Puddin'(21)

“Maybe cool it with the protective-dad act,” I tell him.

“Aww, come on,” he says as he locks up his work truck. “You can’t expect me to catch some guy getting handsy on my stepdaughter and not to step in.”

I laugh. Keith and I used to butt heads quite a bit, but we’ve come to an understanding in the last few years. At first, though, he was just some tall blond dude who married my tall blond mom and the two of them made a cute little blond baby named Kyla. Claudia and I were the odd ones out—short with curves that announced themselves the moment we hit middle school and deep brown hair with a slightly darker complexion that stood out against the rest of the family’s freckled skin.

For the longest time, I looked at family portraits and didn’t see a family. All I saw was two half-brown girls intruding on a perfect little white family of three. It never bothered Claudia as much. Maybe because she was older and can remember how viciously Mama and Dad fought. I guess I’m mostly over it now. But sometimes I still look at the portraits lining our walls, and I wonder what it might be like to see one of me, my mom, Claudia, and our dad framed like it was something worth remembering.

I follow Keith onto the porch and into the kitchen. He stops abruptly, and I practically walk right into his back. “Sheriff,” says Keith.

My heart rattles, nearly pounding out of my chest. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I peer around Keith’s arm to find my mother serving Sheriff Bell a glass of sweet tea.

“Baby,” Mama says to Kyla, “take your homework upstairs.” Her tone is soft, but her lips are pursed into a thin line, and everything about the way she stands, from her squared shoulders to her arms crossed over her chest, her red nails drumming along her forearm, tells me that I’m fucked.

“Is Callie in trouble?” my little sister asks.

Of course I’m in trouble, you turd.

“Upstairs,” Mama says, her voice firm this time.

Okay, save the panic for later. Now is the time for logic. What are my options? I can just rat on the whole team. I can deny, deny, deny. I can take the blame. Or I can pin it on someone else entirely. It all depends on what Sheriff Bell knows.

The four of us watch as Kyla takes her time gathering her papers and pencils, walking toe-heel, toe-heel like she’s been taught in dance class, before stalking upstairs in a huff for being dismissed. If Mama and Keith think they have their hands full with me, just wait until that one hits puberty.

Not until my mother hears Kyla’s bedroom door shut does she say, “Callie, sit down.” She turns to Keith, her expression softening slightly. “You too.”

I think that if my life were some kind of courtroom drama, this would be the part when we call a lawyer. But my mom and Keith went to high school with Sheriff Bell. The guy was my mom’s homecoming date once, so yeah, no one’s calling a lawyer for my defense anytime soon.

“Callie,” says Sheriff Bell.

My mom dabs her eyes. She hasn’t cried yet, but she’s going to. My mom cries a lot. I hate crying. I hate when I do it, and I hate when other people do it. It makes me uncomfortable. Some primal thing in me labels it as weakness. Maybe that sounds cruel, but to me it just feels like a private thing. Even when my mom’s tears are genuine, they feel like manipulation. We can go toe to toe, but as soon as she sheds a tear, I bend to her will, because who wants to be the asshole who makes their mom cry?

“Is there anything you’d like to share with me?” asks Sheriff Bell. “Anything about where you were last night?”

I look to my mom. Still with the dabbing. Seriously. And then to Keith. His lips are pressed together.

“No, sir,” I say. There’s no way he has proof. I recite it to myself over and over again. There’s no way he has proof. There’s no way he has proof. There’s no way he has proof.

“Well, your parents here—”

“My mom and my stepdad,” I correct him. “Keith is just my stepdad.” I don’t look, but I hope that made Keith flinch. I feel like a cornered cat, and my claws are out. “My real dad isn’t here right now.”

“Well, you better believe I’ve called him,” says my mom, her voice shrill and shaking. “He is very disappointed in you, as am I. We never had problems like this with Claudia.”

I roll my eyes. Claudia practically came out of the womb balancing a checkbook. That’s how angelically responsible she is. Mama comparing us is nothing new, but it’s a game I’ll never win.

Sheriff Bell folds his hands on the table. “Listen,” he tells me. “That gym on Jackson Avenue was trashed last night. Broken glass everywhere. Rotten eggs. Toilet paper. Damaged equipment. I’m pretty sure I know who did this, and I’m pretty sure you do, too. And if you’re thinking of playing cat and mouse here with me, I’m just gonna put it out there and tell you the whole thing is on camera.”

My heart pounds, and the kitchen is so quiet that I’m scared everyone else can hear it, too. I try not to react to this news. I don’t want to do anything to further incriminate myself.

“I can’t make out much,” he continues, “but I got a head count. And by the looks of it, the whole bunch of ’em were girls. I also happen to know that the gym was the primary sponsor for the dance team until very recently. Ya putting things together here with me, girly?”