I press my lips together and get down onto my knees, ducking to check underneath my bed. Sure enough, like always, she’s stolen the pack of Bud that I put there last night. I get up and move to my bathroom to check inside the cabinet, and again, it’s no surprise that she’s swiped the packet of Marlboros too. I don’t even smoke cigarettes that often, but I still like to have them on me, just in case.
Walking back into my room, I sit down on the corner of my bed andpress my hands to my temples, staring at the floor while I decide what I want to do. I’m in the strangest mood, and all I want right now is a hell of a lot more beer and a joint. They’re the only things that I can always rely on to distract me when there are things I don’t want to deal with. I want to go to that party tonight, despite the fact that I’d rather avoid Tiffani. Sticking around here isn’t an option anymore, so I take out my phone and text some of the guys for the address. Kaleb is the first to reply, and I tell him I’ll be there in twenty. I get to my feet and spray on some cologne, then turn off my music as I grab my car keys from my pocket. I feel entirely sober after all of the arguing, but I’m still livid, and it doesn’t help that the second I push open my door, that damn girl is there again.
She looks up at me with those same anxious eyes as before, only this time I’m noticing that they’re hazel, and an intense hazel at that. I can’t decide whether or not they’re more golden than they are brown. “Hi,” she says again. “Are you okay?”
That voice. I blink a couple times and try to keep my expression as blank as I possibly can to hide the fact that that voice of hers is seriously doing something to me. “Bye,” I say, stepping past her. I don’t want to be around this girl. I’ve already decided that, so I follow through by making my way downstairs and out of the front door without looking over my shoulder, despite how badly I want to.
As soon as I step outside into the front yard, I can hear the music from the back again. Laughter too. Luckily, no one is around out front to notice me leave. I doubt Mom would put up a fight anyway. She never does.
Unlocking my car, I slide back in and pull the door shut. I start up the engine, but I don’t drive off immediately. I sit there for a minute, my elbow resting against the window as I run the tips of my fingers along my jaw while I think.
Sighing, I get my phone out again and pull up my messages with Tiffani. It’s better to warn her.
I’ll see you at the party.
I type out the text, and then I hit send at the exact same time as I hit the accelerator.
5
Five Years Earlier
Forcing myself across the lawn and over to Dad’s silver Mercedes is always the hardest part of every day. My legs feel stiff as I drag my feet, keeping my eyes on the grass as I tighten my grip around the strap of my backpack. I know he’s watching me, waiting, and I know he’s going to have a lot to say during the ten-minute ride to school. I wish Mom hadn’t shown him that letter.
I’m still staring at the ground as I reach for the handle and open up the door, avoiding Dad’s harsh glare. I slide into the passenger seat and pull my backpack around onto my lap, then click on my seatbelt. I focus my eyes on my sneakers. All I can hear is the soft purring of the engine until Dad releases a heavy sigh and starts to drive.
He increases the volume of the radio and groans when he hears that there’s already a forty-minute delay on the freeway. I know how much he hates the drive to downtown LA each morning, and it really doesn’t help that I’ve already ruined his good mood for the day. Now he’s more aggravated than usual at this time. He shuts the radio off entirely.
“So,” he says, “what the hell are you playing at? Skipping class because you felt sick? Bullshit.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s shaking his head at the road ahead of us, and I can feel his anger in the air around us, thickening it. “I…I just didn’t want to go,” I tell him. I’m lying again, but at the same time, I’m thinking,Isn’t it obvious? “It’s track and field. I hate running.”
“Bullshit,” he says again. “Are you trying to rebel? Is that it? Are you trying to get in trouble just to test me?”
“No. No,” I stutter. I pick at a fraying edge on my backpack as I try to think of something to say, anything. “I’m not trying to do anything. It’s just…well, it’s the locker rooms.” I bite down on my lip and hold my breath as I shut my eyes. Being honest with him is the only way I’m going to get out of this car alive.
“What about the locker rooms?”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I just hope he isn’t looking at me right now. I hope he’s still looking at the road. “Um. I don’t…I don’t want anyone…I don’t want anyone to ask questions.” My mouth is dry as each word sticks in my throat.
“Ask questions about what?”
My eyes flash open and I angle my face to fully stare across at him. “Dad…” I murmur. “You know what.”
“No,” he says more firmly, “I don’t. There’s nothing to ask questions about.”
He’s in denial. He has to be. That, or he’s crazy. “Okay,” I mumble, dropping the subject. I keep picking at the frayed edge on my backpack until it starts to get worse, splitting open completely. Dad hasn’t looked at me since he started driving. I hope it’s because he feels guilty and not because he couldn’t care less.
“Now tell me,” he says, “you have math today, don’t you?” Before I can nod, he brakes to a halt at a stop sign. The intersection is clear togo, but he wrenches up the parking brake and shifts in his seat, angling himself toward me. He snatches my backpack from my grip and pulls it onto his lap. Unzipping it, he rummages inside and pulls out my math homework that’s due next week, including the page that’s torn into three. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, he spends a few moments searching the pages for it.
“The second you get home from school today, I want you to sit down and fix this question,” he orders calmly, holding up one of the torn pieces for me to see that same equation from last night again, the only one I got wrong. “And you’ll need to write all of this out again.” He shakes his head at the ruined pieces of paper in his hands as though it was me who destroyed them, then he crumples them into his enclosed fist. His strained knuckles are pale from pressure, and I watch in my usual unsurprised way. My balled-up math homework is tossed into the cup holder in the center console, and my backpack is thrown back at me.
“I could have kept the other pages,” I point out as I zip my bag up again. “They weren’t torn.”
“That’s too bad,” Dad says as his eyes drift to the road ahead while he puts the car back into drive. “You can go ahead and do each question all over again. Consider it extra practice. You need it.”
That homework had thirty questions. It took me over an hour to complete last night, and the thought of doing it all over again because of one mistake is enough for me to grind my teeth together until my jaw hurts. Dad does things like this all the time, and although it no longer surprises me, it still aggravates me. But I can’t let him know that, so I try to relax my features as I focus my gaze on a spot on the dashboard as Dad switches the radio back on.He just wants the best for me, I remind myself.
It’s always a relief each morning when we pull up outside Dean’s house. It’s when Dad starts smiling again and it’s when his cold tone disappears, and I know that for the final five-minute drive to school, he definitely won’t lose his cool. He can’t. Not while we have company.
