Twelve Steps to Normal(51)
When the episode ends, I turn off the TV and put my plate in the dishwasher. I have a ton of homework to do, including reading the rest of The Crucible for English. I go upstairs, flop on my bed, and force myself to try to absorb what’s happening in the play.
The front door squeaks open, interrupting my thoughts. I’m setting the book down on my nightstand when I hear two hushed voices arguing downstairs. I get out of bed and crack open my door.
“It’s times like this when I could use a drink,” my dad’s saying, his voice heavy and sad. “I think I’ve moved past the pain of losing her, and then it sneaks up on me.”
An uncomfortable sadness rises in my throat. I know he’s referring to Grams.
“Adam.” That’s Nonnie, stern and unforgiving. “You do not need dependency like that, you hear?”
My dad’s voice is hoarse, defeated. “It was easier when she was around. She really understood Kira. Much more than I do, and now she’s so distant—”
Wallis begins to bark, drowning out the rest of his words. I had no idea my dad felt that way. Sure I was close to Grams, but we also had our own relationship. We bonded over food and Crime Boss and little stories about each other’s day. His presence in my life is just as important as hers was.
I hear more shuffling as they enter the kitchen, so I step into the hallway so I can hear better.
There’s more rustling as Nonnie pours food in a bowl for Wallis. “—and it’s like we’ve been telling Peach. It takes time. You broke her trust.”
I’m surprised Nonnie understands.
“—and you don’t want to give up on her. Not when she needs her dad back. She doesn’t need the kind of father who resorts to drinking when he’s upset.” Wallis barks again, and I hear Nonnie set down the bowl with a loud clank! “Heidi was a wonderful woman to you both, but it’s the two of you now. You’ve got to heal together.”
I step back into my room and quietly close the door. I knew there was a chance my dad could relapse, but I didn’t realize he was still struggling. I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe the ranch would completely cure him, but it seemed like spending time with the recoverees was helping. He’s been trying with me, but maybe I’m the one who needs to try harder with him.
Nonnie’s right. We’re both alone, and we shouldn’t have to continue to suffer alone, either.
I’m about to walk downstairs, but I hear the front door open. “—need to clear my head, take a walk. If Kira asks—”
“I’ll let her know,” Nonnie says, her voice sad.
The door shuts. He’s gone.
EIGHTEEN
AFTER SCHOOL ON WEDNESDAY, WHITNEY, Lin, and I agree to help Raegan and a few other students from our year build the homecoming float for the junior class. The parade is a week from today, but she’s afraid that with everyone’s schedules we won’t be able to get it done on time.
I’m surrounded by flatbed trailers that we will decorate and hitch to trucks, most of which came from volunteer dads. Principal Lawrence allowed the trailers to sit in the back of the faculty parking lot while we worked on this, which was good because there were nearly a dozen floats and not much room anywhere else on school grounds.
Leadership Council decided “Sensational Swashbucklers” would be the junior class theme, which is why there are eight of us surrounding our flatbed in attempt to transform it into a pirate ship. Raegan lays out the blueprint and I try to envision how we’re going to pull this off with our unimpressive materials that consist of chicken wire, burlap, poster board, paint, and a staple gun.
“Okay,” Raegan says. Her dark hair is twisted into tiny braids and pulled back into a classy bun. She’s holding two rolls of cellophane—one clear and one blue. “Before we can start on the ship, let’s lay this down as the base. It’ll be the water.”
“I don’t see how we’re supposed to build this ship,” Lin says, still staring at the blueprint. “It’s pretty complicated.”
Raegan narrows her eyes.
Lin shuts up.
The cellophane is the easy part. After scrunching and stapling layers to the base of the flatbed, it begins to look like the choppy seas. Raegan walks around the perimeter and uses the staple gun to secure a silver fringe bed skirt for flair.
Half an hour later, Whitney plops down on the asphalt and scrolls through her phone. Deciding that I need a break, I sit down next to her.
Ever since Breck’s party she’s been slightly warmer toward me, but our conversations are surface-level. Like what time dance practice ends and the number of essays we’ve had to complete for our English classes. They’re baby steps, but it feels like progress.
“She was more fun when she was less tyrannical,” Whitney says as we watch Raegan lecture Tyler Hornsby about using too many staples.
I don’t disagree. “Do you think the baby is putting her more on edge?”
Whitney shrugs, looping her thick brown hair into a secure ponytail. “Maybe.”
I glance back at Raegan. She’s hovering over Tyler’s shoulder, monitoring his staple usage. She’s always been the take-charge type of person. In second grade she was the one who started the unofficial red rover tournaments at recess. When she decided to take up dance in middle school, she stayed committed to it. She was the only one at her studio who never missed a single class.