When Everything Is Blue(63)

“You remember Chris,” I say.

Chris comes over and shakes my dad’s hand, looks to me for a sign. I shake my head slightly. My dad nods at Chris like nothing’s amiss.

“You need me?” Chris asks, code for, do I want him to stay?

“Nah, I’ll finish up here.”

“Cool.” He tosses the towel into a pile with the rest, throws his wet shirt over one shoulder, and grabs his board where he set it down in the grass. “Catch you later, Mr. Wooten,” Chris says with an air of cockiness I could never pull off in talking to a friend’s parent.

My dad circles the car, inspecting the body like he’s looking for a cavity. “How much you pay for it?” he asks. I tell him, and he nods. “Not a bad price. You going to take me for a ride?”

I grin at that and unlock the doors with my key fob. Dad climbs into the passenger seat and comments on the headroom. “Bigger on the inside than I expected.”

I back out of the driveway and take him on a tour of the neighborhood. Dad asks more questions about the car—how many miles, who I bought it from, whether it’s had an oil change lately. At one point he turns to me and goes, “Your mother teach you how to drive?”

I shake my head. “Chris.”

“Is that legal?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

Dad shakes his head and harrumphs. “I could have taught you, Theo.”

“It’s cool, Dad. I know you’re busy.” Too little, too late, I guess.

“Well, all you had to do was ask,” he says with irritation. If I begged and pleaded like my sister, he might have taken me out once or twice, but that’s not my style. It’s better to not need him than risk getting rejected. Maybe that’s my own shortcoming. Pride or whatever.

“Quite frankly, I’m a little surprised to see you after that stunt you pulled the last time.”

Of course he’d bring it up when we’re both trapped in the car.

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling too great,” I tell him, technically not a lie. “Did you get my text?”

“I don’t consider texts a legitimate apology. And you could have at least come back to the table to let us know you were leaving.”

I take a deep breath and let it out through my nose. “Sorry, Dad.” I consider telling him about my anxiety and occasional panic attacks, but then he might ask more questions as to why, and I definitely don’t want our conversation to veer into that territory while I’m driving.

“I figured you’d get the hint I was still angry when I didn’t send any birthday money,” he says.

I actually hadn’t noticed—the drama of What’s in Wooten’s mouth kind of overshadowed everything else. “I figured it was because I got a job,” I say, making up an excuse on the fly.

“Mowing lawns makes you financially independent, huh?”

I clench my jaw so I won’t be tempted to argue with him. I want this to go as smoothly as possible.

“You know, I hear from your sister pretty regularly,” he says. “I’m assuming your cell phone still works.”

I nod. “I’ve been busy with work, I guess. And school.”

“How’s that going?”

I give him a rundown of my schedule. Dad seems impressed by all the AP classes I’m taking. I also have an above A average thanks to the weighted grades. It kind of goes along with my OCD and perfectionist tendencies.

“Sounds like you’ll be starting college as a sophomore.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Keep up those grades and you might have a shot at med school. Or dental?” he says hopefully.

I like working with my hands, but not in a life-or-death way or an in-your-mouth kind of way. “That’s pretty far off, Dad. I don’t really know what I’m into yet. One semester at a time, you know?”

“And soccer? You change your mind about that. Plenty of colleges recruit, you know.”

We both know I’m not good enough to get recruited at the collegiate level. “Like I said, I’m more into skateboarding now. There’s a competition coming up that I’m entering.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks like he’s interested.

I tell him about it, listing some of the pro skaters who will likely be there, even though he probably wouldn’t know them by name. I explain the different events and what I’ll be competing in. He asks more questions, so I give him a rundown of some of the tricks, using the most basic of terms.

“And there are people who do this professionally?” he asks.

“Yeah, they help sell stuff—skateboards, sodas, clothes…. The point, I guess, is to look like a badass while wearing a certain shoe or skating a certain board, drinking whatever energy drink they’re trying to push. Kind of like sports endorsements.”

“You think you’re good enough to do that?”

“I don’t know. Chris thinks so, but he’s kind of like my dad sometimes.” I freeze, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way. There’s really no right way to take it, though. “Just in the way he’s always telling me to try harder, reach my potential and all.”

“I see,” Dad says, not missing the implication. “Pro skateboarding is reaching your potential, huh?”