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 Phillip. Be sure to check out About Dan here.
Phillip is a computer nerd who suddenly discovers a liking for track. Everything would be fine except for his father.
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.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
(About Phillip Home) (Last) (Next)
Stonewall Jackson
"What? Who?"
"Stonewall Jackson. He was a general during the civil war. Did he fight for the North or the South?"
Lance stumbled. "Let’s see. Stonewall. Hmm…that makes it sound like someone who stands fast. I guess that must mean he fought for the North."
"Ok, I’ll put down he fought for the North. It asks here where he got the nickname ‘Stonewall.’ Do you know, Dad?" He pulled the book toward him and chewed on his pencil while scanning the page.
"Son, I can’t know everything. Did you read your textbook?"
Martin looked at his dad, his eyes reflecting the reproach. He slowly placed his book back on the table and made a show of rifling through its pages. "Sorry," he muttered.
"Martin, I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I don’t know the answer. But you need to do your own homework, you know, or you won’t be able to stand on your own two legs. Kids these days just don’t know how to work, and I don’t want my children to…"
SLAM! The screen door. SLAM! The kitchen door. Lance winced.
Wolfgang’s barks ricocheted through the house. The huge dog pushed the door open to the dining room, bounded behind Lance—whacking Lance with his tail—and ran into the kitchen, slipping sideways on the linoleum. He came to a halt by slamming into an open cabinet door.
"Hi, mom! I’m home!" shouted Phillip. His backpack hit the floor with a loud thunk. Wolfgang’s ears flap as Phillip rubbed the dog’s head between his hands. His tail beat a happy tattoo against the wastebasket as Phillip knelt to hug the monster Alaskan Malamute.
Margo’s voice came from the living room. "Your dinner’s on a plate in the fridge," she yelled. "Couple minutes in the microwave."
Lance wondered what happened to "Hi, Dad." He hadn’t heard it in about six months. By leaning back a little, he could just see Phillip. "Hello, son! Nice race! Do you have much homework?"
"Hi, Dad," said Phillip through a dinner roll. Lance watched him pull the Saran Wrap off the stew and vegetables. Phillip didn’t look at his dad; he studied the numbers on the microwave with extra intensity.
"Do you have much homework?" asked Lance again.
"Oh, uh, yeah, some. Not much. Gotta paper due tomorrow, but I already wrote most of it. I wanna have Mom proofread it tonight before I print the final copy. Got some math. Not much," he repeated. He continued to study the microwave.
"I can proofread too, you know, though I can’t help you with your math," said Lance. He tried to sound conversational.
"Uh, sure, Dad." Phillip glanced quickly at his father and then looked back at the microwave, watching carefully as the time counted down. "But I’ve already been over this paper with Mom, so she knows all about it."
Margo came into the room, kissed the top of Lance’s head and continued into the kitchen. Lance caught apprehension in Phillip’s eyes as he turned to appraise her mood but this melted quickly. He even smiled as she hugged him. She was cooing something about "proud of you" as Phillip looked over her shoulder and caught Lance’s gaze for a fleeting half-second.
Lance couldn’t hear their conversation, given the TV in the living room and the fan in the microwave. But he thought he saw Phillip say "fourth" and a moment later "second." Another hug was interrupted by the ding from the microwave. Margo shooed Phillip into the dining room. "Use a hot pad for that plate, Phillip," she said. "Don’t burn yourself."
Rather than the "Yes, mother," Lance expected, it was "Thanks, mom!"
Margo came bustling in with a glass of milk; she set it down in front of Phillip—he was already wolfing down the food. Before she could seat herself at the table an elderly woman with a walker swung open the door from the living room, slamming it against the wall. Margo jumped to hold the door.
"Mother, be more careful with that oxygen tank! You’re going to hurt yourself!"
"I’m fine, Margo. Now leave me alone. I can get around without you fawning all over me!"
Lance wondered for the millionth time why he’d ever agreed to let Margo’s mother, Carmen, live with them. Nonetheless, he pushed his chair back, jumped deftly behind Carmen and pulled her chair out. This didn’t stop Carmen from knocking a picture off the table, a picture of Lance in a Boy Scout uniform with another picture tucked into the frame of Lance in his Scoutmaster’s uniform. He eased the chair under her as she sat down. He forced a smile. Carmen also forced a smile, the two smiles a study in matching chintzy brilliance for the tiniest second. Lance bent to pick up the picture.
"Hi, Grams," said Martin, not looking up from his homework. "Who’s Stonewall Jackson?"
"I haven’t an earthly clue, sweetie," she said. She fished into her smile bag and gave a warm one to her grandson. It lasted longer, too. She reached out an ancient, bony hand to touch his arm.
"He was a big-deal general for the South in the Civil War, dummy," interjected Phillip. "Fought at the battle of Manassas. Everyone knows that. Speaking of everyone, everyone in the house is here. Is this a family meeting?"
"We just want to hear all about your first track meet," said Carmen. "And…"
"I already told you all about it," interrupted Lance. "I was there."
She didn’t bat an eyelash, nor did she glance at Lance. "… we want to hear it directly from you, Phillip. So tell us everything!"