Although real locales are referenced and real people and real occurances inspired its creation, this book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Kevin Porter
Developmental Editing by Susan Mary Malone
Copyediting by Sherry Linger Kaier
Cover art by Davinci Solidarios and Vaani Graphics
Author photo by Julian Vu and Kris Apodaca
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, please address:
The Artists’ Orchard, LLC
P.O. Box 113317
Pittsburgh, PA 15241
ISBN: 978-0-9857014-8-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013932358
Produced and Printed in the United States of America
“Chilling and unnerving, MISSING will keep young readers turning the page well past bedtime.”
— Earl Sewell, National bestselling author of The Keysha Diaries
“...a delightful read. I fell in love with Calvin, and his wittiness. I was on the edge of my seat at times – wondering if the approaching footsteps were those of the suspected kidnapper.”
— Monica McKayhan, Bestselling author of the Indigo Summer series
“...Thoughtful, evocative, and rich with good humor, MISSING captures the reality of family road trips. Porter’s crisp, witty writing style brings Calvin Crane to life as a perceptive, precocious narrator learning important truths.”
— C. Kelly Robinson, Essence Magazine-bestselling author of NO MORE MR. NICE GUY
“...an exhilarating read filled with very amusing, detailed characters...Suspense I didn’t see coming that will put you on the edge of your seat. Amongst the laughter and memory making, Calvin and his family never imagined that this vacation would also be a fight to keep their family together. Bravo Kevin Don Porter on a job well done.”
— AAMBC Book Club
To Elaine, from whom I learned the words
and Don, an endless source of inspiration.
∞
And to Tesa, Sherry, and Dionte--for always being there.
Acknowledgements
I thank God for making a long-standing dream of mine come true! It took several years of practice, but faith and perseverance are the keys!
It also took a very special Developmental Editor, Susan Mary Malone. After nearly a decade of working with you—through starts, stops and start-overs—your instruction, guidance and encouragement never once wavered. For that I thank you.
Dad, you are the rock of our family and the dreamer that dares us to dream. I love you.
To my sisters, Tesa and Sherry, what can I say? All those years of bugging you to use your computers and laptops. Of withdrawing to go work on “my book.” There were many times that I feared this would all be a pipedream, but here we are. I couldn’t have done it without you.
To my wonderful Editor, Sherry Linger Kaier. Thank you for your tireless efforts. Because of you, my words can now find a home in the hearts and minds of others.
To my readers: this moment that we meet is one that I have been waiting for. It seems almost surreal. I hope that my words touch you, reach you, inspire you, and that we’re friends for a very long, long time.
Chapter 1
Nebraska
Grandma Edith was sounding-off again. “Slow down Darn, you’re driving too fast.” Darn this, Darn that. That was how she said Dad’s name. Not Darnell, but a whiny “Darn.” What a nickname. Grandma said it was easier for her to yell “Darn” when she wanted Dad’s attention instead of saying his full name. Calling him Nell for short would’ve been bad enough—but Darn? I knew Grandma got a kick out of it. I did too. Kinda summed up how I felt when I found out she was coming on our summer road trip.
Everything was too fast for her. Slow down, Darn, you’re eating too fast. Slow down, Darn, you’re breathing too fast. Slow down, Darn, you’re slowing down too fast. Me, Cybil, and Solange just sat there squeezing back our laughs ‘til they trickled through like bad diarrhea. It was Dad’s bright idea to invite Grandma on the trip to California in the first place. Now there was no turning back. We were stuck. And the roof of the van wasn’t strong enough to hold her. I checked. Besides, she would never clear any low overpasses.
Dad said we would be hitting North Platte, Nebraska soon. I loved traveling to towns out West. They were the descendants of gold rushes and golden dreams. Of guts and glory. Of cowboys, general stores, and one-room school houses. Of hallowed potato museums and the world’s largest itchy balls of twine.
I had rules for road trips. I called ‘em Calvin’s Code. Number one: If you absolutely must fart, go ahead. But sit on it. A fart starved of oxygen usually suffers a quick death, sparing the slow deaths of those in its vicinity. But in case of emergency, have a cracked window on standby. Number two: If you fart in public when no one’s around, someone will always come from outta nowhere and walk right up to you – guaranteed. Farts are magnets for unwanted company. Just pretend to be as disgusted as they are.
Number three: Morning breath is usually much worse than the night before. So avoid big yawns when you blow out, and don’t leave your mouth uncovered. Number four: Frito feet are very common. So don’t remove your shoes when your feet are especially sweaty. Have a clean pair of socks handy. Number five: When you feel like talking, no one else will want to. And when you don’t want to talk, someone else always will. Finally, number six: People will never agree to do the same thing at the same time.
Case in point: Grandma Edith. Matter fact, I just thought of rule number seven: Never bring Grandma on your road trip. She whined, “Do we really have to stop now, Darn?” Did she have something better to do? Last I checked soaking your dentures and clipping your yellow toenails were not activities. Especially in the close quarters of children who may or may not have nightmares about being chased by chomping teeth and airborne toenails the size of boomerangs.
“Looks like an interesting gift shop coming up, Ma,” Dad said.
“Let’s stop!” I said. “We could find some neat stuff!”
Solange covered my mouth with her grubby hands. “Don’t stop, Dad.”
I fist-pumped as the van slowed down and we turned off the interstate. We pulled up to the gift shop and jumped out. Grandma caved and came in too. She didn’t wanna be stuck out in that heat. I hadn’t stretched my legs since the McDonald’s about a thousand miles ago. Felt good to be out of the van. Still felt like I was moving though.
The building looked like it was made from logs and sticks. Fake soldiers perched on the rooftop holding rifles stopped me in my tracks before I realized they weren’t real. A man hung over the edge with an arrow in his butt while more soldiers stood watch in two towers at the front corners of the building – like we had just walked into the middle of