The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,5
hours south to this middle-of-nowhere town we now call home.
They rented a small house by the railroad tracks where they could live cheaply and pursue their passions side by side. Sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? Only three months in, while they were out buying groceries, faulty wiring in their electric heater started a fire. That blissful love cottage burned to the ground before my parents reached the dairy aisle at Handy Mart.
Everything they had was lost. Mom’s novel-in-progress. Dad’s paintings. Mom’s ancient Apple computer. Dad’s art supplies. Every last thing either burnt to a crisp or was smoke-damaged beyond repair. The only thing left was their old Ford pickup, the clothes on their backs, and two bags of Handy Mart groceries.
That night they stayed at the Motel 6 by the highway. (You see where this is going, right?) Nine months later I was born, and they named me Phoenix Ray Bauer, their “phoenix from the ashes.”
I told you they were sentimental.
Dad is asleep on the lumpy couch in the middle of the room, one arm draped over his eyes to keep out the light. An oversize computer monitor sits on the coffee table next to him, casting an eerie screen saver glow over its slumbering slave. Sometimes, I wish I could drape a tarp over it, too.
I tiptoe around the room and start tidying up, gathering coffee mugs and dirty dishes. Dad has obviously pulled another all-nighter. He’s in charge of Christmas in the Landing, which will be unveiled on Black Friday—I count on my fingers—only eight days away. Black Friday is also the MEEP’s one-year anniversary, so Dad’s bosses have told him to pull out all the stops on this. He can’t just toss some tinsel around like we do at our house and call it Christmas. Not in the MEEP. This has to be big. Dad’s been working on it for months.
Mom comes down the basement stairs carrying a dinner tray. I place a hand on Dad’s arm to wake him gently, but he startles anyway, popping up like I’ve blasted a bullhorn in his ear. He looks around and wipes the sleep out of his eyes, then smiles sheepishly at Mom and me. “How are the two most beautiful girls in the world?” he asks as Mom leans down to peck him on the cheek. “Is Christmas over yet? Please say yes.”
Mom hands him a big green smoothie. “Afraid not. But no more coffee until you drink this, Vic. And you could use a shower before you get back to work. You smell like a caveman.”
“And you look like an extra from Braveheart,” I chime in. Dad’s a big ginger-headed man to begin with, but add several months of beard and hair growth and he looks like some crazy Highlander about to go brawling for fun.
Dad makes a face at us and gulps down the green sludge like a trooper, then reaches for the plate of chicken linguini Mom’s made. He pauses in between bites to say, “And what’s up with the Nixinator? Been bounty hunting anywhere interesting lately?”
I shake my head. “Same old, same old. Mostly luvme templates with few or no custom elements.”
“Filthy casuals,” Dad says, winking at me. We both know what’s coming next.
Old mama bobblehead starts up. “The MEEP is for everyone, you two, and people have the right to play in it however they like. Besides,” Mom adds, unsuccessfully trying to raise one eyebrow at us, “we already have enough hardcore game snobs in the world.”
“Never!” I say, but she knows I don’t mean it. My dad and I make fun of hardcore gamers as much as we make fun of casuals. As Dad says, we’re equal-opportunity teasers.
“So, Nix, got time to try out Christmas in the Landing for me?” Dad asks. “We still have some glitches to fix and a few more mini-games to add, but we’re close to the finish line.”
“Dinner and homework first,” Mom chimes in before I can answer.
“All I have is some pre-calc, which I mostly finished in study hall,” I tell her. “And I just ate a ton of fruit, remember? I’ll heat up some pasta when I get back, I promise.” (Actually, I’d only eaten two kiwi slices and I still have a buttload of homework to do, but what’s a little hyperbole between mother and daughter?)
“Great!” says Dad, before Mom can answer. “I’ll get it ready to roll.”
Mom tries to raise one eyebrow again, but all it does is wrinkle her forehead. Poor Jill.