Question: A friend asks you to recommend a book: which book would you choose and why?
Answer: Drake's not a big fan of books, but there is one from his childhood that means an awful lot...
"What are you doing here?"
Drake stopped in mid-swallow and raised an eyebrow at Megan over the top of his Mountain Fizz can. The soda trapped in his throat burned on the way down, and he winced and tried to choke back a cough. "What?" he managed, lowering the can and swiping at his bottom lip with the back of his hand.
"Didn't you move out?" Megan said, easing her bookbag off her shoulder and dropping it on to the couch next to him. "I thought we were finally rid of you."
"Yeah, so? I can't come back to visit once in a while?"
"Not if you're going to steal all our food, you can't," she said, snatching up the bag of potato chips lying open against Drake's hip.
"Hey!" Drake swung his feet off the couch and grabbed at the bag, but Megan was too quick for him. She danced away toward the other side of the couch, stuffing a handful of chips into her mouth as she went. "I was eating those!"
"Yeah, and now I'm eating them. Just like you used to have control of the remote." She dove over the back of the couch and plucked the remote off the cushion next to him a split second before the realization of what she planned to do had been relayed from his brain to his hands. "And now I do." She clicked a button and the smiling, singing face of Susanna Louisiana flashed up on the TV screen in place of the movie Drake had been watching. Smirking, she sat down on the other end of the couch and tucked the remote under leg.
"Aw, man," Drake grumbled, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "I hate this show."
"Yeah, well, the good news is you have your own place to go home to whenever you feel --" She turned her face toward him and frowned, her eyebrows coming together in a menacing glare that made a chill run down his spine. "-- unwelcome here."
"Ha, ha, ha," he said, with a bravado he didn't quite feel. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Very funny. Don't you have some homework to do or something?"
"Yeah." Megan sighed. "I have to write a stupid book report."
"What's so stupid about it? Didn't you read the book?"
"Oh, I read it."
"So what is it?"
"I don't know yet."
Drake screwed up his face in confusion. "Huh?"
She rolled her eyes. "I have to pick a book that is meaningful to me in some way and write at least five hundred words about it. But I have no idea what book to pick." She nibbled on a chip and glanced at Drake. "Any suggestions?"
Drake scoffed. "Pfft. Yeah, right."
"I'm home!" sang a voice behind them.
"Hello, Walter," they said together in a monotone. Neither of them looked away from the television as their stepfather lumbered into the room.
"Oh, Drake, good, you're here," Walter said, putting his briefcase down on the dining room table. "I found a few more boxes of your stuff in the garage. I want you to go through them and either take them with you or throw them out, you got it?"
"Mmm," Drake grunted, still staring at the TV.
"Good. Are you staying for dinner?"
The three of them exchanged amused looks. "Yes," they said in unison a moment later.
"So, how's the place shaping up?"
Drake finished chewing his mouthful and speared another bit of chicken on the tines of his fork. "Okay," he said, dragging it through the last traces of gravy clinging to his plate.
"You get everything unpacked?"
"Most of it." The important stuff, anyway: his guitars, an amp, some underwear, a few T-shirts, two pairs of jeans. None of the clothing had found its way into his dresser drawers, of course, but that was what the kitchen table was for, wasn't it?
"Did you finish hanging the curtains?"
"Mom." Drake couldn't keep the irritable edge out of his voice. "I told you I didn't even want those curtains."
"But they're so pretty," his mother said, poking idly at a few wrinkled peas at the bottom of the serving bowl.
"I don't care if the place looks pretty," Drake replied, popping the chicken in his mouth. "I want it to look cool."
"Okay, okay. Sorry." She stood and started to gather up Walter and Megan's empty plates. "I just thought if you needed some help, I have the day after tomorrow off --"
"Yeah, no thanks." Get a hobby, Mom. Jeez.
"I can pack up the rest of this chicken for you, if you like," she continued, stacking the dirty dishes next to the sink.
"Whatever." Drake drained the rest of his soda and plunked the empty glass down on the table.
"And then maybe next week we can do a little shopping, pick up a few of those --"
"I'm gonna go look through those boxes Walter mentioned," Drake said. The legs of his chair squealed loudly on the kitchen floor as he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Out of habit, he gathered up his plate and silverware and carried them to the sink.
"Do you have to run off so soon?" his mother said as Drake thrust his burden into her hands. "Why don't you sit and talk with me for a while?"
"Can't," Drake said shortly, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl and tossing it in his mouth. "I have to look through this stuff Walter left and then get home. I've got a meeting in LA in the morning."
"Oh. Okay. Maybe I could help --"
The rest of her sentence was lost to Drake as the kitchen door swung shut behind him.
Drake snagged the workbench stool as he walked by and set it down in front of the pile of boxes Walter had left for him. There was one big box in the middle of the pile with the words "Drake's room" scrawled in black letters across the face of it. A few smaller ones lay scattered around it, their flaps hanging open to reveal a variety of items Drake recognized from his childhood. A battered teddy bear with a missing ear was hanging halfway out of one of them, and Drake bent over to scoop it up. "Oh, hey! Sergeant Sparkles!" he said with a smile, giving the bear's middle a gentle squeeze. "I wondered what happened to you." He glanced at the bear fondly for a moment, remembering how soft it had felt against his cheek when he was a kid. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door leading into the house, he shoved the bear back into the box and slammed the flaps shut over it. The last thing in the world he needed was for Megan to see him playing with a stuffed animal.
Pushing the box aside with his foot, Drake pulled the flaps on the largest box apart and peered inside. A musty smell assaulted his nostrils and he wrinkled his nose. He reached in and pulled out an old pair of pajamas. "Oh man," he said, tossing the garments to the floor, "I remember these." A few old shirts joined the pajamas, then a pair of sneakers barely bigger than Drake's palm. "Why did she keep this stuff?" he wondered aloud, now diving into the box with both hands.
The layer under the clothes was composed mostly of broken toys. A plastic army tank hit the floor with a clatter, followed by an action figure in fatigues with a missing arm and a helicopter with a busted propeller. Drake laughed softly to himself as he pulled a battered plastic guitar from beneath a faded baseball mitt. It had little multi-colored buttons on it instead of strings, each button corresponding to a different note. "Oh, wow," he whispered, pushing the buttons. The toy remained silent, its batteries long dead, but he tucked it against his hip anyway and mimed strumming it, humming softly. God, how many hours had he spent with this thing when he was a kid?
This is definitely a keeper, he thought, setting it aside.
He rummaged through the rest of the box for a few more minutes, but found nothing else of interest. He was about to close the flaps and move on to the next box when a flash of blue caught his eye. Frowning, he reached down to the bottom and pulled out a small book with thick cardboard pages. Part of the cover had peeled away, so he turned it on its side to read the title on the spine. "The Runaway Bunny," he murmured, opening it to the middle. "Man, I forgot all about this."
--
"Read this one to me, Mom." "Again?" His mom's voice sounded resigned. "Wouldn't you rather we read the one about --" "No! This one." "Okay," she sighed. "Tell you what, how about if you read along with me?" "Promise to help me with the hard words?" "Of course."
--
Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away. So he said to his mother, "I am running away." "If you run away," said his mother, "I will run after you. For you are my little bunny."
--
Drake shifted uncomfortably on the stool, recalling how he'd cut his mother off earlier in the kitchen. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate her offer to help, exactly. He knew she meant well, just... he wasn't a kid anymore. He wanted to do things on his own. His way.
--
"If you run after me," said the little bunny, "I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you." "If you become a fish in a trout stream," said his mother, "I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you."
--
"Want me to help you with that?" Drake curled his lip. "Moms can't help boys learn to ride a bike. "Oh. I see." "And since I don't have a dad anymore, I have to learn to do it all by myself." "Okay. You go on ahead, then," his mom said, pulling a magazine out of her bag. "I'll just sit here and read while you're learning." Legs quivering with a mixture of pride and excitement, Drake straddled the bar of his new two-wheeler. The bike was slightly too big for him, so he had to stand on his tiptoes in order to ease his backside onto the seat. The front wheel swerved as he struggled to put his feet on the pedals, and the bike collapsed to the ground, pinning his leg beneath it. He glanced up at his mother, who casually turned the page as though she hadn't noticed. Red-faced, Drake clambered out from under the bike and righted it, climbing atop it again. Three spills later, he had torn a hole in the knee of his jeans and his eyes were prickling with exasperated tears. "Mom, can you help me with this?" he said, his voice thick with frustration, and his mother put her magazine down with a smile. "Of course."
--
After all, it wasn't Drake's fault he and Josh had both left home at about the same time. Mom still had Megan to take care of, and that should be more than enough for anyone.
--
"If you become a fisherman," said the little bunny, "I will become a rock on the mountain, high above you." "If you become a rock on the mountain above me," said his mother, "I will become a mountain climber and I will climb to where you are."
--
"What's the matter, hon?" "Nothing. You wouldn't understand." "Try me." "I'm just having problems with a girl, that's all." "Oh, hey, that's right up my alley. I used to be a girl." His mother smiled and nudged Drake in the ribs with her elbow. "Yeah, but that was a long time ago," Drake replied, pulling the tab on his soda can. It opened with a hiss and he took a long pull, watching her expression change over the top of the can as he did. "Yeah, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth." She pulled the refrigerator door open and ducked her head inside, but not before Drake caught the hurt look in her eyes. It reminded him of Stacey and the way she'd looked that afternoon when she'd asked Drake what he thought of her new haircut. When he told her she'd looked better with her hair the old way, she'd started to cry and hadn't even stopped when he told her she was still the prettiest girl in the fifth grade, just now her face looked too big. In fact, that'd made her cry harder. Maybe girls thought big faces were cool these days. Or maybe they didn't like it when you told them the truth. Maybe... maybe his mom might be able to help after all. "Hey, Mom," he said slowly, and his mother looked up from the vegetables she was chopping with a distracted frown. "Can I ask you a question?" The frown morphed into a smile as the knife continued to clock against the cutting board. "Of course."
--
No guy his age wanted his mother to help him hang curtains. No guy his age even wanted curtains. Or lace doilies, or scented soaps, or little Tupperware containers filled with leftovers, or whatever other domestic horrors a well-meaning mother might try to inflict. He wanted a place where his buddies could put their feet up without worrying about staining the upholstery, or put a beer can down without worrying about leaving sweat rings behind. A guy's place, not a freaking museum.
Although now Drake came to think about it, that Tupperware thing might not be too bad. Sometimes -- though he'd never admit it aloud -- potato chips and sour cream and onion dip was a less than satisfactory dinner, especially now that he could have it any time he wanted. Sometimes, every once in a while, he missed his mother's fussy matching bathroom towels and the sweet smell of clean sheets and the coffee mugs without the layers of brown stains at the bottom.
Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be such an awful thing to have her help after all. Just for a little while. Just long enough to make his place feel less like a "place" and more like a home.
Drake closed the book and picked up the toy guitar. He was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned around. With a furtive glance to make sure he wasn't being observed, he bent to retrieve Sargent Sparkles and stuffed it into his pocket. Walter could throw the rest of the crap away.
Megan was sitting at the dining room table scribbling furiously in her binder when Drake emerged from the garage. He snickered. "I'm so glad I don't have to do that stuff anymore," he said, stopping at her side to look over her shoulder. "Did you decide what book to use for your book report?"
"No," she said shortly without looking up. "Now bug off."
"Try this one," he said, tossing The Runaway Bunny onto the table next to her. "It's a classic."
She lifted the book and turned a few pages, glancing at the pictures. "This book is like, two hundred words long. It would be the first book report in history that's longer than the book itself."
"Read between the lines," he said, plucking it from her hands. "There's a whole novel in there if you do."
"Ooh. When did you get to be so smart?"
Drake grinned. "I've just never been properly appreciated."
The kitchen door swung open and their mother walked into the room, carrying a vase full of freshly-cut flowers. "Oh Drake, you're still here? Did you finish looking through those boxes?"
"Yep," Drake said, rounding the table to approach his mother. "I'm just on my way out now."
"Okay," she said, placing the vase carefully on the end table. She cocked her head to study it, her lips twisted into a contemplative moue. "The leftovers are on the kitchen table if you want them."
"Great, thanks. And Mom?"
"Mmm?" She pulled one of the daisies from the arrangement and put it back in a different position.
"Feel like coming over on Wednesday to help me get those curtains hung?"
She looked up from the flowers, her eyes wide with surprise. Drake gave her an encouraging smile and dropped a light kiss on her forehead. After a moment, she smiled back.
"Of course."
A/N 2: Some passages taken directly from The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown. Used without permission.