My summer was officially a disaster. And it was all my dad’s fault.
You see, my dad has this thing for “new experiences.” Last year, it was a two-week camping trip where the only new experience I had was learning how many different kinds of mosquito bites a person can get. (The answer is a lot. A whole lot.)
This year, he’d outdone himself.
It all started last Tuesday. I was in my room, trying to beat the final level of Galaxy Raiders 9, when Dad burst in. He was waving a brochure in his hand, a wild grin plastered on his face. That grin always meant trouble.
“Guess what, family!” he boomed. My little sister, Maya, who follows him around like a puppy, came skidding in behind him.
“Are we getting ice cream?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Even better!” Dad announced, unfolding the brochure with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “We’re going to… Demon Land!”
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