right.” I gave her a quick hug, tried not to think about paper boats.
So now I’m at the mall, draining the dregs of Mochakoola #3, dreading the walk home. I swear if these cross-town excursions continue, I seriously need a dogsled.
Before facing the cold, I put the finishing touch on my paperwork. The Pettafordi experience crystallized my next step, sent me straight to Mrs. Teague, School Secretary, Keeper of Forms. Along with an application for encounter, she gave me that “bless your heart, you demi-orphan” look. Then she went beyond the look, saying, “I hope encounter will be a healing experience for you, Evan.”
Her sudden dose of compassion seemed to surprise us both. I snatched the paper and sprinted from her office, nearly crashing into Father Brendan.
“Mister Galloway, this is a school. Please restrict your speed.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be more careful.”
“See that you are.” He smiled, glancing at the paperwork in my hand. “Is that an encounter application, Evan?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to go in March.”
“Excellent. Encounter is quite powerful, a prayerful weekend focused on your relationship with the Lord, but I didn’t think you had any interest in attending.”
“Well, I found out my dad went, so I thought it might be good for me. You know, follow his footsteps, maybe understand him a bit better.”
I saw a brief flicker of something in his face. Removing his glasses, he inspected them, pointedly not looking at me. “Consider your motives, Evan.” Inhaling deeply, he seemed on the verge of something important, then said, “Have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“I’ll mention it to my mother tonight.”
“Yes, your mother.” He put his glasses on again and said, “Excuse me, I must be going.”
Will
following Dad’s footsteps really help? Maybe it’s nuts, this whole detective act. I mean, Dad’s encounter was over thirty years ago. It’s not like I can relive his experience. What am I expecting to learn, anyway?
Lex’d say, “The truth, Evster, nothing but.” And this does feel right, like I twirled the spinner on God’s board game and got Follow Dad’s Footsteps on Encounter. Who am I to argue?
Besides, they say a place can hold an impression of a past event, like an emotional echo. True, they generally say this only in bad horror movies. Then again, my life has become one scary-ass flick. And maybe they’re right (whoever they are); maybe I’ll find traces of Dad lingering at the Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center. Hopefully, in a phantom-free way.
Slurping my last, I sign the form. Actually, Mrs. Teague’s attempted comfort came in handy. Section E of the application says:
Briefly explain what you hope to gain through encounter.
My answer:
I hope encounter will be a healing experience.
On the escalator to the main floor, I catch myself humming “Hurting Each Other.” I wonder what Lex will think about encounter. Before stepping into churning snow, I take a last look at the completed form, fold it, and slip it into my backpack. All I need is parental permission.
Easier said than done .
I wasn’t fool enough to expect it’d go smoothly. Even before Dad’s rope trick, my relationship with Mom was what you might call
strained
. We love each other. It’s just that interacting with her is akin to emotional maneuvers: Hide the flag, look out for landmines.
So when I got home, I’d hoped to slip in under her radar. And I was so close. But then my cloaking device failed. Miserably. She intercepted me at my bedroom door, salad tongs in hand.
“Where’ve you been?”
I knew not to divulge. If she caught wind of The Pettafordi Incident, she’d detonate. So I employed a classic evasion.
One part apology: “Sorry, Mom. I should’ve called.”
One part explanation: “Lex and I stopped by the library.”
Mix well and finish with a subtle challenge: “You always say I spend too much time holed up in my room.”
I went for the doorknob.
So now I’m at the mall, draining the dregs of Mochakoola #3, dreading the walk home. I swear if these cross-town excursions continue, I seriously need a dogsled.
Before facing the cold, I put the finishing touch on my paperwork. The Pettafordi experience crystallized my next step, sent me straight to Mrs. Teague, School Secretary, Keeper of Forms. Along with an application for encounter, she gave me that “bless your heart, you demi-orphan” look. Then she went beyond the look, saying, “I hope encounter will be a healing experience for you, Evan.”
Her sudden dose of compassion seemed to surprise us both. I snatched the paper and sprinted from her office, nearly crashing into Father Brendan.
“Mister Galloway, this is a school. Please restrict your speed.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be more careful.”
“See that you are.” He smiled, glancing at the paperwork in my hand. “Is that an encounter application, Evan?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to go in March.”
“Excellent. Encounter is quite powerful, a prayerful weekend focused on your relationship with the Lord, but I didn’t think you had any interest in attending.”
“Well, I found out my dad went, so I thought it might be good for me. You know, follow his footsteps, maybe understand him a bit better.”
I saw a brief flicker of something in his face. Removing his glasses, he inspected them, pointedly not looking at me. “Consider your motives, Evan.” Inhaling deeply, he seemed on the verge of something important, then said, “Have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“I’ll mention it to my mother tonight.”
“Yes, your mother.” He put his glasses on again and said, “Excuse me, I must be going.”
Will
following Dad’s footsteps really help? Maybe it’s nuts, this whole detective act. I mean, Dad’s encounter was over thirty years ago. It’s not like I can relive his experience. What am I expecting to learn, anyway?
Lex’d say, “The truth, Evster, nothing but.” And this does feel right, like I twirled the spinner on God’s board game and got Follow Dad’s Footsteps on Encounter. Who am I to argue?
Besides, they say a place can hold an impression of a past event, like an emotional echo. True, they generally say this only in bad horror movies. Then again, my life has become one scary-ass flick. And maybe they’re right (whoever they are); maybe I’ll find traces of Dad lingering at the Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center. Hopefully, in a phantom-free way.
Slurping my last, I sign the form. Actually, Mrs. Teague’s attempted comfort came in handy. Section E of the application says:
Briefly explain what you hope to gain through encounter.
My answer:
I hope encounter will be a healing experience.
On the escalator to the main floor, I catch myself humming “Hurting Each Other.” I wonder what Lex will think about encounter. Before stepping into churning snow, I take a last look at the completed form, fold it, and slip it into my backpack. All I need is parental permission.
Easier said than done .
I wasn’t fool enough to expect it’d go smoothly. Even before Dad’s rope trick, my relationship with Mom was what you might call
strained
. We love each other. It’s just that interacting with her is akin to emotional maneuvers: Hide the flag, look out for landmines.
So when I got home, I’d hoped to slip in under her radar. And I was so close. But then my cloaking device failed. Miserably. She intercepted me at my bedroom door, salad tongs in hand.
“Where’ve you been?”
I knew not to divulge. If she caught wind of The Pettafordi Incident, she’d detonate. So I employed a classic evasion.
One part apology: “Sorry, Mom. I should’ve called.”
One part explanation: “Lex and I stopped by the library.”
Mix well and finish with a subtle challenge: “You always say I spend too much time holed up in my room.”
I went for the doorknob.
Similar Books
