More Than Good Enough(17)

“You’re up early,” Dad said, drifting behind me.

“I’m working on a project,” I told him. Code-speak for none of your business.

“What sort of project?”

“A film thing.”

Dad nodded. “Another one of your Hollywood productions?”

“It’s for school. Remember, they let me borrow that camera?”

“When is this ‘film thing’ due?” He filled the blender with a scoop of his weight-lifting mix—gritty packets of Muscle Juice that probably caused cancer in lab rats.

“Soon.”

That’s all he needed to know.

When I looked through the window again, Uncle Seth was gone. He’d probably snuck off with his boys to shoot hoops in the gym. Around here, basketball was kind of an obsession. I’d never seen anybody get so worked up over that game as the Rezzy kids. I swear, even the little babies were swagged out in Miami Heat gear before they could walk.

“Did Uncle Seth take the Ninja?” I asked.

The Ninja was my dad’s bike—a sweet Kawasaki. He was on it every chance he got. I couldn’t really blame the man.

Dad fired up the blender. “Don’t think so.”

“Can I borrow it? I’ll bring it right back. Promise. I’ll even put gas in the tank. It’s running on fumes.”

“Is it?” Dad shouted, punching a button, then another. The blender’s noise got higher-pitched. It sounded like an airboat taking off. “Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”

“Yeah,” I yelled, like a nanosecond after Dad unplugged the stupid blender. I felt like an idiot for shouting. And I’d totally forgotten about my job at the gator show. Uncle Seth kept promising to teach me how to wrestle the gator, but so far, it wasn’t happening.

Dad reached into a drawer and tossed me the car keys. “You can drive your own car. Forget about that bike. And by the way, I heard you missed work last time.”

“Not even.” I’d been a half hour late. That’s not the same as missing work. I grabbed my jacket off the couch and headed for the door.

“What about breakfast?” He lifted his glass of Muscle Juice.

“That stuff will kill you, Dad. It’s too healthy,” I said, yanking open the fridge.

My dad never tossed stuff out, no matter how rotten it got. I’d learned to sniff the milk before splashing it on my Cheerios. The fridge was crammed with take-out boxes—so many there was no room left for real food. He even saved the chopsticks and soy sauce from the Chinese place, electric-colored packets decorated with pandas.

I found one of his Power Bars in the “crisper” drawer. “Candy, yes,” I said, tearing off the wrapper.

“Trent.”

I turned around to face him.

“Found some stuff in your room.”

Stuff?

“Don’t bring girls over to the house,” Dad said.

I figured he was talking about Michelle. He made it sound like I was getting nonstop action (not even close). It was totally unfair, the way he was judging me. Did he go in my room and search for evidence? As I turned away, he grabbed my shoulder. I fell backward against the wall and the granola bar shot across the floor.

“You hear what I said?”

He was starting to freak me out. “Yeah,” I muttered. “No girls. I heard you.”

I jerked free of Dad’s grip. Then I picked up the stupid granola bar. Supports muscle strength, the label said.

It took, like, five seconds to run outside and unlock the car. My hands shook as I cranked the ignition. I sped past a row of concrete houses and turned in front of the Welcome Center. In the middle of the parking lot was a giant statue of a Miccosukee guy tickling an alligator’s chin. I wanted to push it into the canal.

My dad talked about being “Indian,” but if he ever knew anything about “the old ways,” he forgot a long time ago. I got dumped here because my mom didn’t want me around. And she didn’t want Dad around, either.

Not that I blamed her.

Driving to Miami, I sat behind the wheel and punched buttons on the radio. Broken lyrics floated out, telling me things I didn’t believe. I left it on a Spanish station. All those lies sounded a lot better when I couldn’t understand the words.

My old neighborhood was kind of boring compared to the Rez. All the houses looked the same in the morning light. No crazy paint colors. And it was mad quiet. Everybody stayed locked indoors all day, glued to the TV, watching shows about so-called reality.

I kept going past the gated houses and spiked metal fences—whether keeping people out or in, it was hard to tell. As I pulled onto my block, I thought about rolling up to Mom’s house. Then I saw a car I recognized in the driveway.

What the hell was I thinking? I shoved another chunk of granola in my mouth. If I was going to survive this weekend, I needed all the muscle strength I could get.

I parked next to the rusty swingset at Pippa’s, got out, and walked to the porch. On the steps were a bunch of plastic lids filled with cat food and ants. All the flowers were in various stages of death. There was even a pile of faded paperbacks spilling out of a Hefty bag. My mom would’ve killed me if I left a book outside.

Maybe Pippa didn’t live here anymore?

It seemed totally possible. Her mom got divorced back when I was in middle school. I glanced at the window by the front door. There was so much junk piled against the glass, I couldn’t get a decent look. Only one thing left to do.