Everything You Want Me to Be(17)

After today’s shift, I punched out and drove home on the winding dirt road that I knew as well as my own face. Our farm was about six miles from town, surrounded by nothing except fields and wind turbines. We got some of the money for the electricity created by the ones on our land. Wedding money, my dad always chuckled when I asked him about it. Even though I didn’t think I was ever going to get married, I didn’t tell him that. I always said, “Holiday Inn wedding or Hyatt Regency wedding?” and he pretended to cuff me on the head and we laughed. With Greg gone in the war, he liked to think about me living one of those safe, normal lives—going to college, having a career, getting married, and giving him grandkids who would play tag around the hay bales and call him Pop-Pop.

When I pulled into the driveway I was surprised to see the kitchen light still on. Usually Mom and Dad had already settled into bed on the nights I worked. Dad sat up watching the bedroom TV and Mom would be reading whatever the library just got in, since she’d gone through everything else on their shelves. She never wanted to talk about her books though. She just swallowed those pages up and kept them tucked inside. Maybe that’s what made her so hard to read sometimes, all those books floating around in her.

The table was set when I walked in and Mom pulled a chicken hot dish out of the oven, serving up two plates while I took off my coat and shoes.

“Late supper?”

“I wanted to eat with you, hear about your first day of school. Dad couldn’t wait.”

“You don’t eat supper at nine forty-five at night!” he bellowed from the bedroom. “It’ll give you heartburn.”

“That’s what Tums are for!” I yelled back. He liked a good yell. Made him feel like the house was alive.

“Sit down, eat up. Did everybody like your new outfit?” Mom glanced at my clothes like I was still ten years old and playing dress-up with my cousins.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I like the outfit.”

“You look . . . different. I suppose that’s what you wanted.”

“Yeah, that’s what all us rebellious teenagers want. Bucking the system with our pencil skirts and twinsets.”

“Eat your peas.”

I did and we fell quiet for a bit, while I tried to think of something worth telling her. It was a normal day for the most part.

“There’s a new English teacher.”

“I heard.”

“He seems nice. Different, you know, from the other teachers.”

“Elsa Reever’s son-in-law. He and Mary came to live with Elsa this summer.”

A few more bites. Dad’s clock on the wall that was radio-synced with the international standard clock in Denver said it was 9:52. Mom’s clock on the microwave read 10:03. She said it felt like it gave her a cushion.

But Dad’s clock is right there, I always pointed out.

I don’t look at it, she always replied.

“Tommy Kinakis came in for some pictures.” I said, just to make some conversation. Dad walked in to refill his water in his undershirt and boxers. He used to drink root beer while he watched the news every night, until the doctor told him he was pre-diabetic. He wasn’t fat, not like some people with all their jiggles and bulges. He was just—solid. But I guess he was getting more solid than the doctor wanted, so now he drank water at night.

“Tommy Kinakis? He’s looking to be one hell of a linebacker this season. They’re expecting he’ll get a pretty good ride at the U.”

“I think he was trying to ask me out.”

Dad grunted like Tommy had to be reevaluated now. Mom scraped off the last bits of hot dish from the pan and tossed them out the side door for the barn cats. She looked like she was talking to the cats when she replied.

“Tommy’s a good kid. You could do a lot worse than a Kinakis.”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“You don’t have to date anyone, Kinakis or no Kinakis.” Dad gave my shoulder a squeeze on his way back to the bedroom.

“Did you get those convent brochures you’ve been waiting for?” I yelled at his back and heard him chuckle.

I helped Mom clean up the table and load the dishwasher. She never said thank you or anything, but she appreciated it when I helped out. That was at least one thing I knew about her.

“Thanks for having supper with me.” I picked up my book bag and was on my way to my room when she stopped me.

“Hattie.” She wrung the dishrag out in the sink and draped it over the faucet to dry.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe you should go out with Tommy. It would be good for you to socialize, make friends in the real world, instead of surfing away on your phone like you do all the time lately.”

I should have just agreed, but ever since I bought my Motorola this summer she acted like I was carrying Satan in my purse. Like I wasn’t going to school, and work, and rehearsals. Why couldn’t I text my friends and check my forums? “The internet’s not full of made-up people, Mom. They’re real, too.”

“Yes, but it’s important to talk to people face-to-face. You don’t know who some of these people are.”

“Of course I do. They’re people just like me.”

“Oh, honey . . .” She shook her head and looked at me, looked right through me until I really did feel like I was nothing more than a ten-year-old girl playing New York dress-up by way of Rochester, Minnesota.