Dave Casler
PO Box 98
Ridgway, Colorado 81432
Young Adult Novels by Dave Casler...
I've been told by publisher after publisher that there's no market for Young Adult novels. I think they're wrong! So I'm putting my novels on-line for you. Forget the publisher! Read to your heart's content--it's free! And, I'd like to hear from you, too! Contact Page.
You're reading About Dan. Be sure to check out About Phillip here.
Dan is a normal kid who loves his soccer. Except everything goes wrong. Everything.
About Series Home
About the About Series
Index to All Chapters
Here are all the chapters, disguised as asterisks. Hover your mouse over an asterisk to see the title of the chapter. Click on the asterisk to go straight to that chapter.
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(About Dan Home) (Last) (Next)
The Argument
Dan parked in front of his house. The afternoon was brisk with a light breeze; the dark clouds overhead threatened snow. His therapy appointment hadn't gone well; he’d been lectured. When he protested, the therapist snapped at him and he snapped back. His knee still didn’t bend any more than what he'd shown to Cheryl the week before.
He got out of the car awkwardly. Why does everything have to be so hard? He grabbed his backpack and his cane and slammed the door.
The empty trash cans were scattered across the brown lawn. Odd. His mother’s car was in the driveway. Mom usually puts the trash cans away. She was often home early these days. She said something about a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.
He stared at the trash cans, the leaden sky, the naked trees, the unraked leaves and back at the trash cans. Irritated, he dropped his backpack and threw the trash cans behind the fence. He picked up his backpack and headed up the steps. The dead leaves were caked against the house. They’ll be compost by spring. Their many hues had long given way to an ugly, uniform brown, just like the rest of his world.
The day hadn’t gone well at school, either. Dr. Jensen made enough inquiries to dig through his evasions and ascertain there was no progress on the chemistry paper. His scores in math were nose-diving because of missed material. Only his English grade seemed to be improving. His essays were coming back with comments like "this is real emotion, Dan." He didn’t understand why anger made his papers better.
He fumbled for his key, finally leaning his cane against the door so he could use both hands. Mum’ll be asleep. Again. She grumbles about work. The medical establishment. The news. The neighbors, even Saint Oliver across the street, ‘cause he asks about the yard. "Let him fix it if it bothers him," she would say. She whined about Dan’s dad and how he deserted her. But, what was worst, she complained about Dan.
He was lazy. Not doing his knee exercises. Not keeping up with his homework. Spending too much time on his computer playing useless games. He wasn't grateful for all the sacrifices she'd made. Couldn't think maturely. Moping about soccer too much. Needed to date other girls.
He tried to keep his peace—and keep out of the way—but that wasn't always easy. Sometimes he'd find excuses to take his homework over to Peter's house, but the temptation from those new computer games was strong, particularly when Peter was on the side of the devil. And, simple research sessions on the Internet would turn into lengthy affairs as Dan gave into the intoxication of broadband.
He noisily let himself into the house and threw his crimson letter jacket on the couch. He was surprised to find his mother not only awake, but on the phone.
"Joyce, thanks for talking with me about all this," she said.
Why doesn't she ever talk to me?
"Look, Dan just got home, so I need to spend some time with him."
Right, so she can nag me. I wonder what's on her nag list tonight.
"Can I call you later tonight?"
Yeah, so I won't be able to use the modem.
Maria's face was ashen; Dan pretended not to notice.
"What's going on now you won't tell me about." said Dan. A statement, not a question.
Maria didn't want a fight.
"Dan, I just needed to talk with a friend. That's all," she replied.
Dan dropped his backpack on the floor. He chose the chair closest to the refrigerator and fell into it. He let his cane clatter to the floor.
"What's so wrong about talking with me?" he challenged.
She tried to smile, like she always did when he was a child and threw a tantrum.
"Dan, I didn't mean to upset you."
Stop talking to me like that! " Whether you meant it or not, you've upset me. You've been upsetting me for months. Something's going on and you won't tell me. You're sick. You're getting worse. What’s going on?" He was yelling.
She wove ice cubes into her words. "Dan, do not speak to me in that tone of voice."
"I'll speak however I want. You’re treating me like I'm not a member of this family. You’re hiding something important from me, like it’s a dead rat in a closet. I've tried hard to do my part, but you're not doing yours."
As soon as he said that, he remembered the visit to DAAO and the HIV test, as well as the surreptitious phone call to get the result. It must've shown in his voice, because his mother pounced.
"Daniel, that's just not true. What's happening to me is my problem. I was going to share more with you tonight, but with an attitude like that, you should not expect anything from me."
"That's ridiculous!" he replied. "Everyone has a different theory about you. The Fawkes think it's cancer. Cheryl thinks it's MS. Phillip thinks you have an ulcer. I mean, of all people, I should know! How on earth am I supposed to support you if I'm treated like a mushroom?"
"Daniel Cook, and I rue the day I held that same family name, I am left speechless you would spread stories abroad!"
"Get real, Mum. Get over it. Look, this is America. People share these things. This isn't cozy little England where people live in fancy manors and have tea and hide their secrets from each other."
"Daniel!"
"You won't let anyone help you!"
"I don't need help!"
"You do! I found you passed out on the floor again last Saturday. You're always sleeping! You won't let the Relief Society president even come in the door!"
"I am quite self-sufficient, thank you, and that's the way it should be. And as for your church..."
But Dan cut her off. "Mother, you know sometimes you have to receive service as well as give it. You could make this whole thing easier by sharing."
"That sounds like some claptrap you learned at your church."
"But it's true!" He was pleading now. He leaned forward. "Look, lots of people have been helping me—for months now. Friends are one of the most important things we have."
"You are my child, Daniel, not my friend. You will be my friend when you are older. But we have a parental relationship. You should consider your words more carefully."
He rose, his face as red as his letter jacket. He held onto the chair for support. "Mother, that is total British nonsense. Stupidity! There are so many people around who'd like to help if they could, but you won't let them. Do you know how I feel when you hide this stuff from me? It makes me feel like I'm not your son! I'm entitled to know!"
She sat up all the way. Tears turned her ashen face into a river. She looked at the telephone for some reprieve. She held her hands together tightly. Her voice was lower now.
"Dan, it wouldn't be good. I'm sorry, it just wouldn't be a good thing to do." She bowed her head. "You'll just have to trust me. You'll know soon enough."
But he wasn't finished. His voice rose. "You do that little routine every time. Soon enough? When is soon enough? Mum, look at me! I'm not some tiny toddler in an English school uniform trotting in for tea. I'm in high school. I'm old enough to drive. You're treating me like I'm not even here!"
She didn't reply. She just wrung her hands and daubed her eyes.
"Mother, we've been in this country for six years. When are you going to admit there are Americans who are fully capable of human discussion and who can help with medical problems and who are worth noticing? Mum, these aren't the colonies! Look at me, Mum! I'm growing up to be an American! I'm proud of that!" He paused, then fired his silver bullet. "Mum, I like it here!"
She stopped wringing her hands. Her tears turned to anger. She gripped the table tightly.
"You're just like your father," she spat.
"And what's wrong with that?" he spat back.
"He's a filthy, low-life, Yank-loving, lazy ne'er-do-well, that's what!"
"He's nothing of the sort! Maybe you don't know this, but I've been e-mailing him since the accident. He takes me at face value. He looks at my papers and offers comments that are actually useful. He doesn't treat me like I'm some stupid little kid to be swept under the rug like an embarrassment."
"Then get out of here. Go! If you can't stand me, go! I hate him and if you wish to be like him, then go!"
He stopped. Rage wrapped him in a stifling blanket; his thoughts tumbled; his chest heaved; he glared. But his heart stopped. His whole world stopped. He'd gone too far, way too far, and he knew it. He yearned for that warm feeling but it was far, far away. He'd just trashed his mother—badly—and he didn't know how to pick up the pieces.
In the icy silence—the refrigerator wasn't even humming, the heater was off, the faucet wasn't leaking and the wind wasn't blowing—he broke eye contact with his mother. He bent over awkwardly but firmly to pick up his cane. He left his backpack on the kitchen floor and swept across the living room. The tears were midway down his cheeks as he grabbed his jacket. Sobs were coming as he got to the driveway. He wiped his eyes—twice—before he could pull the car away from the curb in the gathering darkness.