stuck the straw in his Coke.  He took a long drink, then set his glass back on the table.  I did the same.  When my mouth was no longer filled with soda, my father asked, “So, what’s this about you getting an F next year?”

 

“I said a might get an F.”

 

“Okay, so you might get an F. Since you’ve never gotten an F, maybe you wanna explain that remark to me.”

 

“I don’t want to.  Like I said at the station, forget it.”

 

“Trev...”

 

I played with my glass, rubbing my finger over the cold condensation on the outside of it.  I could feel Papa staring at me.  The tone of his voice told me he wasn’t going to take “forget it” for an answer.

 

“It’s Mrs. St. Claire.”

 

“What about Mrs. St. Claire?”

 

“She gave us a stupid assignment.”

 

“Whatta ya’ mean she gave you a stupid assignment?  School’s out for the year.”

 

“I know. But she gave us an assignment that’s due next April.”

 

“Oh. Well, I don’t know what you’re so worried about then. Sounds to me like you’ve got plenty a’ time to get it done.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.  If I didn’t have to write a book.”

 

“A what?”

 

“A book.”

 

“You mean like a ‘book’ book?  The kind you read?”

 

“Yeah, the kind you read.  What other kinda book is there?”

 

“What’s it supposed to be about?”

 

“Whatever we want it to be about.”

 

“Fiction or non-fiction?”

 

“Either one. Whatever I decide.”

 

“How long is it supposed to be?”

 

I was beginning to think Pops had been sitting in Mrs. St. Clair’s class on Tuesday. He sounded just like my friends and I had sounded as we grilled our teacher about the assignment.

 

“However long it needs to be in order to tell the story.”

 

We took our arms off the table when Mrs. Schwitec brought our food.  Papa was staring at his plate when she asked us if we needed anything else.  When Pops didn’t answer, I said “No, thank you,” for both of us, which sent Mrs. Schwitec off to wait on another table.

 

I reached for the ketchup.  Papa frowned as he watched me make a pool on the side of my plate to dip my fries in.

 

“What?” I asked him.

 

“Donna gave you more fries than she gave me.”

 

I shrugged as I passed him the ketchup.  “So? Go out with her on Friday night, and she’ll probably give you all the fries you want for free.”

 

He caught the smile I was trying to hide.

 

“Very funny, young man.”

 

In-between bites of food, Papa brought the subject back to book writing.

 

“Listen, Trev, don’t worry so much about that assignment Mrs. St. Claire gave you.  You’ll do fine.”

 

“Now you sound like her.”

 

“Like who?”

 

“Mrs. St. Claire. Pops, I have to write a book.  A book. People like Ernest Hemingway write books, not a kid from a small town in Alaska.  What do I know about the world?”

 

“He was a drunk.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Hemingway. He was a drunk. Besides, I don’t think his books are any good. As an author, the guy is way overrated.”

 

“You’ve read Hemingway?” I asked. Papa told me once he hadn’t been much of a reader other than the sports section of the newspaper, and Wheels and Gears magazine, until after I was born and he started reading to me.  He began to read more then himself, but his interests have always leaned toward what’s referred to as ‘popular fiction authors’ like Joseph Wambaugh, Nevada Barr, John Grisham, and Tony Hillerman.

 

“Had to in high school,” Pops said, as he took a bite of his burger. “His books are boring.” 

 

“I’ll be happy if all I manage to write is a boring book. I’ll be happy with any book at this point.”

 

“You’ve only had the assignment for how long?”

 

“Three days.”

 

“Trev, cut yourself some slack.  Three days isn’t enough time to figure out a plot for a book.”

 

“Jenna Van Temple has hers figured out. She showed Mrs. St. Claire an outline this morning.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, she’s ranked right behind me, Papa.  If she gets an A on her book, and I get an F, she’ll be the class valedictorian.”

 

“First of all, you’re not gonna get an F.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I do. And besides, like I said before, you’ve never gotten an F since the day you started kindergarten.”

 

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

 

“That’s true, but in this case I’m confident that’s not gonna happen.”  He used a French fry as a pointer and thrust it in my direction in time to his words. “And I’ll be proud of you regardless of whether you’re the class valedictorian or not.”

 

“You won’t be proud of me if I get an F.”

 

“Trevor, sometimes you’re too much like me, ya’ know that?”

 

“How?”

 

“You’re like a dog with a bone. Let it go.  You’re not gonna get an F.”

 

“I will if I don’t get the book written.”

 

“You’ll get it written.”

 

“But--”

 

“Trev, you’ll get it written.”  Papa’s voice was both confident and stern, letting me know what was expected of me, and that I might as well quit fighting the inevitable.

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll get it written.”  I took two bites of my cheeseburger, chewed, and washed the food down with a swig of Coke. “So what should I write about?”

 

“Beats me,” Papa shrugged. “It’s not my assignment, it’s yours.”

 

“Pops!”

 

He laughed. “Hey, kiddo, it’s been forty-six years since anyone’s given me a high school English assignment. Heck if I’m doin’ your work for you.”

 

Now it was my turn to say, “Very funny. Just for that, I’m tellin’ Carl that Donna has the hots for you.”

 

“Carl already knows Donna has the hots for me.”

 

“Then I’ll tell--”

 

“Trev, this is Eagle Harbor, remember? Everybody knows Donna has the hots for me.”

 

“See? That’s exactly my point.”

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“This is Eagle Harbor.  How can I find a story to tell in Eagle Harbor, Alaska, where the most exciting things that happen are the fireworks after the Fourth of July picnic, Santa Claus riding in the Christmas parade, Donna having the hots for you, and Mr. Larson gettin’ drunk and sleeping his bender off in the fire station, while all of you tell his wife you don’t know where he’s at?”

 

“That right there sounds like a story to me.”

 

“Well, it doesn’t sound like one to me.”

 

“Then keep looking.”

 

“Huh?” I asked, as I dipped two fries in ketchup.

 

“Keep looking. If you keep looking, you’re bound to find a story somewhere. And maybe even one that’s,” he reached across the table and used his index finger to lightly flick the end of my nose, “right under your nose.”

 

“Pops!” I scolded, while looking around to make sure none of my friends were in the diner and had seen my father treating me like I was eight years old.

 

We didn’t talk about the book after that. We finished eating, and Papa paid for our lunch.  I got to the airport at one forty-five. As I worked on the engine of an old B-17 Bomber Gus owns, I spent a lot of time looking for that story Papa claimed would be right under my nose.  Trouble is, by the time I got home at seven tonight, I hadn’t found it yet.