HE KNOCKED ON the door to the garage.
“Come in,” murmured his father.
The interior of the garage was a study of dissimilar themes. A dust-covered 1947 Indian Chief motorcycle stood in one half, surrounded by workbenches and walls loaded with tools. Cardboard boxes and racks of women’s clothing packed the other side. Frank Cook sat at a lighted dressing table, surrounded by the racks of clothing like a Parisian madame after fashion week.
Dean’s father looked up from a copy of People Magazine, his face covered in a brilliant substance that for all the world looked like cake frosting. He wore a blue kimono, and his hair was pinned up and filled with old-style heated curlers, the plastic nubby ones with metal inside and a base station.
“Oh. It’s you,” he said, and turned the magazine pages with a furious snap.
“Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”
“What? That you gave up your dream of being a doctor? That’s not really worth mentioning.”
“I couldn’t pass the classes! Chemistry, biology, you name it, and I’m horrible at it,” said Dean.
“That’s not an excuse. You could have hired tutors.”
“I did, and nothing worked.”
Frank dropped the magazine on the dressing table with a sigh and stood up. “So you’re a communications major now? How can a person earn a living with that?”
Dean shrugged. “By communicating.”
“Somehow Steve Dubrowski isn’t having problems, and he’s a freshman in an even harder program––electrical engineering. He’s also started a computer repair business out of his dorm room. You could do that, too, if you were motivated.”
“Dad, I’m not Steve Dubrowski. I’ll never be him.”
Frank sighed and abandoned the magazine on his dressing table with a careless plop. He stood up and gave Dean a wide-armed hug. “Sorry for acting like that, son. I can be very dramatic when it comes to handling news. Or change. Ouch! Speaking of that, watch the implants. They’re still painful.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“You’ll be in my shoes someday, when you have kids,” said Frank. “Every girl becomes her mother and every boy his father. Or is it the other way around?”
“Dad, I’m never, ever wearing a dress again, if that’s where you’re going.”
“I didn’t say a word! But son, it really is a shame. You’ve got my hair and your mother’s legs and could really pull it off.”