Page 47 of The Dysasters

A seagull braved the roiling waves, splashing into the water, disappearing for a moment, and then reemerging, soaring up, up, up triumphantly.

The truth of it was, all that anger scared him. That’s why he’d left. At first he thought putting distance between himself and his parents would be enoughto quell the heat building in his belly, but he’d discovered after only a few hours outside of Acadiana that he was just running from himself.

And all that running only made him tired.

“You don’t have to worry about me, no,” Bastien said, unsure whether or not Dickie had finished proving the point he seemed to so enjoy making.

“God, you talk funny.”

Bastien nodded, tucking his board under his arm. “That’s for true,” he said, leaving Dickie behind him, cross-armed and pinch-faced, as he walked to the hut.

14

TATE

“Tate! Damn, boy, it’s good to hear your voice again. How’s it going up there at your, wait, what are you calling it?”

“Our Fortress of Sauvietude!” Tate said, laughing at his own joke.

“That’s it. Damn queer name if you ask me, but if you and Foster like it, that’s all that counts,” grumbled Tate’s grandpa.

“G-pa, queer doesn’t mean weird anymore. You know that, right?” Tate said, leaning against the cool glass side of the phone booth and grinning into the ancient black rotary dial dinosaur.

“Old dog. No new tricks,” G-pa said. “But we’re not talkin’ ’bout me. How’s the air wrangling goin’?”

Tate blew out a long, frustrated breath. “We’ve been working on it for two weeks now, and let me tell ya, G-pa, Foster’s a lot better at it than I am.”

“Well, boy, get used to that. Women are better at everything that counts. All we can do is hitch ourselves to a good one and try to keep up. Your mama was the best of the best, and your daddy had the good sense to hitch himself to her.” G-pa had to pause and clear his throat before he could go on. “Your Foster sounds like she’s a good one, too.”

“She is. Or at least she is sometimes. It’s hard to get close to her, G-pa.”

“From what you tell me she rightfully has trust issues. Give it time, son. You’ll win her over—if that’s what you want to do. Is it?”

Tate shuffled his feet, kicking at the pea gravel that littered the little concrete slab on which the phone booth sat. “Yes. No. I dunno.”

“Better make up your mind. The good ones don’t have much patience for yes, no, and maybes.”

“She’d freak if she knew I call you,” Tate admitted.

“Boy! You haven’t told her?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell Foster. And fast. Didn’t you say she has air cannon hands?”

Tate grinned into the phone again. “Yes, sir. She sure does.”

“Sounds like something you need to remember next time you think about lying to her,” G-pa said.

“I didn’t lie to her! I just didn’t tell her, that’s all.”

“An evasion is little different from a lie. You want my advice?”

“Always, sir,” Tate said.

“Come clean. Tell her the truth, and explain that the two of you are still safe. You’re calling me from a pay phone to my landline—a number that’s not published and is registered in the name of a trust that’s buried under mounds of corporate paperwork and red tape meant to keep people from knowing it’s me. It’s safe to call me. And not because I knew you’d need to hide from a mad scientist and his evil minions.”

“Yeah, it’s buried so no one knows the retired biology teacher and coach is filthy rich,” Tate added.