"Dad, I'm fine." I said as my father knelt beside me. I had been moving our boxes out of the truck when the Box Ghost showed up and threw our stuff everywhere. I had phased instantly and had gotten a few good shots at the ghost before dad came flying out. Dad totally over-reacted and beat the crap out of him, but not before one of his boxes nailed me in the head and knocked me over.
"Are you sure? I mean, it looks a little red. Are you sure you're not hurt?" he fussed. I rolled my eyes at him. "Okay, okay. You're fine." he relented, offering me a hand to help me up. When I stood up I phased back to normal. So did Dad. He brushed the dirt of my jacket then started to pick up all the things that the ghost had dumped. It was mostly our books, some movies and one box of our plateware.
"Be careful of the broken glass. I'll get that. Why don't you go inside and start unpacking your room? I can clean all of this up." he suggested. I ignored him and kept picking things up. Just then, a car pulled up in front of our driveway. A man and a women got out and starode over towards dad.
"Tucker, Valerie." he said as they got closer. The man, Tucker, hugged my dad in one of those weird, hand-shake-turns-into-a-guy-hug things. After he stepped back, Valerie put her arms around him and he stiffened. My dad never really let anyone touch him except me.
"It's been a while." my dad said.
"Yeah," Tucker replied. "Not since Sam-"
"You probably don't remember them, do you Ari? We left when you were really little." my dad cut him off, turning to me. "This is Tucker Foley, a good friend of mine, and his wife Valerie." he said, motioning to them. I walked over to them and stood beside my dad.
"Hi," I said, smiling. Tucker kind of gasped when he saw me, but tried not to let me notice.
"Wow." he said. "You look so much like your mom did when she was your age." I was surprised. My dad never talked about her, and he'd never shown me any pictures. I wondered how much I looked like her. Did she have my icey blue eyes? My black hair? I glanced over at dad. His stoney expression told me that this turn of the conversation was not welcome. Dad didn't like to talk about mom. I had no idea how to respond to that, so I stayed silent. So did Dad.
"So, what brings you back to Amity Park?" Valerie asked, thankfully killing the awkward silence. I looked over at Dad. He never told me why he decided to move this time.
"I have some buisness to take care of here." he asnwered cryptically.
"While you're here, you should go see the Manson's." Tucker said. I had never met my grandparents, but I got the impression that they didn't like my dad. "They deserve to meet their grandgaughter. Plus, you could talk to them. They understand, Danny. Maybe talking to them will help." Valerie put her hand on Tuckers arm, trying to get him to stop talking, but it was too late.
"Thanks for stopping by." Dad said as he turned around and headed inside. I sighed as Tucker opened his mouth again.
"Don't." I warned him. We watched Dad go inside and shut the door behind him. "It's not your fault, he just doesn't like talking about her. Ever."
"What do you mean?" Tucker asked.
"I mean, when I was little I used to ask about her. Dad would always find a way to change the conversation or distract me and never tell me anything. Later, when I was older, I realized that he was avoiding the conversation. I stopped asking after that." I said. I'd long ago gotten used to never talking about her. Talkng about her was making me uneasy. "I better go." I told them. "Dad sucks at unpacking. He pulls everything out, then tries to figure out where they go and it totally messes up my system."
"You have a system for moving?" Valerie asked, surprised. I nodded.
"After I turned ten I realized why it always took us so long to pack and unpack. Everything was just put into boxes and stacked in the moving truck. So I started labeling boxes, making sure all the plateware was in the same box, making sure our clothes were packed in seperate boxes, that sort of stuff. Now we have a system of numbers, colors and symbols, which dad still has yet to figure out." I explained.
"How many times have you moved?" Tucker asked. I quickly counted it out in my head.
"This is our twelveth move since I turned ten. I didn't keep track before then, but we move every six months or so, so I figure we've moved about thrity times." I said. Tucker seemed really suprised.
"Why?" he asked. I glance back at the house, catching my dad peek his head between the curtains and check on me. When he saw me watching he ducked back inside.
"I think he's looking for something. Or running from something. I haven't quite figured that out yet, but I will." I said.
