Puddin'(13)

He sits up, trying to get a glimpse at my computer screen. “What are you even doing?”

I open my mouth to speak, but I get lost in a blog post about a high school band that sent themselves to Nationals by having a twenty-four-hour marathon drum circle. No, thank you.

“Babe,” says Bryce. “Babe, your phone is ringing.”

“Oh.” I blink quickly.

He tosses me my phone from where it sits on the floor, and I catch it like a hot potato.

“Hello?” Why do I always say it like a question?

“What’s a dad got to do to get his girl to answer her phone? I already pay the damn bill.”

I laugh, but my shoulders slump. I have a great dad; however, I’m not always the best daughter. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been crazy busy with practice and—”

“I know, I know. You’ve got a life. I get it. But maybe you could make it over here for a weekend visit soon, yeah? Your abuela has been nagging the hell out of me about you coming down for your birthday.”

I can’t even think that far beyond my immediate problems right now, but instead I just say, “Tell her I miss her.”

“You can call her and let her know yourself. I think I hear from Claudia more than I hear from you.”

I sigh into the receiver. “You’re really piling it all on, aren’t you?”

He yawns and groans, like he’s stretching after a long day at work. “Watching your kid’s life unfold on Facebook doesn’t really cut it, if you know what I mean. So how’s Bryan or Reese or whatever his name is?”

I giggle, and Bryce looks up from his phone as if he can sense my dad talking about him. Dad isn’t one of those fathers who thinks his daughter isn’t dating until she’s forty-three or that I’m completely void of hormones. But Bryce, with his flashy cars and show-stealing (and casually racist) dad, isn’t really someone my dad, who values things like a smartly organized toolbox and almost any Nicolas Cage film, especially National Treasure, has patience for.

“Bryce,” I say, overenunciating his name, “is actually right here.”

“So you guys are at the library or something, right? Because I know your mom and Keith aren’t even home from work yet.”

“Actually, we’re in my room doing homework.”

“With the door open, I hope.”

“Dad, no one’s home. If I want to have sex with my boyfriend, do you think it matters if the door is open or closed?”

Bryce’s face turns ghostly white.

Dad huffs. “Why do you have to go and point out logic like that?”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Just . . .” He clears his throat. “Make sure you’re careful and all that.”

“I’ve been on the pill since I was—”

“Yup. Okay. I hear ya. Loud and clear. Message received. Good job.”

“The dance team lost funding,” I blurt out before realizing I hadn’t even told Bryce yet.

“You didn’t tell me that,” says Bryce.

I glance at him apologetically before continuing to fill him and my dad in simultaneously. “We’ve got State in two weeks, which we can barely cover, and Nationals after that, which isn’t even an option at the moment. And we actually have a shot at going all the way this year.”

“Oh, baby,” he says. “Maybe I could talk to my boss and see if they could throw some sponsorship dollars your way, or maybe I could even cut a check to make a tiny dent.”

I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I’m going to brainstorm some options and see what we can do.”

“What happened for you to lose a sponsor? You girls getting into trouble?” he jokes.

“This dumb, dinky little gym offered to sponsor us for the first time this year, and they just bailed on us right in the middle of the competitive season.”

“Can they even do that?” he asks.

“What are we gonna do? Bully them into giving us the money?”

He grunts. “That’s pretty much what you and your sisters do to me and your mother.”

“Not funny,” I tell him.

“A little funny.”

“Maybe a smidge funny.”

“Well, you let me know if I can help, okay?” he says. “And your birthday, too. I need ideas. Unless you want another transistor radio with a wind-up flashlight on the end.”

“I think I’m good.”

“That was a great gift,” he says, defending himself. “A good thing to keep in your trunk for emergencies.”

My dad has a love for all things simple and utilitarian. In fact, I think I’ve gotten him the same mustache comb for three Christmases in a row, but he doesn’t mind since it’s one less thing he needs to replace. “Dad, I don’t have a car.”

He chuckles. “Prepare for the life you want, mija, not the one you have, right?”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see. “I’ll send a list,” I tell him. “And I’ll call Abuela. Love you.”

“To the moon,” he says before hanging up.

Bryce clears his throat. “What was your dad saying about me? I think that guy hates me.” It’s a fleeting moment of weakness from Bryce, who is very used to receiving male approval.