Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Party Plan

The rest of the week passed in a superficially normal manner, but there was a lot of tension under everyone’s surface. There was no trouble at all between Joe and I, but between me and Dad- and even more between Laura and I- there was a lot of awkwardness and uneasy formality. Joe, reflecting my own feelings, was fairly relaxed with his father, but quite stiff with his mother.

I struggled quite a bit with the ‘labels’ that week, unsure how to address the adults in person and in my mind. I had thought of them as Mom and Dad for so long that I tended to automatically use those words; I had to consciously correct myself to think Aunt and Uncle or Fenton and Laura. Verbally, I avoided the whole issue by not addressing them with anything but ‘you’, ‘he’ and ‘she’, and wondered if that would be my final solution. I actually had more trouble thinking of Dad as anything but ‘Dad’; I remained angry over the way he’d failed to enlighten me, but there was no doubt in my mind that he did love me. Maybe a bit too passively, since he let his wife play favorites and only ‘talked’ to her about it, but when I backed myself into a corner on that, I was forced to admit that there wasn’t much more he could have done. I couldn’t change her; neither could he.

Physically, I improved a great deal. I managed to start eating solid food, had much less trouble in the bathroom, and even stopped using the prescription painkillers. That, in turn, left me more alert and energetic. I was really starting to feel like myself again- whoever that might be! Oh, I knew I was still a Hardy- but which one; that was the question.

I spent as little time as possible in the house, choosing instead to get back in touch with my friends. Their company lifted my spirits a lot and they included me in their activities as much as possible. That went even further towards lifting my spirits than feeling physically better did.

“I’m still not a hundred percent,” I admitted to Phil Cohen, the Thursday after my return home. It was late afternoon and we were sitting in the grass on the baseball-field sideline, watching the gang play. I fanned myself with the glove I’d brought in case a foul ball came my way; August in Bayport is always a scorcher. If there’d been a tree in sight, we’d have been under it; as it was, I rather wished I’d brought a beach umbrella. The baseball cap I was wearing didn’t seem to be doing the job. “But I’m certainly getting there.” I picked up the bottle of ice water that was lying in my shadow and took a long, cool sip.

“You look better now than you did Monday,” he agreed, lifting his glasses to wipe the sweat from underneath. Phil will participate in the games when we need to even out our teams, but he prefers to watch; his nearsightedness affects his coordination just enough to make him a pretty indifferent player. None of us are obsessive about winning, but he still seems to consider himself more a liability than a teammate.

“I was drugged up Monday. I’m finally off that prescription,” I explained. “Codeine is pretty powerful stuff- at least for me.” My friend nodded, and then we both paused to heckle Biff, who had pitched a wild ball. “Biff, they’re supposed to swing at the ball, not chase it down with a butterfly net!”

“Maybe we should tie it to his wrist- save poor Chet from having to run around so much!”

“Sounds good to me!” Chet, who was catcher at the moment, puffed.

“Put a sock in it!” our buddy yelled back. “My thumb slipped.”

“His thumb slipped? That’s a new one,” my brother remarked. Joe was presently playing third base, which was ten feet or so from where we sat. His white t-shirt was smudged with dust and grass stains and sweat-marks, and his baseball cap was on backwards. In that respect, he looked exactly like everyone else; it had been a pretty active game, despite the heat.

“He was probably trying for a screwball,” I suggested.

“Hey, Biff, was that your screwball? No wonder it screwed up!” my brother yelled.

“Can it with the puns, brat,” I suggested, trying not to laugh as a general groan rose from the field. “You’ll start a brawl.”

“You started it.” Joe glanced over his shoulder at me and grinned, adjusting his cap.

“What is it with today’s youth?” Phil inquired lazily. “Wearing their hats backwards, making smelly puns- think there’s a connection?”

The crack of a bat distracted me from replying and I watched as Leroy Mitchell- Dave Mitchell’s older brother- sent the ball flying. “Ohh, it’s gone,” my brother sighed, craning his neck to watch. It soared over Jerry Gilroy’s head by more than two feet and landed somewhere in the un-mowed grassy area beyond the playing field. “This guy is good.”

“It’s practically my major,” Leroy agreed, jogging up on his way around the bases. “How’s the peanut gallery?”

“Enjoying the show,” Phil replied. “And the chance to criticize with impunity.”

“Ditto. And thanks for mentioning peanuts, now I’m hungry,” I joked as Leroy rounded the turn and headed for home plate. Jerry had finally found the ball, threw it to Biff, and resumed his position.

“Speaking of that,” Phil remarked, sitting up straight, “you’re back on solid food now, right?”

“More or less,” I agreed as Tony Prito came up to take his turn at the plate. “I can’t quite handle carrots and chips and stuff, but soft food is okay.”

“Pizza, maybe?”

“I could deal with pizza!”

“Then pick a date, and we’ll have our bash,” Phil began, breaking off as Tony’s hit came zooming right at us. I was just raising my glove when Joe darted a few steps to his right, caught the fly ball with ease, and flung it back.

“Just because I made a pun is no reason to start lobbing things at me, Prito,” he joked. “And just ‘cause Frank started it is no reason to try and bean him, either.”

“Reason? I need a reason to test your reflexes?” Tony pretended surprise.

“Just for that, you can charge us half-price instead of full price for the party,” Phil suggested, raising his voice slightly and getting everyone’s immediate attention.

Amid yells of ‘yeah!’ and ‘right on!’ and ‘awesome!’, someone inquired, “When?”

“Saturday night?” I offered, smiling and feeling the sudden glow of unconditional acceptance. Saturday would give my system even more time to heal; I should have no trouble with the spices or sauce.

There was a general consensus that Saturday was perfect. As the ball game continued, Phil watched silently for a few moments, then glanced at me again. “Gonna tell us what happened?” he asked quietly. Joe heard and threw a worried frown at me before turning back to watch Biff’s next pitch.

“Thought it was all over the news,” I stalled, taken off guard.

“The official version was,” my friend agreed. “You got shot by an unknown party or parties. Not much more than that. Case?”

“No, sheer random bad luck. Wrong place, right time,” I explained, sighing. “Well, I guess I can fill everyone in. Didn’t know it had been, um, trimmed down.”

My friend nodded and said no more, but after that I found it hard to concentrate on the game. What was I going to tell them? How much did they really need to know about the chaos in our family? Would I be able to tell them anything at all, beyond the bare facts? How could I explain that Mom and Dad were not really my mother and father? And even assuming I could, why should I? How much of the truth was I ready to share? True, these guys were my best friends, but they had never been my confidants. Joe was my confidant, when I needed one.

Looks like I need one in a hurry... No- tonight’ll be soon enough, I have a couple days to think about it.

I dragged my attention back to the game, resuming my ‘peanut gallery’ role, knowing my pals would notice if I suddenly went quiet and withdrawn. A few minutes later, Joe’s team went to bat and he gave me a brief, inquiring look as his teammates started for the batting cage. I nodded, signifying that I was okay and he wasn’t to worry. We could talk about it later, in private.