not yet, but it’s getting there. I’ll be ready for an actual test tomorrow night. Care to volunteer?”
“I’ll pass, actually,” I said. “When you know you have a working model, we’ll talk, but I won’t be the lab rat.”
“Fair enough.”
I hadn’t really considered getting green hair myself; I sort of worried that if I did, I’d just look like I was trying to keep up with my dad. On the other hand, though, it might be fun to tell people my dad had given me green hair. Maybe I could say it was a form of creative punishment my parents had read about in some parenting magazine.
“Anyway,” I said, “can I get another ride to Sip after dinner tonight, like, at eight?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come in myself for once. I wouldn’t mind a good cup of coffee.”
“Um…okay,” I said, trying not to let on that I was terrified. It would be awfully hard for anyone to plot a takeover with their father sitting at the table—unless he thought it was a good idea and wanted to help, which was a distinct possibility. But that could be even worse.
Dinner, to my great relief, was not a food disaster that night—just regular tuna casserole. It wasn’t tuna with Spam casserole, or tuna and liver pâté, or watermelon tuna, just regular tuna casserole, and my parents called each other by their actual names, not Lester and Wanda. The Grilled American food wasn’t really that bad, as far as the food disasters went, but I couldn’t handle another dinner with Lester and Wanda right then.
Ten minutes after the table was cleared, Dad put on his knit cap, and we drove off toward Sip.
“So,” he said, “what’s good at this place?”
“Oh, it’s all pretty good,” I said. “I usually just get the coffee, personally. Sometimes I have a mocha or something.”
“I like a good cup of coffee,” he said. “But I can’t get used to it being expensive. I remember when coffee was a dime.”
“Oh yeah, those were the days,” I said, trying to sound like an old man. “Back in my day coffee hadn’t even been invented yet. We just poured some mud into hot water. And in those days, most of my friends had named like Ugh and Grunt.”
“Oh really?” said my dad, appropriately amused.
“And we didn’t have coffee shops, just caves with better-than-average mud. And we didn’t have cars to drive to those, oh no. We had wagon trains. And these caves didn’t serve sandwiches—we had to eat poor Ugh. But he was an accountant, so no one was too sorry.”
“Okay,” Dad said, even though he was chuckling a bit. “I’m not that old. Your mom and I haven’t even started to talk about moving to Florida yet.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “But I wouldn’t recommend complaining about the cost of coffee in there.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a coffee shop. You expect people to be snotty in those places. I’m not that clueless, you know.”
“And don’t get too attached to it,” I said. “I overheard the owner say they’re closing in six months.”
“Figures,” he grumbled.
All the while, as we drove along, I was plotting a way I could ditch Dad once we got inside. I was pondering it all down Venture Street.
As it turned out, though, I didn’t have to worry. Inside Sip, I saw Anna, Brian, and Edie all sitting in our usual corner, and in an opposite corner, Anna’s dad was sitting and chatting with Trinity.
“Warren!” said my dad.
Anna’s dad smiled. “Hi, Nick,” he said. “Grab a chair!”
My dad walked over to the table and took a seat.
“Hey,” Trinity greeted him.
“Nice blue hair!” said my dad. “Check mine out!”
And he whipped off his knit cap to show her the green Mohawk. She sort of looked like a deer caught in headlights for a second, then started laughing.
“Do you believe it, Warren?” my dad said. “I’m hip!”
“It’s adorable!” said Trinity, running her fingers through it.
Compared to Warren Brandenburg,
“I’ll pass, actually,” I said. “When you know you have a working model, we’ll talk, but I won’t be the lab rat.”
“Fair enough.”
I hadn’t really considered getting green hair myself; I sort of worried that if I did, I’d just look like I was trying to keep up with my dad. On the other hand, though, it might be fun to tell people my dad had given me green hair. Maybe I could say it was a form of creative punishment my parents had read about in some parenting magazine.
“Anyway,” I said, “can I get another ride to Sip after dinner tonight, like, at eight?”
“I don’t see why not,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come in myself for once. I wouldn’t mind a good cup of coffee.”
“Um…okay,” I said, trying not to let on that I was terrified. It would be awfully hard for anyone to plot a takeover with their father sitting at the table—unless he thought it was a good idea and wanted to help, which was a distinct possibility. But that could be even worse.
Dinner, to my great relief, was not a food disaster that night—just regular tuna casserole. It wasn’t tuna with Spam casserole, or tuna and liver pâté, or watermelon tuna, just regular tuna casserole, and my parents called each other by their actual names, not Lester and Wanda. The Grilled American food wasn’t really that bad, as far as the food disasters went, but I couldn’t handle another dinner with Lester and Wanda right then.
Ten minutes after the table was cleared, Dad put on his knit cap, and we drove off toward Sip.
“So,” he said, “what’s good at this place?”
“Oh, it’s all pretty good,” I said. “I usually just get the coffee, personally. Sometimes I have a mocha or something.”
“I like a good cup of coffee,” he said. “But I can’t get used to it being expensive. I remember when coffee was a dime.”
“Oh yeah, those were the days,” I said, trying to sound like an old man. “Back in my day coffee hadn’t even been invented yet. We just poured some mud into hot water. And in those days, most of my friends had named like Ugh and Grunt.”
“Oh really?” said my dad, appropriately amused.
“And we didn’t have coffee shops, just caves with better-than-average mud. And we didn’t have cars to drive to those, oh no. We had wagon trains. And these caves didn’t serve sandwiches—we had to eat poor Ugh. But he was an accountant, so no one was too sorry.”
“Okay,” Dad said, even though he was chuckling a bit. “I’m not that old. Your mom and I haven’t even started to talk about moving to Florida yet.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “But I wouldn’t recommend complaining about the cost of coffee in there.”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a coffee shop. You expect people to be snotty in those places. I’m not that clueless, you know.”
“And don’t get too attached to it,” I said. “I overheard the owner say they’re closing in six months.”
“Figures,” he grumbled.
All the while, as we drove along, I was plotting a way I could ditch Dad once we got inside. I was pondering it all down Venture Street.
As it turned out, though, I didn’t have to worry. Inside Sip, I saw Anna, Brian, and Edie all sitting in our usual corner, and in an opposite corner, Anna’s dad was sitting and chatting with Trinity.
“Warren!” said my dad.
Anna’s dad smiled. “Hi, Nick,” he said. “Grab a chair!”
My dad walked over to the table and took a seat.
“Hey,” Trinity greeted him.
“Nice blue hair!” said my dad. “Check mine out!”
And he whipped off his knit cap to show her the green Mohawk. She sort of looked like a deer caught in headlights for a second, then started laughing.
“Do you believe it, Warren?” my dad said. “I’m hip!”
“It’s adorable!” said Trinity, running her fingers through it.
Compared to Warren Brandenburg,
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