The Phamtomime

Chapter 8

By the time I shuffled downstairs next morning, Dad sat alone at the table, making his lunch.

Apparently, I hadn't just slept late, I'd woken in an alternate universe where my father made his own food. He'd spread every single sandwich filling out on the table. Mom had to be out. No way would she stand for this sort of food-foolery.

"You should know I contemplated sending in a rescue team," Dad said. "The Popperpants I know would never miss breakfast."

"Popperpants? Do you hate me?" I took a plate and butter knife from the kitchen and sat in my place at the table.

"It could have been worse."

"Oh, I know," I said.

My sleepless night had used up a bunch of calories. I slathered one slice of rye with mayo, another with mustard, and then filled the middle with slabs of ham and cheese. Even squashed, the end result was two bites short of fitting in my mouth. I nibbled at the edges while my father created a mega-structure made from incompatible foodstuffs.

"Do you know anything about Archibald Holdings?" I asked him, between bites.

He paused for a second over his lunch tower. "Some. Why?"

"I wondered why they're pulling down every old building in town." The more I tried to make it look like a casual question, the less it did. I have no idea why I ever thought I could act. Acting was basically practiced lying, and no one in the entire universe sucked more at lying than me. Luckily, Dad didn't notice. He was too busy with the Empire State building of sandwiches.

"They're trying to give Riverton a kick in the behind, get the place going again." He made another attempt at getting his sandwich into his mouth. When it didn't work, he put it on his plate and pressed down like he wanted to give it CPR. Filling squirted out the sides, skittered over his plate and onto the table.

I got up and grabbed a roll of paper towels. He sat back like he thought I would clean up the mess. "Thanks, Pop-tart."

"Uh-uh." I passed him the roll and sat back down in my own place. "Your mess, you clean it up."

He sighed and gave the roll of paper a confused look. "When did you start caring about old buildings, anyway?"

"I heard they'd bought the Majestic. I hoped it would open again, maybe get a theater group going."

"Too much tragedy there. I'd rather you found some other place to act." He stared at the mess in front of him for a second, then pulled off a paper towel. "Anyway, no one can stand the smell there."

"Someone could air it out, or hang up a few of those pine air fresheners you have in your car."

"Unless the smell is supernatural." He looked at me from under a pair of wriggling eyebrows.

When it came to being scary, my dad couldn't startle a five-year-old, and they're the most easily freaked-out age-group—if the time I babysat Joshie Murdoch (and never got invited back) was anything to go by.

Even though my nose only sat on my face for decorative purposes, I didn't think the Majestic smelled. If someone burned toast, it stung my eyes. If the Majestic stank that bad, I would have noticed. The ghosts wouldn't be behind it, anyway. Cresswell and his troupe were even more desperate for an audience than me.

Dad tore off a few more sections of paper and pushed the mess around on the table without cleaning much. "I better get used to doing this stuff if your mother's not going to be around."

"What? Where's she going?"

His face screwed up a bit. "She's started work."

"No planning. No interview. She just starts work?"