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)
Lance Waits for Phillip
Lance slowly and carefully turned the sports page as though to do so faster might change the scores. He brooded about Bill Bank’s news. How could he reduce expenses without laying off Jimmy Franks? Could he take less money out of the business for his own salary? But he had a son on a mission to pay for—he couldn’t see going to Bishop Parker, the lay leader of the local Mormon congregation, to ask for help to pay for Richard. He’d just bought the new Taurus for cash; he wished now he hadn’t. And Margo was already so frugal—how could he ask her to spend less? And what did Bill mean when he said "new business model?"
He sat at the head of a massive, dark, gothic dining room table. The matching chandelier sprayed its light mostly down as though sending too much light toward the ceiling might be deemed wasteful and worthy of a reprimand. The table was completely clear of anything except a large bowl of plastic fruit, the newspaper and Martin’s homework. Only Lance and Martin were in the room. Margo and her mother Carmen were in the living room watching a DVD; the TV was turned down low so Martin could do his homework.
The dining room walls were some dark color. Dark green, was it? Or was it really more a dark red? If asked, Lance wouldn’t have been able to remember. He just knew it was the right color and knew it felt the way a successful, properly arranged dining room should feel. Formal, that’s it. Formal. It was the formal dining room, right? It should feel formal. He could explain every piece of furniture ever made but had no feel for fancy wallpapers and paints. That was Margo’s department.
On one side of the room sat a huge maple sideboard, stained dark to match the table. It was, without a doubt, too large for the room; Margo had objected. "I’ll never fill it," she’d said, but Lance insisted. The deliverymen had a difficult time forcing it through the door. And Margo was wrong. After twenty years in the house, she’d filled it. Two sets of china, four sets for eight of stainless steel utensils as well as innumerable cups and saucers, not to mention the little curiosities that certify the passing of time. And, since her mother had moved in with them and added her own collection, the sideboard was downright crowded. The real silver was in a box tucked way in the back on the bottom shelf, the one on the left, brought out only for the most special of occasions. The top of the sideboard was crowded with trophies—all Richard’s—neatly arranged in order from the time he won a race in cub scouts until his final trophy as Regional High School Quarterback of the Year.
The other side of the room was given over to a long, narrow table that Margo insisted be populated by candlesticks. Lance grumbled every time he looked at this, but Margo’d put her foot down and wouldn’t move them. And then there were the pictures. Lance insisted on a real oil painting in the middle of the wall—a vague, dreamy landscape—but around it, covering the wall, were probably fifty pictures of the family. They spilled out onto the long, narrow table, too. Pictures of grandparents on both sides. Lance as a child. Margo in high school. Lance and Margo getting married.
Lance’s eyes strayed to the wedding picture. His parents weren’t in the picture because they didn’t attend. The wedding took place in Boulder; Lance’s parents lived in Chicago back then. " It’s just too far," they’d said. To Lance’s right in the picture was his uncle, Bill Maceda. The distance was no hurdle to Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill saw Lance through his teenage years, back when Lance refused to have anything more to do with his parents. By mutual agreement all around, Lance lived with Uncle Bill from age 14 on. That put an end to all the shouting, accusations and harassment. Alcohol can do amazing things to a family, reflected Lance. Uncle Bill taught him the value of education—good, solid education, with a trade in mind and a determination to accomplish goals. Uncle Bill pulled him out of the mire and set him straight. Uncle Bill was always there for him. Lance felt a lump in his throat but pushed it down. Uncle Bill wouldn’t approve. He wondered: what would Uncle Bill do with Bill Bank’s news?
He forced his eyes to move on. A small photo in a silver frame showed Lance and Margo with tiny Richard, smothered in a blanket. He was Ricky back then but soon wanted to be called Richard like a grownup. Another photo showed the little grown-up Richard at age five holding baby Phillip. Phillip and Richard chasing Martin. Richard in his Park High School football uniform. A clipping from the local sports section extolling Richard’s quarterbacking prowess. Richard’s senior picture. Pictures Richard was sending home from his two-year mission for the Mormon Church. Martin being awarded a plaque at Middle School graduation. Not much of Phillip, in fact only one of him other than the baby pictures. It showed him playing Cinderella in middle school. He was one of the footmen and wore tights. The director had made him take off his glasses, leading him to stumble and fall halfway through the production.
In spite of his grumbling about the untidy mess the pictures created, Lance felt a surge of pride whenever he glanced at the wall. He’d achieved all this, after all. He hadn’t had a promising start. But he’d made it happen through persistence and hard work. He was going to be there for his children. He was going to stick it out and be the kind of father he’d never had. I’m the generation that’ll stop the cycle, he thought. But then there was the news from Bill Banks…
That brought Lance back to Phillip. He’d taken photographs at the track meet. Now where would he put them? Maybe next to Richard’s football pictures. Lance mentally rearranged the pictures. Satisfied, he turned back to the paper. He turned back a page and slowly spread it out with his small, strong hands. But Phillip wouldn’t leave his mind. Phillip was usually a pleasant-enough kid, kind of lazy. He hadn’t really been argumentative until lately. None of it made sense to Lance. But at least track got him out of his room and away from those computers. Lance shook his head when thinking about the computers—surely that was why Phillip was so introverted.
He looked at the article he’d just read as though seeing for the first time. He sighed and sat back in his chair.
Martin, sensing an opportunity, jumped into his thoughts the way a cat jumps on a mouse. " Dad, who was Stonewall Jackson?"