Part 3
Din trudged along beside his father, still frowning, but no longer clenching his fists. Thurston carried his skateboard under his arm—the board looked pathetic: scratched, with a burnt edge where the fireworks were mounted.
Din: And if she starts saying it was cool again? That I'm just a coward and didn't understand the genius of the plan?
Thurston (without looking at his son, but attentively): Then you will say, "I am not a coward. I just don't want to be a projectile." And everything. Simple and honest. She doesn't need long speeches, Din. She needs to hear that her "genius" hurts someone.
Din glanced at his father, as if checking to see if he was joking.
Din: Do you think she'll hear?
Thurston: I think so. If you say it not with anger, but so that she understands.: you trust her, and she broke that trust. It hits harder than a scream.
They entered the house. The warm smell of fresh pastries immediately enveloped Din, and he relaxed a little. Thurston put skateboard by the door, took off his son's jacket and sat him on a stool at the kitchen table.
Thurston: Sit down. It's going to be cocoa. And a pie. And then the conversation. No rush.
While Thurston was busy at the stove, Din fiddled with the helmet's belt buckle, fiddling with it back and forth as if he wanted to take it apart.
Din (softly, almost to himself): What if she says I'm boring?
Thurston (turning around, with a slight smile): And you'll say, "Yes, I'm boring. But he's alive." And it will be the truth.
He placed a steaming mug in front of Din and a plate with a piece of cherry pie, even with an extra cherry on top.
Din (sighing, but without the old fury): Okay… Let's try. But if she starts laughing…
Thurston (sitting down opposite, seriously): If she starts laughing, I'll talk to her myself. But first, let me give you a chance to hear. Agreed?
Din nodded, cupped the mug in his hands, feeling the warmth slowly creep over his fingers, and took the first sip.