Pulling up Stakes and Other Piercing Stories

By David Lubar

Many things can pierce – sharpened stakes, fencing swords, cat's claws, short stories, ideas, earrings, and love, to name just a few. This collection of eleven penetrating stories, gathered from my contributions to YA anthologies, contains some of my favorite pieces, including a slapstick account of a young man sent on a mortifying mission by the girl he loves, a tale about the mysteries of faith and belief, and a comedy of errors where a Transylvanian immigrant arouses suspicion in the darkness of the Alaskan winter. I've had the pleasure of writing short stories for the best anthologists in the YA world. Now, I have the pleasure of sharing those stories with my readers in one sharp collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Lubar
• Release date: Dec 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465811455

David Lubar

David Lubar grew up in New Jersey and now lives next door in Pennsylvania. Armed with a degree in philosophy from Rutgers University and no marketable job skills, he spent several years as a starving writer before accidentally discovering that he knew how to program computers. He is now a full-time writer and the author of eleven books for teens and young readers, including Dunk (Clarion Books), Flip (Tor), and Wizards of the Game (Philomel). David Lubar lives with his wife; they have one highly intelligent daughter and three idiosyncratic cats.

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Pulling up Stakes

and Other Piercing Stories

by

David Lubar

Pulling up Stakes

and Other Piercing Stories

eBook edition

Collection copyright 2012 by David Lubar

Cover design by digitaldonna.com

Shockers copyright 2005, David Lubar, first appeared in Every Man for Himself. War Is Swell copyright 2002, David Lubar, first appeared in Shattered. The Heroic Quest of Douglas McGawain copyright 2004, David Lubar, first appeared in Don't Cramp My Style. Bread on the Water copyright 2003, David Lubar, first appeared in Destination Unexpected. Orway Otnay otay eBay? copyright 2009, David Lubar, first appeared in This Family Is Driving Me Crazy. Duel Identities copyright 2000, David Lubar, first appeared in Lost & Found. Pulling up Stakes copyright 2004, David Lubar, first appeared in First Crossing. Here's to Good Friends copyright 2008, David Lubar, first appeared in Owning It. Claws and Effect copyright 2006, David Lubar, first appeared in What Are You Afraid Of? Words of Faith copyright 2002, David Lubar, first appeared in Soul Searching. Habitat for Humanity copyright 2006, David Lubar, first appeared in Twice Told.

First Smashwords Edition, January, 2012

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Shockers

War Is Swell

The Heroic Quest of Douglas McGawain

Bread on the Water

Orway Otnay otay eBay?

Duel Identities

Here’s to Good Friends

Claws and Effect

Words of Faith

Habitat for Humanity

Pulling up Stakes

About the author

Other books by David Lubar

Introduction

Each story in this collection began with an act of courage, though not on my part. Nearly a dozen times, an author or editor took a deep breath and made the splendidly dangerous decision to create an anthology. I would never be so bold. I would never be so ambitious. I would definitely never want to tell another writer that he needed to cut his story or, worse, that his story didn’t make the cut. Anthologies require a huge investment of time, and receive a lot less love in return for that investment than novels get. Or cakes. I’ve written six short-story collections. Those are easy. Collections are the voice of one writer. I pick whatever plots and topics I feel like. An anthology has a single theme, but a mix of voices. I’ll get a call or email from an editor, stating, I’d like a story from you about phobias. Or war. Or, gasp, titter, gasp again, menstruation.

That’s where I come in. As much as I would never want to edit an anthology, I’ve enjoyed being on the other end of the gun. The editors I’ve had the pleasure to write for have helped me craft some of my best work. One story in here underwent both a sex change and a drastic weight reduction. Another was lengthened on request. Titles were shot down. Awkward sentences were circled. Characters were assassinated, or, at least, removed from the page. It’s a good process.

As the cover indicates, the stories do seem to involve more than a few sharp objects. I suspect either that’s coincidental, or it reveals an aspect of my personality that’s better left unexplored. I won’t go on at length, here. The interesting part is the fiction, not my thoughts about writing it or the history of the stories. I hope you enjoy what follows.

Shockers

Delia shrieked liked she was being gutted with a dull butter knife. Oh boy. I knew that scream. I knew it well. It was the one that announced earth-shaking news.

We were up in her room. Her folks were pretty cool about that, as long as we kept the door cracked an inch or two, though her mom generally popped her head in at random intervals to ask if we wanted a cup of hot chocolate or to inform us about the topic for this evening's Nightline.

Her dad glanced in our direction if he happened to be walking down the hall, though he didn't talk much. Our longest conversation took place the first time we met. I'll give him this — he didn't blink. I think my hair was pink that week. Can't remember for sure. I had the earrings, the nose ring, and the one in my lip, but I hadn't gotten my eyebrow pierced yet. Delia's dad lifted his right hand, pointed at my cheek, and said, Steve, I think you missed a spot. Very funny.

Back to the scream. It was Friday night, around eleven. I was hanging out, reading Neuromancer for the ninth or tenth time. The book was one of the summer reading assignments for senior English, which I took as a good sign. Delia was downloading the latest top-forty samples, exchanging instant messages with her friends, and surfing for fashion news to make sure the pants she'd bought two days ago were still in style.

After the scream, Delia leaped from her chair and clapped her hands together like someone killing a bee. As much as I disliked the scream, I loved the way everything moved when she jumped. She was in great shape. She didn't just turn heads. She snapped them. Last week, I swear I saw a guy in the mall do a one-eighty from the neck up. I could almost hear vertebrae separating. Of course, the fact that her skirt could be mistaken for a belt added to the impact.

Steve, you'll never guess, she said.

Martians invaded the mall? I asked, placing my book face down to save my place.

No. Guess who's playing at the Dome?

I replayed her scream through my mind and knew the answer. And, with the answer, all the consequences. My fate was sealed. Life would suck for two hours at some point in the future. Why couldn't love be deaf? Ungritting my teeth, I spoke their name. "Oh! Golly."

"Yeah. Oh! Golly, she said. They're playing at the Dome next month. Tickets go on sale Monday."

Oh great, I said. Softly. As the posters that were plastered across her walls testified, Delia was their number one fan. I didn't share her enthusiasm. Oh! Golly was one of those bands that, like Frankenstein's monster, have been sewn together by an evil genius. They weren't created in a gas-fumed garage by a group of musicians who'd known each other since birth. They sprang from the depths of a record company's marketing department. Their music was upbeat. Their lives were wholesome. Between the five members of the group, they had enough shiny white teeth to tile a spacious bathroom. The title of their latest album was Puppy Chuckles. Kill me now.

Delia dashed across the room and hugged me. I'm so excited. We are going to have the best time. She kept her grip while jumping up and down. Had I been lighter, I would have left the ground. As it was, I could feel part of my body rising. Okay, kill me later. I reached up to return the embrace.

You kids want ice cream? Delia's mom inserted the front portion of her head into the room. I've got mocha almond fudge, and peanut butter swirl.

No thanks, Mrs. Kensington, I said, as I stepped away from Delia and tried to wipe all signs of passion off my face.

Well, let us know if you change your mind. She withdrew and moved silently away along the thick carpet in the hall.

Delia ran back to her computer. I ran various escape options through my mind. Maybe she wouldn't be able to get tickets. Maybe the whole band would come down with food poisoning. Maybe I'd break both legs in a snow-boarding accident. Okay, not likely in the middle of June, but a guy could hope.

As much as I loved to visit my fantasy world where I could imagine entire bands suddenly struck down with a hideously painful gum disease, I realized I was out of luck. Delia always got what she wanted, whether it was a new outfit, concert tickets, or any guy on the planet. Her dad made good money doing some sort of thing with municipal bonds. Her mom came from a family that once owned a chain of movie theaters. Delia was an only child. The Kensingtons had nobody else to spoil.

I'm not poor, but my life wasn't anything like Delia's. We moved in different circles. Possible even in different universes. But we're both good artists. Very good, actually. So we couldn't help running into each other all the time in the art room. I could tell Delia didn't want to admit that some freaky guy with spiked hair and a face full of hardware could draw like a Renaissance master. And I wasn't willing to accept that some egocentric chick with perfect makeup and coordinated outfits could paint circles around the French Impressionists. But there it was. And there we were.

I stayed after school a lot to work on stuff. One day, when Delia and I were leaving at the same time, we started talking. The next day, we talked and grabbed a burger. I notice that she didn't stare at me like I was some sort of freak. And I tried my hardest not to stare at her like she was some sort of cover girl. I might have failed slightly in my efforts, but it didn't seem to bother her. She knew she was hot.

There was a Gustav Klimt exhibit opening at the art museum that weekend. None of my friends wanted to go. None of her friends wanted to go. So she and I went. I guess that was our first date. I figured we'd meet at the museum, but she asked me to pick her up at her place. Said her parents insisted on it. So that's when I first met her folks. It was actually sort of nice. The last couple girls I'd gone out with had tried to hide me from their parents. We'd had a good time at the museum.

Now here I was, more than a month later, still with her. I got ready to head home at 11:45. I have this stupid junior license, so I can't be on the road after midnight. Hey, I'm glad you're going to get to see them, I told Delia. That was true. I understood the passion, even if I loathed the target.

Thanks. She stood and put a hand on my shoulder. I'm glad we're going, too.

I leaned forward to give her a kiss.

Tap.

Bam!

Tap. Tap.

BamBamBam!

I peered around the door. The culprit was Mrs. Kensington in the hallway with a hammer.

Family photos, she said as she lifted a huge frame onto the hanger she'd just nailed to the wall. Been meaning to put this up for weeks. Come see.

I came and saw. The newly hung object was one of those photo displays with a bunch of holes cut in a mat board. Lots of snap shots of Delia at various ages in various outfits. All adorable. Faded shots of grandparents. Assorted adults in pairs and groups. One picture caught my eye. Mr. Kensington and Delia with fishing rods, standing by a lake. She's five or six, and grinning. He's holding a fish.

I noticed him coming down the hall — probably to make sure the wall was still standing. Smallmouth? I asked,