Whatdid I do? Lie? Admit it was fake? Dad would take that as a manipulative ploy, not for the reason why I’d originally agreed to date Brielle in the first place. To help out a cute girl who looked like she was about to get run over by a truck.
“Sure. Yeah. I’m serious.” As I said it, I realized it wasn’t as much of a lie as I thought it might be.
“Hmm.” Dad nodded then. Judgement and criticism had left his expression, and instead, he seemed to contemplate it all. Then he shook his head as though he was done with the conversation—and maybe even me. “I’m going to eat this in my office.” Then he left the kitchen. He left me. He left. It was what both of my parents were good at. Walking away when the conflict got out of their ability to control or understand.
I determined right then that I wouldn’t be like that. If things got tough—even with this whole fake dating thing—I wasn’t going to walk away. I wasn’t going to do that to Brielle. She was my friend.
Yeah.
At a minimum . . . she was my friend.
Chapter 21
Brielle
“Your mom said you heard back from the Teen Writers internship program?”
It was Sunday afternoon. We’d gone to church, Mrs. Templeton had begun her Sunday School series on “dating God’s way,” which I had been sort of curious about because I checked my concordance and the word “dating” never shows up in the Bible. So, I figured she had some points up her sleeve to make. Probably all about integrity, morality, and ethics. I was fine with the morality part. Trust me. I wasn’t about to do anything my future husband might be jealous of, but the integrity part made me squirm.
As did this conversation with Dad.
He had plopped down next to me on the couch, where I was reading a really good book about inheritances and games and cute book boyfriends. Apparently, Dad wanted to talk. And now I was faced with the dilemma of telling him the topic of the interview scheduled for this Friday night.
“Hello?” Dad nudged me with his elbow.
“Oh.” I needed to answer him, didn’t I? It’s crazy how many thoughts can go through a person’s head in sixty seconds. “Yeah, I did.”
“Thanks for all the details, honey.” Dad’s teasing made me smile in spite of myself.
“Sorry,” I closed my book. I didnotdog-ear the page. Instead, I tucked a bookmark into my spot and made sure nothing got bent. “So, yeah, they’re interested in me. I have the interview with them on Friday night.”
“Do you feel ready?”
Did I ever feel ready for anything? “Totally.”
We laughed, and then Dad grew serious. “Did they give you the interview topic?”
There it was. The bombshell question. Which, if I were honest, wasn’t really that hard of a question, it’s just—I never know how Dad is going to react to the whole dating stuff. He’s not a fan of the fact that Brooks and I are dating—although I’m surprised he’s letting us and not going all hardcore and cutting it off. But, I know—Iknow—if Dad were ever to learn the premise of our not-really-dating relationship, he’d be angry. No. No, he’d be disappointed. Which was worse? If anything triggers Dad, it’s us not being up-front with him. He calls it a lack of respect and honor. I call it self-preservation. Mom says that we underestimate Dad’s wisdom because we get distracted by his face. Dad has one of those faces that just looks . . . like he’s not happy. Even if he is. But, considering the fact that I haven’t gotten my doorknob back yet, also tells me I’m partially right. Dad may have wisdom, but he also has nerves of steel. I didn’t really want to test those nerves with the whole Brooks-thing.
“Umm,” I started, “they want to talk to me about modern technology.” That part was true.
Dad’s one eyebrow rose. “Modern technology? That wasn’t quite what I’d expected.”
“Me neither.” I gave him a nervous laugh.
He eyed me for a long second. “Was there more?”
“More?” I squeaked.
“What do they want to know about modern technology? That’s a pretty broad topic and a non-specific explanation for you to prepare anything for.”
“Umm, how modern technology affects teenagers.” Also true.
“Negatively.” Dad’s smile made up for the harshness of his statement. He paused then and considered something, then asked it. “So, what do you think? How does modern technology affect teenagers?”
I didn’t want to think right now. I wanted to get back to my novel—and to the main dude who had stolen my bookish heart and soul. But Dad was waiting for an answer, and I was playing peekaboo with the truth. One of these days, Dad was going to find out the full story about Brooks and me, and—no. I didn’t want to go there.
“I think,” I started, “that modern technology has a negative influence on teenagers.” I presented my statement more like a question.
