The You I've Never Known(61)

I’m looking forward to working with her more. This week I’ll only get Sunday in because of the game, but Peg and Max are understanding about prior commitments. I had to talk Dad into the work thing myself, but once the car was accomplished, it wasn’t hard. “Twelve bucks an hour, and even only working weekends, I can pay for my own gas. Besides, it’ll keep me busy. You prefer me busy, don’t you?” He agreed that he does, and I know it’s true, especially considering how much time I’ve been spending with Gabe.

Monica, too, but Dad doesn’t notice her the same way, which is kind of odd, all things considered.

But I’m not going to question it.

Tomorrow is Monica’s birthday, and tonight Syrah’s mom is out of town, so I’m going over there for a party, though I phrased it “cake and ice cream” to Dad.





I Even Baked the Cake


Not from scratch. I’m not that

great of a cook, but the mix

stuff isn’t so bad. I’m frosting it (canned icing, of course)

when Dad comes into the kitchen.

That there looks pretty good.

Save me a piece. A big one.

“Sure thing, Dad. Like there’ll be any left. Hey, don’t forget

about my game tomorrow.”

It starts at noon, and since I

figure we’ll party fairly late, I’m spending the night at Syrah’s.

Since when do high schools play girls’ basketball on Saturday?

“We only have a couple of weekend games. The rest are Monday or Friday nights. But this is a tournament.”

Well, I’ll try, but no promises.

Saturday’s my day off, you know.

In other words, he’d rather drink beer and play with Zelda. Thanks so much for all your support, Dad.





I Leave the Cake


On the counter, with a stern warning

to Dad, “Do. Not. Touch. The. Cake.”

I mitigate that and increase the odds of its survival by adding, “Please.”

I’ll be good, he says, taking a package of hot dogs out of the fridge. He puts two on a plate, takes them to the table. “Raw?

You could microwave those, you know.”

He shrugs. It don’t matter to me. I’ll eat something hot with Zelda later.

“Nice picture, Dad. I’m going to get

my jacket and take off. Be right back.”

On the way to my room, the telephone

rings. That is a strange occurrence.

We only have a landline because it

came with the cable bundle, and our

cell service can be iffy out here. I must sound surprised when I answer, “Hello?”

The woman on the other end mutters

something incoherent. Drinking, obviously.

She apologizes, tries again, asks to

talk to someone I’ve never heard of.

“Sorry. You have the wrong number.

No one here with that name.”

I hang up as Dad yells, Stupid jerk telemarketers. Tell ’em to buzz off.

“Wrong number,” I call, correcting

him before finishing my mission.

I grab my jacket, and by the time I get back to the kitchen Dad has finished his disgusting snack and popped

a beer. I’m glad I can drive myself

into town. Thinking about how many

times I’ve ridden in a car with him

driving under the influence is the stuff of nightmares. We’re both damn lucky to be alive and all in one piece. “Okay.

I’m off. You be careful, okay, Dad?”

He takes a long slurp. What makes you say that? Careful’s my middle name.

“Okay, then. See you tomorrow

at my game. Noon. Go to bed early.”





Careful


Go to bed early.

Don’t eat raw hot dogs.

Sheesh, I sound like his mom.

Still, I’m careful

with the cake, carrying it to my car and cautiously stashing it on

the front passenger seat.

I drive into town judiciously, vigilant about

speed limits and hairy curves. I park sensibly, well off the road in Syrah’s

driveway. I don’t plan on leaving tonight, so if I get blocked in by some partyer

it won’t much matter until tomorrow morning.

I’m wary about

announcing my arrival until I’m sure Syrah’s mom has already left.

So maybe careful is, in fact, my middle name.





The Mom Unit Is Gone


And seems like half the school knows Syrah’s place is an open invitation to fun, because within two hours her house is overrun.

So much for anything resembling a private party. The one thing I insist on is Monica having a piece of her birthday cake. I don’t mind skipping, but she does, cutting a giant slice. Compartiremos.

We’ll share. If I get fat, you do, too.

We share cake. We share drinks.

We share weed, but only a little because we both want to be on

our game tomorrow. Syrah

doesn’t much seem to care

about that, though she’s starting in Hillary’s position, and should.

The problem with this kind

of party is nobody worries

about trashing the place or