Dan Versus Nature Read Free Page A

it. Dive through the glass and race all the way down to Mexico or Peru or wherever the hell Dad’s disappeared to, so I can beat the piss out of him for leaving us and making me have to deal with this crap.
    “And I’d greatly appreciate it,” Hank says, “if you’d be my best man.”
    “Your —” I cough. “Your best man? Why? Don’t you have any friends?”
    Let me guess: You’re a loner? A loser? A drifter? The quiet neighbor who buries bodies in his backyard?
    Hank laughs. “Of course I have friends. And they’ll be in the wedding party. But I thought . . . well . . . I thought it might be nice if we all stood up at the altar together. As a new family.” Hank shrugs. “Only if you’d like to, though. No pressure. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
    “No. Yeah. It’s . . .” I look over at Mom, who’s beaming, all hopeful. “That’d be . . . great.”
    Mom swats Hank’s arm. “See. Didn’t I tell you? Dan’s the greatest. You guys are going to get along like gangbusters.”

Hank is making dinner for us. To celebrate the big announcement.
    The menu is a surprise — as if I need any more of those tonight. The only hint Mom would give me is that the meal would center on the spoils of one of Hank’s hunting trips. So, rancid game meat, I guess.
    And really, should a guy who spends all day with his hands in people’s mouths be allowed to prepare food? Charlie would
not
approve.
    I shift the sketch pad on my desk and drag my pencil down the page in a long, swooshing arc, trying to make the cloak of the Night Goblin flow behind him. The scene is Temple Araxia, home of the Sacred Scarab, one of the seven Bewitching Amulets belonging to Warrior Princess Erilin, supreme and benevolent ruler of Melifluose.
    The Night Goblin has already stolen three of the Amulets: Godstone, Noble Birth, and the Onyx OxSkull. If he gets his hand on a fourth, the balance of power will be tipped in his favor.
    In this next panel, the Night Goblin is headed for the Temple keep, where he will be confronted by a sword-wielding Princess Erilin, who has been alerted to the threat by Sir Stan Stalwart of Summerhall.
    I’m basing my drawing of the princess loosely on this girl I like at school, Erin Reilly. I needed a model, someone who was beautiful and strong but not intimidatingly so, and Erin was the obvious choice. It’s been a bit of a challenge getting her look just right because I don’t have the balls to ask her to sit for me in person, and I
certainly
don’t want to be caught staring at her from across the room for long stretches of time like some creepy stalker. As a result, I have to work off of a combination of memory, stolen glances at school, and Erin’s Instagram feed. She really likes to make goofy faces in her photos, which, while super cute, doesn’t exactly scream Warrior Princess.
    I swipe my phone, click the Instagram app, and find a shot of Erin making googly eyes and a fat tongue at the camera. Not great, but better than the one where she’s wearing giant heart glasses and pulling up her nose in a pig snout. At least I can get the shape of her ears and the swoop of her neck.
    “Engaged!” I mutter to myself as I draw. Un-freakin-believable. How did I not see that coming?
    Well, you never met the dude. Perhaps that had something to do with it?
    Yeah, but there must have been signs. I just wasn’t paying attention. I got complacent. And why wouldn’t I? All of Mom’s dates tend to blend into each other. Ryan, Ted, Allan, Jesse, Peter, Hank. Such gentlemen. So funny. So sweet. “The real deal this time.” And me nodding, smiling, and zoning out as Mom blathers on giddily.
    Until the day the truth comes out — the other girlfriends, the mean streak, the fur suit fetish — and Mom comes home crying.
    Unless they’ve moved in. Then I come home to find her crying on our couch. Or in her bed. Or locked in the bathroom.
    But there’s always crying. And yelling.
    I don’t see how she