The Accidentals(7)

What else? I have a lot of questions about the various music groups. I see a glee club and a choir. Aren’t those the same thing? The a cappella singing groups are really interesting to me as well. But I’ll probably have to audition, right? Yikes.

My Claiborne email address should be: [email protected].

Thanks for writing to me. At least I’ll know one person at Claiborne.

Best—

Rachel Kress





After I hit “send,” I go back to stressing out about seeing my father after school. The last hour of my day is spent staring at a single page of my U.S. Government textbook. By the time the bell rings, my palms are clammy.

In the girls’ bathroom, I run a brush through my hair. When I was eight, I spent a month dreaming that Frederick would turn up at the Father-Daughter Banquet at school. Even two months ago, I’d imagined him standing in the back of the auditorium during my solo in the Choir Springtime Showcase.

Each time I pictured meeting my father, I always framed the scene in a flattering light. But now there’s only this version of me—the puffy-eyed, rumpled one in clothes that aren’t quite clean enough. I shove my brush in my purse and leave the bathroom, if only to escape my reflection in the mirror.

“Hey.” Haze is waiting right outside the door. We fall into step together as we head for the wide front doors. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yeah.” No.

All the tension I’d felt yesterday in Hannah’s office redoubles as Haze opens the door for me. And I don’t know whether I’m more afraid that my father won’t show up, or that he will.

But there he stands, leaning against a car in the pick-up line wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat. He looks every inch the incognito celebrity. But how else would he look? He can hardly show up wearing a concert tee and his guitar.

I feel lightheaded walking toward him.

Haze puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. “You don’t have to see him, you know. You don’t have to be civil. He never was.”

Haze is right, of course. And yet I’m going to be pleasant anyway. Good girls always are. “I need to do this, okay?”

Haze regards me from beneath a lock of shiny black hair. He has a face built for tragedy, with shaded eyelids and coal-black lashes. “Aren’t you angry?”

Why yes, I am. Livid, even. But I can’t let Frederick know how I really feel, or he’d just hightail it back to California before I get a chance to… To what, exactly? Get to know him? State my case? Learn the truth?

Make him sorry?

“Just be careful, Rae,” Haze says gruffly. “Call me for any reason. I’ll come get you.” He kisses me quickly, just a peck. Then stalks off, angling close to Frederick Richards, staring him down all the way.

I watch him go. Then I take a steadying breath and start again toward the man who is my father.

Frederick Richards takes off his sunglasses and stows them in his shirt pocket. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” I say, just standing there, not sure whether he expects me to get into the car or not.

His eyes follow Haze toward the parking lot. “All right. I know it’s hot, but do you feel like walking?”

“Sure?”

“If you want, you can stash the backpack in the car.” He holds out a hand.

“Okay.” I hand it over.

He opens the back door and puts my pack on the seat. Then he closes the door and turns to me.

“You can’t park here,” I have to point out. “They tow.”

“Oh, it will be fine. Carlos will move the car if he needs to.” He opens the passenger-seat door. “Stay cool, man. I’ll call you.”

“Okay, boss,” comes a voice from inside.

My father grabs two bottles of water off the seat and hands one to me. Then he shuts the car door and tips his head toward the sidewalk that leads toward the sporting fields. “Shall we?”

My fingers fumble the cap on the water bottle as I keep pace with him.

“So this is your school. How is it?”

This is an easy question. I can do this. I take a swig of water. “Not bad. But Florida isn’t known for excellent schools.”

“It looks nice to me. My high school looked a lot like a jail, which I found to be a fitting metaphor.”

“Not a fan of school, huh?”

My chirpy answer startles both of us. He gives me a quick smile. “Not so much. I was impatient. Thought I had more important places to be.”

We are having an actual conversation. The walking is good—much better than sitting on plastic chairs in the social worker’s office. Maybe he knew that when he asked me to walk.

“I hear you have big plans for next year,” he says.

“Yeah, Claiborne Prep.” The acceptance letter had meant everything to me for about a month. And then one morning my mother couldn’t get out of bed, and everything went to hell. Frantic, I’d called 911. A couple of weeks later she was gone.

“That’s a big decision,” he says carefully. The sidewalk stretches toward the baseball diamond.

“Yeah…” I can’t tell him my real reasons for wanting to go there. I can’t explain that besides the excellent education, I’m dying to see the place where my story began. “My, uh, guidance counselor wanted me to go to private school. There aren’t enough honors courses here.”