The Accidentals(11)

I rub the shiny new thing with my thumb and wonder if Frederick Richards would hightail it out of Florida if his daughter was a spoiled brat. I should have ordered lobster and champagne, just to gauge his reaction. Haze is right, I don’t have to be nice.

But I feel my father’s gaze on me. And I know I won’t do any of those things, because I’m not that girl. I don’t throw seven-hundred-dollar objects into chlorinated water, or make demands.

And my good manners aren’t even the reason. I want Frederick to like me.

And I hate myself for wanting that.

“Thank you,” I whisper. Lifting my chin, I say it again. “Thank you. For everything today.”

He looks away, his mouth flattening into a line. “It’s nothing.”

The food arrives, and I eat a little, but mostly push the salad around in its bowl.

“I’ll get you home by curfew,” Frederick says, putting a french fry back down on his plate. He isn’t really hungry either. After he signs the check, I stand up, hefting my backpack. We’ve taken only one step toward the lobby when a tanned man in a golf shirt walks up, his arm on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, smiling, “but we’re such big fans. Could we get your autograph?”

“Uh, sure,” Frederick says, digging into his pocket for a pen.

The boy looks to be about middle-school age, and he removes his baseball cap and hands it to Frederick. “Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking. He looks embarrassed.

But so does Frederick. A wrinkle appears in the center of his forehead. “Who’s this?” he says, pointing at a signature on one side of the bill.

The dad laughs. “Ryan Braun.”

Frederick nods. “You’re Brewers fans? At least you don’t root for the Cubs.” He signs the hat quickly and hands it back with a wink. “We’re in a bit of a hurry…”

“Thanks so much,” the dad says, stepping back. His smile is like a toothpaste ad.

“Sorry,” Frederick mutters to me as we stride across the lobby. “I see Carlos waiting outside.”





“So…” Frederick says as the sedan slides to a stop outside the Parson’s Home.

So… I grip the hem of my denim skirt, wondering what happens next. He’s about to say that he’s booked on the next flight to L.A. And a good chunk of me will be okay with that, because every minute I spend in his presence is as stressful as auditioning for a solo in choir.

“Same time tomorrow?” he says instead.

A knot in my chest unties, and I’m stunned by how relieved I suddenly feel. I don’t even know why. I’ve made it this far without him. He isn’t somebody that I ought to rely on. “I need to spend some extra time in the school library on my math review,” I hear myself say.

“No problem,” he says quickly. “If I picked you up later, I could still make sure you got some dinner.”

“They don’t starve me here, you know.” The ungrateful words just pop out. Though I’ve waited my whole life for him to invite me to dinner.

Frederick looks past me at the building’s gray vinyl siding and dirty windows. He doesn’t bother trying to disguise his look of disapproval.

My face gets hot, as if the scuzzy building is my own fault.

He turns his gray-eyed gaze on me. “Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he says, “because I’m busy on Saturday.”

I fold quicker than a broken umbrella. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I opened the door.

“Text me a time,” he calls after me. “Carlos put my number and his in your phone.”

“Okay!” I run from his car into the Parson’s Home at 7:32. The light-blue beater parked at the curb gives an angry stab at the horn as I go inside. But I’ve run out of time.

It’s against the rules to use a phone after curfew, and Evie would happily rat me out. But later, under the covers, my hair smelling like a salon, I fiddle with my new toy. I log into Instagram, and the photos are crisp and bright on the shiny screen.

And this is weird—Freddy Ricks posted a photo of the Pacific Ocean a couple hours ago, just as we were having an awkward meal under a hotel umbrella, more than two thousand miles from the Pacific. Nice day for a run on the beach, my father supposedly wrote. The hashtags are #oceanlover and #californiadreaming.

I feel a weird prickly sensation creep across my skull. I’ve been following his Instagram account forever. And it’s not even him?

From memory, I tap Haze’s number into my new phone and text him: Sorry about tonight. Ran out of time. I have to sign it R.K. because Haze won’t recognize the new number.

His reply is instant. I waited for U. Everything OK?

I’m fine. It’s a terse answer, so I add a heart emoticon. But that’s all I write, since I’m too tired to go another round on the subject of spending time with my father.

My phone buzzes a minute later. I miss U.

I close the texting app and spend a couple of minutes adding my email account to my fancy new phone. It populates with a startling number of messages, many of them condolences from teachers I’ve had over the years. I can’t read those right now. If they say anything nice about my mom, I’ll end up crying myself to sleep.

Only one message is cheerful. It’s from Jake, the boy from Claiborne.