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 Maestro
Dan turned right from Broadway onto a busy Walnut and started hunting for a parking place. It was one of those glorious days that February occasionally offers Coloradoans as a peace offering for enduring winter. The sky was as blue as the day Dan tore up his knee. The temperature had been in the high sixties around noon, but now that school was out it was edging down into the low fifties. The air was as dry as bones on the prairie and only the faintest breeze stirred. Colorado was still in its winter brown coat, but even brown sparkled in the dazzling late afternoon sunlight.
He knew it was pointless to seek parking any closer than where he was. The offices of Cook and Simpson LLP were on the busy Pearl Street pedestrian mall across from the art deco County Courthouse. He spotted some shoppers standing by their car and waited a long moment for them to stow their purchases and leave so he could get the parking spot. He grabbed his guitar and jacket and without his cane hobbled the block to Pearl Street and his dad's office. He tucked the jacket under his arm. It was too warm to wear it now.
Only, today it was not his dad he was seeking, but Mike. He'd made an appointment via e-mail to talk about music. Now he was having second thoughts. Why had he agreed to sing at Park's Pretentious Performances? How would he put something together in time for tryouts, which were only two weeks away? PPP was popular; over half who tried out wouldn't make it. What made him think he could?
His knee was sore and he felt guilty about skipping today's therapy session. But he was surprised by his therapist's attitude. At first, she gave him a hard time—"every day!" she said. But when she learned the reason she was suddenly supportive. She told him stories about her days at Park and her performances in PPP. Jeesh, he thought, is there anyone who doesn't know about Triple-P?
He threaded through the crowds to Pearl Street right in front of the courthouse. People were everywhere, out to enjoy the sunshine. The fountain in front of the courthouse was wrapped in canvas against the ravages of winter. In a few months, when the tourists came, the courthouse garden would be a riot of color, but today it was a riot of shades of brown, with brown leaves still piled against the brown benches by the last windstorm. Dan worked his way down the street to his destination, a newer building which fortunately had an elevator.
He had an anxious moment lining up his guitar case so the revolving door wouldn't whack off the end. The building seemed hot compared to the brilliant February afternoon outside.
He paused as he got off the elevator. There, directly ahead of him, was the door marked "Cook and Simpson LLP," with the word "Architects" underneath. He'd never been to his dad's office. This looks so formal, he thought. He pulled himself up to his full height and pushed on the door. The middle-aged receptionist smiled at him. The reception room looked much like his dad's condo. Very modern. Very clean. Very abstract.
"Hello, you must be Dan," she said. She had a perky voice that reminded Dan of a canary. A mother canary.
Dan wanted to say, "No, I'm the man on the moon," but muttered a simple "Yes." He stood in front of her desk without a clue what to do next. "I'm here to see Mike," he stammered.
"Oh, Mike said you'd be coming." Dan half expected her to add "you little dear," but she didn't. She sized him up the same way Coach Johnson sized him up when he first signed up for soccer. He felt his frustration rising but stuffed it back down. "Please, just go on down," she finally said. "Mike has the second office on the right. He's waiting for you."
Happy to be moving again, Dan wordlessly went down the hall, careful not to scrape the guitar case against the wall. The framed pictures in the hallway showed buildings in various degrees of completion. He guessed they were projects Ed and Mike designed. Most were commercial buildings. Only one was a home, and it looked big enough to house a Hollywood mogul. With hesitation, he approached the second office on the right. The door was opened just a crack. He could see the back of Mike's head. He dropped his jacket to the floor to free up a hand and knocked.
"Come in."
Dan picked up his jacket and pushed on the door. To his dismay it swung more easily than he thought it would. It flung open and banged against a bookshelf.
"Sorry!" said Dan, embarrassed.
Mike smiled. "No problem, Dan, happens all the time. That door has startled people from all over the world. Throw your stuff anywhere."
Dan looked around as he moved toward a modern leather-and-steel chair opposite the modern sleek desk. More abstract paintings adorned the walls. The windows looked out over Pearl Street and onto the courthouse lawn. There was a drafting table up against the far wall, covered with paper of various sizes, situated so the light from the window would fall across it. There were long rolls of paper in bins underneath. Next to the drafting table was a bookshelf, stuffed with notebooks that literally cascaded onto the floor. Next to that, in the corner, was an oak display case. Curious instruments and paraphernalia of various sorts were jumbled on the shelves. He guessed they were surveying or drafting instruments. They looked old.
Dan was surprised at the disheveled state of the room. He moved a fat black notebook from the chair to the floor so he could sit. Behind Mike's desk stood two guitars, both on stands where they'd be easy to reach should Mike turn away from his papers toward the windows. Dan could only see the tops of the guitars. One was a regular six-string guitar, a Martin he thought. The other looked like a twelve-string.
"Dan, glad to see you!" boomed Mike. "How's that knee coming?"
"Better. Doc says it has to stay in the brace at least for another couple of months, though."
"Are you going to kick that ball around the field again?"
"Yeah, I think so. I'll have to use a sports brace, though, even after I take this ugly thing off."
"You're not the first person. Let me see your guitar."
Dan opened his beat-up case and pulled out his Yamaha. Mike came around the desk. He took the guitar from Dan and sat on a stool next to the wall, and looked the guitar over the same way a jeweler examines a diamond. He looked at the back, then the front. He peered down the end of the neck toward the base. Without saying a word, he started picking at the strings and tweaking the tuning. Then he picked out a tune with a deftness Dan had hitherto only dreamed of; he'd never heard his guitar played this way.
"Nice guitar, Dan. Needs new strings. How old are these?"
"Uh, maybe two years, maybe three."
Mike screwed up his nose. "Yeah, I figured that might be the case. These will do for today. So, tell me what your plans are."
Dan drew in a breath and let it out. " You know, Mike, I've been thinking about this…"
"No thinking. Just doing!" interrupted Mike.
Dan took another breath. "I'm not sure what to do."
Mike was still picking out a tune. He was mentally far away, looking at the ceiling. Suddenly he put the guitar down beside him.
"Why not just do the song you sang at our place?"
"Well, that was pretty simple, wasn't it? I don't think it would qualify me for Triple-P."
"Why not? You wrote it yourself."
"Well, it's too simple. Plus, the words are pretty, well, plain."
"So change the words!"
Dan thought for a moment. He started to speak but caught himself before anything came out.
"Yes?" inquired Mike. "Tell me."
"I know this sounds kinda dumb, but I'd like to do something about my mother. Not something sappy, just something about my mother."
"There's nothing wrong with that, Dan," said Mike. "Like what?"
Dan rose and moved to the window by the drafting table. He looked out across the courthouse lawn. People were swirling below him as rush hour approached.
He spoke to the window. "Just want to do something, y’know, to make up for saying nasty things the night she died. Don't know what. I don't want it to be a Primary song, y’know, but I want to convey some sense I regret what I did and that I love her."
"Primary?"
"Oh, that's where the little kids go at church."
"Oh."