The Way You Make Me Feel(15)
“PAI!” I yelled. “You’re being a total fascist!” I kicked the door and stalked off, throwing my cap onto the ground as I walked away.
Rose followed behind. I was steaming but didn’t know where to go, and I was annoyed that Rose was following me. “Can’t you go to your car?” I seethed as I walked rapidly down the sidewalk. She didn’t respond, but I could still feel her on my heels. Where had she parked? God!
“Too good to talk to me now?” I asked while glancing behind me.
She looked at me, then huffed with frustration. “Will you, like, turn into a toad or something if you stop talking for more than one minute?”
I glared at her. “Don’t be jealous of my charisma.”
She just made a repulsed face.
I continued walking and clenched my jaw. “You do realize that this entire thing is your fault? That if you hadn’t lost your mind at the dance we wouldn’t be in this mess?” We passed by a group of hipster dudes who laughed at my raised voice. I flipped them off.
I could almost hear Rose’s eyes roll. “If you hadn’t felt the narcissistic need to pull a prank at junior prom and make it all about yourself, then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
I stopped walking and turned around to face her. “Narcissistic? I was entertaining. It was a selfless act—someone needed to spice up that dance.”
She scoffed and walked right up to me, her posture challenging. “I’ve known you since middle school. You are a classic narcissist. Inflated sense of self-importance? Check. Need for attention based on some issue with your absent mother, clearly? Check.”
I felt an uncontrollable anger rising up—something that I usually had a grip on.
“And, here’s the kicker, you have absolutely no empathy for others. Never wondering if the stuff you’re always pulling might actually hurt other people. Like, did you know Kathy Tamayo really wanted to win prom queen? That her little sister recently got into a car accident and was badly injured and maybe this would have been a nice thing for her to win?” Her voice was louder now.
I felt a brief flash of guilt before anger took over again. “How was I supposed to know that? And it’s not my fault her sister’s hurt or that she didn’t get enough votes! It was supposed to be a joke!” I was yelling at this point.
A sharp whistle interrupted me. “Girls, can you move along?” I looked over and saw a man leaning out of his shoe repair shop. He had an annoyed expression on his face.
“You move along, sir!” I snapped back but then stomped off, leaving Rose standing on the sidewalk behind me.
A bus ride later, I was home, and I headed straight to the bathroom, my heart pounding and my hands clammy. I splashed my face with cold water, trying to wash myself of Rose’s self-righteousness. Who the heck did she think she was? Like she was just so kind and never self-serving! What a load of utter crap. And how was I supposed to know about Kathy freaking Tamayo and her sister?!
Guilt pooled inside me—insidious, unfamiliar, and very unwelcome. I holed myself up in my room and started reading an old John Grisham novel that I had read so many times the cover was creased beyond recognition. Then I blasted girlie Motown and settled deep into my pillows, Flo curling up into a ball comfortably on top of my head.
But when I found myself reading the same paragraph for the fifth time, I tossed the book aside, making Flo growl deeply and jump off my head.
“Excuse me for living, Queen Licker of Butts,” I muttered as I pulled out my phone. I went to Facebook and took a deep breath. In the search bar, I typed “Kathy Tamayo.” When I got to her profile page, I saw photos of her in a sparkly silver dress at junior prom. I scrolled down farther and saw a link for a crowdfunding page for her sister, Jill. The photo accompanying the link was of a little Filipino girl, maybe ten or so. Shiny black hair, big smile with dimples. I bit down on my lip. For Pete’s sake.
I clicked on the link and read about the car accident that had injured Jill a few weeks ago. And then I read about the medical bills.
Good thing I had memorized my dad’s credit card number a long time ago. I donated thirty dollars on the site. Then I scribbled a note on a piece of notepad paper and slipped it under my dad’s door.
Pai, I owe you $30, you’ll see a random charge on your credit card.
CHAPTER 8
My dad had us take the next two days off. I was excited about it until I realized he wasn’t going to talk to me. He didn’t make Mr. Ramirez check in on me, and he didn’t make me breakfast.
I went out with Patrick and Felix, but I couldn’t enjoy it. I’d never gotten the silent treatment from my dad before.
I tried to butter him up with pizza and ESPN Classic, but he ignored me and went straight to bed. Without eating dinner. The only time my dad skipped meals was when he had mad diarrhea. And even that didn’t stop him sometimes.
On day two of silent treatment, I wore clown makeup and an orange wig, then waited for him to come home, sitting on the sofa in the dark. I knew things were serious when he didn’t react and instead walked straight up to his room. My dad did not kid around with clowns.
I called my mom the second night of the deep freeze, needing sympathy from someone who would understand.
I had to FaceTime because my mom refused to do anything else. When she picked up, raucous laughter rang out before she could say hi to me. The video on the phone was wobbly and I winced. “M?e!”