The next day, I woke up to my alarm. Not my dad.
Hm. Still in my pajamas with toxic morning breath and cuckoo hair, I crept over to his room and knocked on his door. Nothing. “Pai? Are you still asleep?”
Still nothing. I was about to knock again when someone tapped my shoulder. I jumped about a mile.
“Morning, Shorty.” My dad held out a mug of tea.
I took it and smiled. “To what do I owe this princess treatment?”
He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. That’s when I noticed he was still in his pajamas, too. A worn-out Clippers T-shirt and flannel pants. “Well, there’s a change of plans. You and Rose are running the truck without me today.”
The tea scalded my tongue. “Huh? Are you sick?”
“Nope.”
“Uh, do you have a meeting?”
“Nah.”
“Then what?”
There was a mischievous gleam in his eye that chilled me. A gleam that I’ve inherited. It never means anything good.
“It’s a test.”
I stopped drinking my tea. “No.”
“Yes.”
“FATHER!” I yelled.
He pointed at me, at once stern and ridiculous with his spiky hair and giant threadbare T-shirt. “You and Rose need to figure out how to get along. Not just put up with each other and work, but toactually get along. Rose is cool, and I want you to see that.”
I exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dr. Phil. But Rose quit, remember?”
“I talked to her parents and they convinced her to give it one last try. Actually… a one-week one-last try.”
I shook my head like I had water in my ears. “Pardon me?”
My dad already had one foot in his bedroom. “Yeah, the test is for one week. Good luck today, see you later!” He rushed inside and locked the door.
I banged on it. “No way!”
His voice was muffled. “Rose is waiting for you at the commissary. You guys know the drill by now. I’m not concerned about mistakes, I just want you to make it work, or a fallsuspension, and you’ll be grounded for theentiresummer!” He paused. “Text meonly for emergencies.”
“The only texts you’ll get from me will be barnacle photos!” My dad had severe reactions to images of things with a lot of holes or bumps clustered together, like barnacles and seedpods. This revulsion/fear, called trypophobia, was always my Hail Mary when my dad was being a jerk. Like today.
“So what areyougoing to do all day?” I hollered through the door.
“Today, I take the day off. The others? Work on the restaurant hustle, handle business to get things started,” he responded, his voice sounding far away and much too relaxed.
“Well enjoy your day off withbarnacles.”
By the time I reached the commissary, seven photos and gifs of barnacles had already been sent to my dad. He didn’t respond—but I kept them going. I wanted him to live in abject terror. I wasnotinto Strict Adrian.
Rose was already there, of course. Leaning against the KoBra, in a white cotton tank and powder blue shorts, her feet in dainty brown sandals. She looked at me through her tortoiseshell sunglasses, arms crossed. “I actually thought I liked your dad,” she said in greeting, voice dry.
“Well, even cool dads are actually justdadsin the end. Lameness guaranteed at some point.”
