“You like it?” Dad nods at the Winnebago. “Pulls like a dream. Good aerodynamics, smooth ride. Very little drag.”
“Um, yeah. But it’s kind of small.”
Like a Dumpster on steroids, I think. No wonder Dad kept this new life a secret. He knew I’d hate it and would never have agreed to come.
“Small?” He eyes the camper again. “It’s thirty-five feet long and equipped with everything you could need.” He glances at me. “You don’t like it?”
“No, it’s great, Dad. Totally . . . great. . . .”
“Well, wait till you see the inside. Then we’ll eat. Burgers are ready to throw on the grill. Turkey burgers, like your mom makes. And I picked up lots of fruit—apples, bananas, grapes—and whole-wheat pita bread. Your mom said you didn’t eat anything but whole-wheat and multi-grain breads and cereals.”
My feet are glued to the ground. Stuck down with superglue.
He stares at me. “What is it, Cassie?”
“Dad, we have to call Mom. She wouldn’t have let me come if she knew you lived here.”
“Here?” He turns to look at the camper.
“And here.” I wave my hand in the direction of the campground.
“I don’t understand,” he says, frowning. “I told your mom where I’m staying. And about the camper, my work . . .”
“You did?”
“You know we always discuss things that involve you, Cassie.”
It’s true. Other kids with divorced parents are always saying how their moms and dads argue and fight. Not mine. They talk about me all the time. My grades. My dentist appointments—even when I got my period.
“Except I told her to pack hiking clothes for you.” He looks at my sequined tee and skinny jeans, the pink Converses. “Looser-fitting things. Heavy-duty.”
“Hiking clothes? But these are the only kind of clothes I have. That proves it’s all a mistake. Let’s call Mom, please?”
“Cell phone reception’s poor down here in the canyon,” he says, frowning again. “Have to drive back to the entrance to reach a tower. Even then, the reception’s not always good.”
“E-mail, then. She checks her e-mail all the time.”
“Same problem. Besides, your mom’s boarded the plane for Munich by now. And when she lands, she’ll be in a different time zone.”
Oh, no, I think. That means I have to spend the night here. . . .
“Now, come on in,” he says. “I invited the neighbors for supper. You need to meet them . . .”
. . . and be polite. He doesn’t say the words, but I hear them loud and clear.
As I walk past the front window, something big and hairy and gray looks at me.
“A rat!” I shriek. “Dad, there’s a rat in there.”
“Not likely.” Dad smiles, looking at the window. “That’s Tiresias. Rat wouldn’t stand a ghost of a chance with him around. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”