All the Little Lights(5)

I shook my head.

“Does that mean boys aren’t gross anymore? I can’t say I’m happy to hear that.”

“Dad, why is he in our backyard?”

Dad shrugged. “Is he tearing it up?”

I shook my head.

“Then I don’t care why he’s in our backyard, Catherine. The question is, why do you?”

“Because he’s a stranger, and he’s on our property.”

Dad peeked over at me. “And he’s cute?”

I twisted my expression into disgust. “Ew. Dads aren’t supposed to ask things like that. And, no.”

Dad thumbed through the mail, a satisfied grin barely stretching against his five-o’clock shadow. “Just checking.”

I leaned back, peering down the stripe of grass between our house and the bare plot of dirt that use to belong to the Fentons before Mr. Fenton’s widow died and their kids had the house bulldozed. Mama said she was glad, because as bad as their house smelled from the outside, it had to have been worse on the inside, like something had died deep within.

“I was thinking,” Dad said, pulling open the screen door. “Maybe this weekend we can take the Buick for a spin.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.

He twisted the knob and pushed open the door, gesturing for me to go in. “I thought you’d be excited. Don’t you get your learner’s permit soon?”

“So you mean I’m taking the Buick for a spin?”

“Why not?” he asked.

I walked past him into the foyer, letting my bag full of remnant supplies and notebooks from the school year fall to the floor.

“I guess I don’t see the point. It’s not like I’ll have a car to drive.”

“You can drive the Buick,” he said.

I looked out the window to see if the boy had moved on to assaulting trees in our front yard. “But you drive the Buick.”

He made a face, already impatient with the arguing. “When I’m not driving the Buick. You need to learn to drive, Catherine. You’ll have a car eventually.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, conceding. “I just meant I’m not in a big hurry. We don’t have to do it this weekend. You know . . . if you’re busy.”

He kissed my hair. “Never too busy, Princess. We should clean up the kitchen and start dinner before Mama gets home from work.”

“Why are you home early?” I asked.

Dad playfully mussed my hair. “You are full of questions today. How was the last day of ninth grade? I’m guessing you don’t have homework. Any plans with Minka and Owen?”

I shook my head. “Mrs. Vowel asked that we read at least five books this summer. Minka is packing, and Owen is going to science camp.”

“Oh, right. Minka’s family have that summer home in Red River. I forgot. Well, you can hang out with Owen when he gets back.”

“Yeah.” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. Sitting in front of Owen’s enormous flat-screen to watch him play the latest video game wasn’t my idea of a fun summer.

Minka and Owen had been my only friends since the first grade, when we were all labeled as weird. Minka’s carrottop and freckles earned her enough grief, but then she’d made the cheerleading squad in the sixth grade, and that provided her with some reprieve. Owen spent most days in front of the television playing Xbox and flicking his bangs out of his eyes, but his true passion was Minka. He would forever be her best friend, and we all pretended he wasn’t in love with her.

“Well, that won’t be a problem, will it?” Dad asked.

“Huh?”

“The books,” Dad said.

“Oh,” I said, snapping back to the present. “No.”

He peered down at my backpack. “You’d better pick that up. Your mama will fuss at you if she trips over it again.”

“Depends on what kind of mood she’s in,” I replied under my breath. I grabbed the bag from the floor and held it to my chest. Dad was always saving me from Mama.

I looked up the stairs. The sun was pouring through the window that was at the end of the hall. Dust motes reflected in the light, making me feel like I needed to hold my breath. The air was stale and musty as usual, but the heat made it worse. A bead of sweat formed at the nape of my neck and streamed down, instantly absorbed by my cotton shirt.

The wooden stairs whined, even under the pressure of my 110-pound frame, as I climbed to the upper hallway and crossed straight to my bedroom, putting my bag on top of my twin-size bed.

“Is the air-conditioning out?” I asked, trotting down the stairs.

“No. Just turning it off when no one’s here to cut costs.”

“The air’s too hot to breathe.”

“I just turned it on. It’ll cool off soon.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Your mama will be home in an hour. Let’s get a move on.”

I picked up an apple from the bowl on the table and took a bite, chewing as I watched Dad roll up his sleeves and turn on the sink water to scrub the day off his hands. He seemed to have a lot on his mind—more than usual.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Yep.”

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, my question muffled by the apple in my mouth.