One Elm Books is an imprint of Red Chair Press LLC
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Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
Names: Klas, Benjamin, author. | Arroyo, Fian, illustrator.
Title: Second dad summer / by Benjamin Klas ; illustrated by Fian Arroyo.
Description: South Egremont, MA : One Elm Books, an imprint of Red Chair Press LLC, [2020] | Interest age level: 009-013. | Summary: “Jeremiah just wants a normal summer with his dad, but it’s clear that isn’t happening. His dad just moved to an apartment near downtown Minneapolis to live with his new boyfriend, Michael. Michael wears shorts too short, serves weird organic foods, and is constantly nagging Jeremiah to watch out for potholes and to stay hydrated. Worst of all Michael rides the Uni-cycle. Okay, it’s a bicycle decorated to look like a unicorn! This is going to be a long summer!”--Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: ISBN 9781947159242 (library hardcover) | ISBN 9781947159259 (paperback) | ISBN 9781947159266 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Gay fathers--Juvenile fiction. | Stepfathers--Juvenile fiction. | Summer--Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Gay fathers--Fiction. | Stepfathers--Fiction. | Summer--Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.K635 Se 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.K635 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019930074
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons living or dead is coincidental.
Main body text set in 16/23 Sabon
Text copyright © 2020 by Benjamin Klas
RED CHAIR PRESS, ONE ELM Books logo, and green leaf colophon are registered trademarks of Red Chair Press LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in an information or retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical including photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission from the Publisher. For permissions, contact [email protected]
Printed and bound in Canada.
0819 1P FNS20
For Asher, Kayla, Jayden, Will, Owen,
Lucy, Teddy, Ava, and those yet to come.
Chapter
1
I stood up on my pedals. I just needed to add space between me and Michael so people wouldn’t think we were together, even though we were. Dad pedaled peacefully in front of me, keeping me from making much progress in the whole escaping Michael thing.
It wasn’t that I had anything in particular against Michael, Dad’s new boyfriend. Except that Michael was loud. And too obsessed with his looks. And, oh yeah, rode around on a bicycle decorated to look like a unicorn.
Neon glitter coated the frame of Michael’s bike. Rainbow streamers flew out from the handlebars. And right between those handlebars, he’d mounted a plush, sparkling unicorn head. It had the creepy look of smiling in a crazy happy way whenever I looked back at it. Michael even named the bike “The Uni-cycle.”
At least Michael was sweating. I hoped that the ride to this Stone Arch Bridge Festival that he and Dad talked about would wear Michael down a little.
“Jeremiah!” Michael called to me. “Can. We. Slow. Down?” He panted between each word. The Uni-cycle was a one speed, one of those old ones with uncomfortable seats and high handlebars. It was definitely made for rolling, not racing.
I pretended not to hear him, but Dad slowed down.
“Almost there, troops,” he called.
Michael finally caught up with us as the buildings of downtown Minneapolis thinned and the sparkling river spread out in front of us.
“There she is,” Dad said. “The Great Mississippi!”
“Cool,” I said. I had seen the Mississippi plenty of times. Living with Mom in eastern Iowa, it was a pretty normal sight. But somehow it looked different here in the middle of a city, strapped down by all the bridges and traffic.
Michael’s breath was evening out. “There’s the Stone Arch Bridge.” He pointed to a bridge, the only bridge made of stone that happened to arch over the river.
“No kidding,” I said. I was trying to give Michael a chance. I really was. But he was making it difficult.
Now that Michael had his breath back, he started one of his informational speeches. “It was completed way back in 1883. They say the cost of it was equivalent to…”
I sighed as Michael talked on. I had already learned all about the history of Dad and Michael’s neighborhood, which library was a Carnegie library, and about the “rich heritage of transit.” Apparently, Minneapolis had quite a system of streetcars back in the day. Really useful information.
“Where’s the festival?” I said when Michael stopped for a breath.
“Mostly over the bridge,” Dad said. “Onward.”
As we pedaled slowly into the crowd of people going across the bridge, Michael tried to keep up the running commentary, how the bridge had been called “Hill’s Folly” and which depot it was supposed to connect to. I decided I might as well tune him out. The bridge was great and all, but it was a bridge.
And as a bridge, it tended to squish everybody into a narrow space. Since we were cyclists on this bridge, we got to ride right through the middle of the crowd in the twin cycling lanes.
This is probably great if you’re just riding. But it made a perfect audience on both sides of us to watch the Uni-cycle roll past. I would have stood up on my pedals again, but the bike traffic was too slow.
Michael finally stopped tour-guiding. I looked back to see his attention had moved on to waving happily at the passing crowds who whistled, pointed, laughed and catcalled.
My cheeks felt like they were on fire.
As soon as we finished crossing, I spotted a bike rack in the park. “Let’s park here,” I said, trying to sound casual, but convincing.
“We could ride up into the festival,” Dad said.
I looked at the distant tents and vendors. “It’ll be too crowded for bikes,” I said hopefully. It worked.
As I pulled a U-lock around my bike, Michael winked at me.
“See?” he said. “I don’t have to lock this baby up, because really who would dare to steal such a noble beast?”
Who would want to? Which was a shame, because really the ride back wouldn’t be so bad with Michael running behind us instead of riding that awful bike.
Michael took off his helmet and then put it on the smiling unicorn head, clipping it under the sparkly chin. The horn stuck out from one of those ventilation gaps.
I turned away, rolling my eyes. I pulled my water bottle from the clip on my bike. It was covered in condensation, but already the water inside was warm and tasted like plastic.
“Let’s go,” I said.
But Michael stood on tiptoe in front of Dad. Michael seemed small standing next to Dad, who had spent years operating machinery at construction sites. At first, I thought they were about to kiss or something, but then I realized Michael was fussing with his highlighted hair in the reflection of Dad’s sunglasses.
Dad kept turning his head so Michael would have to reposition his face, both of my dad’s unshaven cheeks held in Michael’s hands. If my own cheeks could have gotten any redder, I’m sure they would’ve.
When Michael finished arranging his hair, Dad ran his fingers through his own hair until it stood out in wild brown curls. Then he pulled his Timberwolves hat over the mess, leaving it to stick out from under the edges. I ran
my fingers through my own hair, which inherited Dad’s dirt brown color, but not the curls. It was mostly limp, and hung over my ears and forehead.
Michael leaned in to whisper something to my dad. I looked away. It wasn’t that I minded the fact that Dad dated guys. Sometimes he dated men, sometimes women. That was just the way it was. But still, we were in public, and some things are just too embarrassing to watch.
“I’m walking,” I said. “I’m going to the festival.” Which did the job of breaking them apart to follow me towards the crowds, tents and vendors.
As we walked away from the bikes, I could feel my pulse slow down a little. We flowed with the people down a brick street until the booths and trailers surrounded us. I figured it must be some sort of art festival. Besides the trailers selling funnel cake and roasted corn on the cob, most of the tents were full of paintings and glass sculptures and birch bark bowls and stuff.
It was crowded, like everything in the city. Or maybe it just felt crowded because I was used to living with Mom in the middle of nowhere.
“Ooh, we have to stop there!” Michael pointed at a stand shaped like a giant lemon. “Festival lemonade is a-MAZE-ing. They load it with cherry syrup.”
“You drink that?” I asked, not because it sounded bad, but because he usually only drank purified water and weird organic teas.
“It’s my one vice,” he said. “Come on, Jeremiah, I’ll buy you one.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I brought a water bottle.” I took another sip of the warm, plasticky water.
“For reals,” Michael said. “You need one. It’s like drinking liquid radiance.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
We had to wait in line with Michael until he bought a gigantic lemonade. He took a long gulp, then held it out to Dad. Dad curled his lips around the straw. There was something kind of romantic about the way they leaned together to share the drink. It was surprising to see in Dad.
“Yep,” Dad said. “I feel radiant now.”
Michael held the cup out to me. I looked away and took another warm sip from my water bottle.
We walked onward through the festival. We passed a bluegrass band, tents selling letterpress cards, blown glass ornaments, and handmade jewelry.
I drifted a little behind Dad and Michael. Michael kept sipping from the giant cup of lemonade, pointing to this and that. Dad kept taking little sips, too. And he was smiling in a way I hadn’t seen him smile before.
Just as I was starting to feel totally invisible, I saw a trailer selling cheese curds. I pulled Dad away from Michael, dug into my wallet and bought him some.
“Happy Father’s Day,” I said, handing him the carton of fried cheese.
“Well, thank you, Jer,” Dad said. He flicked one into the air and caught it in his mouth. “Nothing beats that.”
I felt a little better. Better yet, Michael wouldn’t eat any. He said he didn’t consume anything drowned in oil. He could go ahead and live on his oil-free cherry lemonade planet for all I cared.
As we merged back into the crowd, my pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone. It was Mom.
“Jer Bear,” she said. “How are you?”
I had to press the phone against my ear to hear her in the noise. I also hoped this trapped the sound of her voice. Especially the whole Jer Bear thing. Jer Bear sounds cute and cuddly, but I got the nickname because, when I was a toddler, I guess I was pretty grouchy. I might still be a little grouchy, but Michael didn’t need to know about my nickname.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to talk loud enough to be heard without actually shouting. Dad and Michael stepped a little ahead of me, probably trying to give me some privacy, as if privacy were a thing that could happen here. “We did a Father’s Day ride and we’re at a festival. It’s really noisy.”
I hoped that would be enough to keep the conversation short. But it wasn’t. Mom loved to do these “check-ins” when I spent my summers with Dad.
“Sounds fun,” she said. “Boy, I miss you already. How are you? Is Al feeding you? And I mean three square meals a day. Meals. Pop Tarts and Hot Pockets don’t count.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “How about you?”
“You’ll never guess what I bought,” she said. “Tomatoes. I know you’re the one with the green thumb, but I thought what the heck? Why not give it another shot?”
This is what she seemed to think every year. “Great,” I said. Probably they would be dead by the end of the week. Mom’s gardening skills were almost as sad as Dad’s cooking. Of course, Michael took care of that now. He was always making stuff like free-range chicken with braised cranberries or marinated tofu salad. But I wasn’t about to tell that to Mom.
Dad and Michael were making their way over to a line of port-a-johns. Apparently the liquid radiance had worked its magic on Michael. He disappeared into one.
“It’s noisy,” I said into my phone. “Let’s talk later.”
“Love and hugs.” She made a kissing sound.
I hung up.
“Your Mom?” Dad asked. He always called her my mom instead of Laura.
“Yep.”
“How is she?”
“She’s planting tomatoes,” I said. We both laughed, then stood together, side by side, just him and me like it used to be.
Then Michael came back out. “Wowser, I feel better,” he said.
Dad threw back his head and laughed, then he went in to take a turn.
Now I stood with Michael. He immediately began to talk about all the festivals that would happen that summer. Art festivals, movies in the park, and something called the Aquatennial. “And of course, Twin Cities Pride is next weekend. Really, the other festivals pale in comparison. Do you like pride festivals?”
I just shrugged. I had never actually been to a pride festival. Dad wasn’t really a festival sort of guy. As far as I knew, Dad had never been to a pride festival either.
“I don’t think Dad really cares about that stuff,” I said.
Michael arched one of his eyebrows. It didn’t surprise me that he could do this. “Allen says he’s excited about going.”
Allen. Nobody called Dad Allen. He’s Al.
Michael kept talking. “Allen and I thought we could go as a family.”
I stared at Michael. “You’re not my family.”
He looked down at the ground, then back up at me. I could tell he was working hard to keep the smile stretched across his face.
Dad stepped out of the port-a-john. Michael and I turned towards him with big smiles pulled over our faces.
“Onward!” Dad said, oblivious.
This was going to be a long summer.
Chapter
2
“I don’t want you to get bored,” Michael said, wringing out a scrubby sponge thing. He wore gloves. Of course, he wouldn’t want anything to mess up his nails. “You could help me paint. The color of these walls is absolutely garish. Did you know that in this original plaster, they used boar and horse hair?”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s really useful information.”
Dad had already left for work. While Dad operated cranes and digger trucks, Michael and I got to spend the whole day together cooped up in the small apartment.
Every day.
For the rest of the summer.
I gritted my teeth. Grin and bear it, like Mom says.
And really, the apartment wasn’t all that small. It was just much smaller than the house Dad used to rent, especially since there were now three of us.
The old house had an unused “study” and also a yard with trees for climbing and even a creek. And there was the garden. I always had flowers and vegetables growing all summer.
Here, we were stacked into a pile of apartments that shared a parking lot, not a yard. At least there was the small city park across the street.
<
br /> Michael nodded to a pair of gloves lying over a nearby tote of cleaning supplies. But I didn’t want to spend my morning listening to Motown and enduring another one of Michael’s talks about the ins and outs of plaster.
“We’ve got to give the walls a good scrubbing before they’re ready to paint,” he said. “Allen thought it would be good for us to have a project together.”
I faced Michael. “His name is Al,” I said.
Michael looked at me kind of funny. “I’m aware,” he said.
“He doesn’t like it when people call him Allen,” I said.
Michael nodded slowly. “Thanks for letting me know.”
I stared at him, annoyed he just accepted my statement, and didn’t argue or give reasons. I sighed and turned away from the cleaning supplies. “I’m going outside. Get a little fresh air.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Do you feel comfortable going alone? I could come with you.”
Perfect. I was hoping for a chaperone to follow me everywhere. “I’m fine,” I said. “I always go out alone.”
“I guess you’re old enough,” Michael said. “But make sure you keep the building in sight. I don’t want you getting lost or into trouble. Don’t leave this city block.”
I didn’t answer, but stepped into the dim hall and down the cracked marble steps, three floors down to the front stoop. The air outside was warm. I don’t think I can say fresh exactly. City air smells different. All the cars and people and roads. Even by the river yesterday the water smelled different.
I sat on the front steps and looked towards the park. A bright blur sped down the sidewalk across the street, a girl in sparkling magenta riding her bike around the park.
Maybe I should go get my bike. But riding around the tiny park felt dopey. I wished I had brought The Grapes of Wrath down with me. The story was long and slow, but I was determined to finish it this summer. Now that I was almost thirteen, I was trying to read adult literature. It didn’t seem like it was all it was cracked up to be.
More than reading, what I really wanted to do was work in my old garden, feel the earth between my fingers, smell the heavy fragrance of the tomato leaves. I looked down at the strip of tired landscaping sandwiched between the brick building and the sidewalk. A few ratty, yellowish-flowered shrubs bloomed out of a layer of crushed granite. In places, sheets of heavy black plastic showed through where the stones had shifted over time.
Second Dad Summer Page 1
