I’m stewing so hard as I push through the girls’ entrance to the school—yes, seriously,GIRLSandBOYSare stamped over the doorways on the east and west sides of the building, respectively—that I don’t notice my father just inside the first classroom on the left until he says my name.
I yelp and jump.
Pebbles yelps in my purse.
Dad gives me a wary once-over. “You look tired.”
He’s just under six feet tall. His spray tan has completely faded, replaced with a natural tan instead. He’s also let his facial hair grow wild, like he can care about the lawn outside—which is where he spends 80 percent of his time—or he can care about shaving, but not both.
And the lawn ismeticulousnow.
His brown hair is streaked thicker with gray than it was when we got here, though I have no idea if that’s lack of a good stylist to dye or hide it or if he’s aging faster under the stress of living with Gigi and dealing with the drama with Mom and having to pretend to like his kids again.
Well, most of us.
He and Phoebe are basically the very definition ofawkward.
I hate that for her. It’s not her fault she’s not what he wants her to be, nor is it her fault that he’s known foryearsthat he wasn’t her father and took it out on her instead of dealing with his issues with Mom directly.
I shrug at my father. “Gigi ordered brick mattresses for us. We’re all tired.”
“You’re more tired.”
I don’t know who this man is.
The last time he noticed I was tired, I was about eight years old, throwing a temper tantrum while clutching my favorite stuffed bunny, and he told the nanny to do something about it.
“Busy times.” I gesture down the hall. “So I’m gonna get to work. Good luck with the ... whatever it is Gigi has you doing today.”
I start back on my path to the cafeteria, not really hungry but more interested in cold, soupy oatmeal than I am in making more small talk with my father.
“If you need help, let me know,” he says.
Things are just getting weird now. I glance back at him.
Does he—is he—is helostwithout Mom here?
Can’t be.
He cheats on her all the time.
Maybe he had a mistress here who broke up with him.
A very, very small part of me starts to feel sorry for him. But I still brush him off. “I got it. Thanks.”
Would’ve been nice to have him care for the past twenty-nine years.
He’s trying now,my conscience reminds me.
And that’s the thing I hate about being a good person.
My conscience talks to me and guilts me and tells me I should do more, when I already do more than most of the people in my family.
“Your mom sent a box of purses for you,” he says.
“I saw.”
“She said she hasn’t heard from you.”
