But somehow, this time, he remained completely oblivious.
Caleb took the mission far more seriously than I did.
He even created rules.
Rule one: no mentioning Atlanta.
Rule two: no asking Dad about Saturday.
Rule three: if Dad became suspicious, deny everything.
Rule four: Mom was not allowed to smile suspiciously.
“You have a suspicious smile,” Caleb informed me.
“I do not.”
“You do when you’re hiding something.”
Apparently, I was raising a tiny intelligence officer.
The night before the flight, Caleb disappeared into his bedroom for almost an hour.
When he returned, he carried a folded sheet of construction paper.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“That looks like something.”
“It’s for Dad.”
He reluctantly opened it.
He had drawn an enormous airplane with Darius standing beside it.
The proportions were terrible.
Darius was nearly as tall as the jet.
His captain’s hat looked like a hamburger.
But across the top, Caleb had written in giant crooked blue letters:
