“Dad!” Hannah shouts as if I’m the one who has had headphones on for the last twenty minutes.
“Yes?”
“Let me out right here,” she says as we pull into the looping circle out front of the school.
“No, that’s against the law,” I tell her.
“It’s against the rules and what’s Miss Betsy going to do to you? Offer you her phone number again?” Hannah has a point. Miss Betsy is the fiesta administrative assistant who helps during drop-off and pickup. She likes to scold me then smiles like she’s joking. It’s very confusing when I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong aside from not pulling up to the yellow stop-line correctly a few times.
“Fine,” I say. “I love you. I hope you have a wonderful day.”
“Love you. Yeah, it’ll be dope,” she says, jumping out the back door. Dope? Is that word still in use?
“There’s the boy,” Parker says.
“Oh, I know. I have spying skills,” I say, tapping the side of my head. “He’s mean. I don’t know why Hannah likes him.”
“Who is this kid mean to?” I ask.
“Like, everyone,” Parker continues. “He thinks he’s so cool with his undercut and blue hair. Oh, and he has his nose pierced too. I didn’t know kids could even do that!” He has a piercing in his nose—he’s in fourth grade? It has to be fake. The blue hair, though, it makes sense now. My daughter likes the “bad boy.” Go freaking figure. Dammit to hell. She will give me an ulcer along with a heart attack. I have no chance of surviving this child’s adolescence.
“Thank you for letting me know, Parker,” I say as we pull up to the yellow line. I inch forward until I know I’m in the exact spot I’m supposed to be, hoping Miss Betsy didn’t see Hannah’s grand escape. She’s caught up in a conversation though, so I might be in luck.
“No problem,” Parker says. “She likes a boy who hates everyone, andyoulike a woman who hates everyone. Maybe it runs in the family.” Her giggle is almost infectious until I realize the truth of what she’s saying.
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning in my seat to face her.
“Oh please, Uncle Brody. I saw it with Dad and Melody, and I see it with you and Journey. You like her, and I overheard Melody say that Journey hates the world, so—it just makes sense, right?”
“That’s not true,” I argue. I’m just not sure what part of what she just said isn’t true.
“I saw her kiss you, Uncle Brody.”
Shit.I give up.
“Okay, get out. Go to school and learn something, will ya? I love you, kiddo.”
Parker covers her mouth and continues laughing as she hops out of the truck. “Love you too,” she says, slamming the door. Parker is safe within the orange cones and just a few feet away from the front door when I see Miss Betsy turn to face me. Nope, not today Miss Betsy. She lifts her hand to wave or ask me to wait, but I can’t tell what she’s trying to say as I watch her in the rear-view mirror while driving away.
5
Maybe she knowsI’m outside, waiting. I’ve parked far enough away to be out of sight, but Journey must have a sixth sense for men like me. She eats my “type” for breakfast and always seems to have the upper hand. Why I’m attracted to that, I do not understand.
While standing beside her Jeep, expecting her exit from The Barrel House, I notice a slight scratch on her fender. The Jeep is a rusty orange color, but light enough to show flaws. I wonder how she feels about flaws. If someone sneezes near my truck, I have a fit and go through the carwash.
I shove my thumb beneath the hem of my shirt and stroke at the scratch, seeing if I can tell how deep it goes. Oh, it’s not bad. I could buff that out for her.
“Why are you touching my Jeep with your shirt?” It’s good to know all I had to do was touch her car to summon her presence.
“There’s a scratch. Did you see it?”
Like the gentle flower Journey is, she storms forward and nudges me away from the spot. “What the hell? That wasn’t there this morning.”
“You inspected your Jeep before leaving home this morning?”
“I would have noticed it,” she corrects herself.
“I can buff that right out for you. Nothing to worry about.”
