If You're Out There(45)

“I know,” I say as I walk over to scour the refrigerator. After the day I’ve just had, I want something heavy, possibly artery clogging, but it appears Dad has ordered nothing with meat. There are little tubs of hummus, fava beans, and lentils, plus a salad and one lonely piece of falafel.

“Look,” says Dad to my back. “I won’t pretend to know what’s happening in your head right now. But it seems like it’s getting to be a problem.”

I lean into the open fridge, the cold air on my face. Salad. I guess I’ll go with stupid salad. Or maybe lentils would be better.

“Mom says you’ve been moping around. Feigning sick to get out of school. This is not a good time to start melting down. You’re going to start college next year and Mom says you haven’t researched where you want to go. Then today, we both receive calls from your guidance counselor saying that you barely seem interested in applying.”

“I’m really not that focused on next year right now,” I say.

“Well, you should be.”

“Well, I’m not.” I slam the refrigerator door. “And for the love of God, Dad, I am still not a vegetarian!” My voice rings out and Harr glances over, a worried look on his face. “Sorry, buddy,” I say. “Just watch your show.” I go back for the solo falafel and bring it to the table. Dad gets up to pour me some water, finding the cabinet for glasses on his first try. It’s sort of odd to see him here in our house, still knowing where everything is.

He sets a glass down and takes the chair across from me, waiting for me to speak.

“I honestly don’t know what to tell you,” I say, wolfing down the little ball in two bites.

“Then . . .” He seems flustered. “Help me understand.”

“Dad. Stop, okay?” I finish chewing and take a sip. “You don’t need to do this. We both know you’re not the dad who tries to understand. And I’m okay with it. Because that’s Mom’s job. And she may be a relentless, meddling psychopath, but she’s earned the right to be. But with you and me . . . If it gets too real, it’s weird.” My eyes stay glued to the table. “Kind of like it is right now.”

When I finally peek up, Dad has gone all stiff. “See?” I say. I swallow, shrug. “We aren’t that dad and daughter anymore. Haven’t been in years.” There’s some kind of Disney tween sitcom rattling from the living room, but I don’t think this house has ever felt so quiet. “I’m sorry, okay? Maybe it won’t be this way for you and Harr. But . . .” I feel the words rising up, desperate to pour out of me. “He can’t remember how everything changed. How you went from this person I trusted completely, one of two parents, who knew every tiny thing about me—to this . . . dude. Who I saw once a week for takeout and strained conversations. I know things are better now, and maybe you can start again with Harrison. But me?” I throw up my hands, laughing though it isn’t funny. “I can still remember the time in my life when you barely even tried.”

“Zan . . .”

“Let’s stop, okay? Let’s just eat this meatless food, go back to your apartment, and watch something on TV.” I can’t look up.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know you felt . . .” Dad trails off. “Oh, Boop. If I could go back.”

“It’s fine.” I look around the room, feeling as if I’ve returned to my own body. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so . . . I told you it was a shit day.” I stand, smiling weakly. “I think I need some air. You guys go on without me.”

“Hold on,” says Dad. “Can we please talk?”

“Nothing to talk about,” I say. I walk into the living room and smack a kiss on Harr’s head with a whisper: “I’ll make it up to you, buddy.” Then I hurry out the door and don’t look back.

I wander the neighborhood for an hour or so, with my phone powered off. My heart beats palpably, the thoughts churning in my head so fast they almost seem to hum. When I get back, I can still see Dad through the kitchen window—waiting up. So I sit on a stoop down the street and wait, watching, until he and Harr finally pile into the Subaru and drive away.

I’ve almost made it to the staircase when a lamp comes on in the living room. “I hear you had quite a day, Boop.”

I turn back. Mom is sitting in the armchair, her hair pinned up, still wearing her sequined gown from the banquet. “Whit’s still out,” she says, as if answering a question. “I came home early. Talked to your dad.”

“Oh.”

She extends her palm. “Phone.”

“What?”

“You’re grounded, Zan.” I sigh and walk over to hand it to her. For my mother, this is pretty extreme. She is, after all, a Progressive Parent Who Encourages a Dialogue. But right now I don’t even care. She nods toward the couch across from her. “Sit,” she says, so I do. She arranges her legs in the chair and stares.

I stare back.

“Let’s recap, shall we? You forgot your brother. Yelled at your dad. And then stormed off, at night, without telling anyone where you were or when you’d be coming back. Did I get it all?”

I scrunch my eyes closed. “I know.”

“Care to tell me what’s going on with you?”