The New Husband(9)
Even though they are not officially engaged yet, it is going to happen, so Simon is essentially my stepfather, which is nothing but a stupid label. I looked it up online, and, married or unmarried, he has no legal right to make decisions on my behalf unless he adopts me. News flash—that is not going to happen, not ever ever ever. If Mom gets hurt, or God forbid worse, it would be up to Nonni and Papa to look after me, not him.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when bad went to worse. Daisy and I were on the couch watching TV. Some dumb Netflix thing, doesn’t matter, and I was doing what I do best these days—feeling sorry for myself and being mad at the world. Lame, I know. I wasn’t an orphan in a war-torn country. I had a roof over my head. I had my dog (I love my dog so, so much—and she makes a great couch cushion). I had everything except friends, my dad, and a Simon-free home.
Simon was in the kitchen. I could hear him messing about, putting together some kind of dinner for the evening. He’s a good cook (a really good cook actually, I’ll give him that), but I’d eat rice and beans for every meal from now until forever if I could have my dad back. It wasn’t like my dad and I were the closest. I hate to admit it, but it was true. Even at home he was always busy with work, or on his phone doing something. He never seemed to have time for me unless we were on vacation or something. I know Connor kind of felt the same way about him, but he was still my dad. He loved me, and I loved him.
Sometimes I’d forget he was even gone. I kept thinking he was going to come walking through the front door, his suit a bit wrinkled from his commute home, a big smile on his face. But that door never opened.
Instead, Mr. Fitch came into the living room with this pleased-with-himself look on his face. He was trying so hard to be “Simon” here, not his school persona, that it was kind of sickening.
“Maggie, it’s almost six,” he said. “Your mom asked me to make sure you shut the TV off and get your homework done.”
Your mom, he said, like he was my babysitter or something, like he doesn’t share a bathroom with her. (Gross! Gross! Gross!) I responded by stretching out my legs on the sofa (my sofa, from my home), and did what I did best: ignored him. Daisy squirmed out from underneath me to roost on the bogus leather love seat that had come from Simon’s place. So far, I had successfully avoided sitting (or leaning, or touching really) any piece of furniture that Simon had brought here. I even went around the area rugs that came from his house, just so I wouldn’t set foot on even a thread he might have touched. Nobody but me knew about this silent protest of mine, not even Connor, who seemed to really like Simon. He was always tossing the football in the backyard with him or building some dumb robot, as if he forgot that he ever had a real dad.
“Hey, Maggie, I’m talking to you, could you listen, please?”
There it was, the teacher tone, his weapon of choice.
“What?” I answered snippily, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time.
He sighed because teachers hate to repeat themselves. “Your mom asked me to make sure the TV was turned off at six so you could get your homework done.”
“I don’t have any homework,” I said, finding that the lie came easily.
“Well, she still wants it off, please. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Your mom is picking up Connor from practice on her way back from the gym.”
As if I care …
Instead of off, I turned the volume up a bit louder.
“Hey,” Simon said, sounding genuinely miffed. “Off.”
Simon stood in front of the TV, his apron making him look like a contestant on one of those baking shows I liked to watch with my father—one of the few things we did together.
“Now, please, Maggie.”
Up went the television volume. He was not telling me what to do. He had no legal right over me. This wasn’t school. We were on my turf here, not his.
“Come on, Maggie. Please don’t make this difficult for me.”
Volume went up louder, as I stretched my legs out longer, and it felt good, oh so incredibly good, to defy him.
“You’re being really unfair,” he groaned.
“I don’t have any homework,” I said, knowing that the homework wasn’t really the issue, and I did have a crap-ton of it to do.
Simon’s face got red. He was powerless, and I was enjoying every second of it. He was nothing—a nonentity, a ghost person. He could talk and I didn’t have to listen, because he didn’t make the rules here.
“Look, Maggie, I’m not trying to replace your dad, but I am trying to do what your mom asked. Please, now. Cooperate.”
I pointed the remote at the TV like a gun and turned the volume up louder.
And that’s when I saw it. It was brief, just the flicker of a super-disturbing, dark look on Simon’s face that came and went. I’d gotten in trouble plenty of times for being mouthy, or disobedient, or whatever, but I’d never, ever, seen a look like that before. It was full of hate, but somehow also empty, as cold as an ice storm—the only word I could think of was “soulless.” I could imagine him smashing my skull in with a hammer with that same look on his face.
For sure, if he’d looked at his students like that, they would have snapped to attention and thought twice about making him angry again. There would probably have been calls to the school from worried parents. It was that kind of look.