He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge

by Alexandra Winter

  “Mom doesn’t honk.” I don’t have to look to know that outside, perfectly aligned with the parking space lines in front of the school, a red Porsche waits. “It’s Dad.” I immediately regret telling her.

  No, you can’t greet him. Trust me, you don’t want to.

  I’m sick of my front row seat to his performances. Ever since Nana pushed for me to attend this class, actually paying for me to be able to when Dad opposed the idea, Miss Ask has supported me. She deserves better than his judgment of her.

  Hopefully, he won’t see how she’s parked. I’ve heard it a thousand times before: “Don’t they realize how idiotic they look? How do these people get a driver’s license when they’re not smart enough to follow a straight line?”

  Please don’t walk out with me. I can’t bear to witness Dad’s theatrics tonight.

  His fake smile, the way his voice shifts into a smooth and flirty tone, charming her like he always does with every new person he meets. Everyone loves him, and he basks in it. It pisses me off. If they only knew how he talks behind their backs. I’m scared to think what he says behind mine.

  I have to get out without Miss Ask following me. I lift the canvas, careful not to smudge the wet paint as I head towards the door.

  Miss Ask follows. “Let me hold that.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, balancing the painting on my knee while pulling the door open. Miss Ask grabs the door. “Don’t be silly. I’ll walk with you.”

  I struggle to find an excuse to make her stay behind. No matter what I say, I’ll sound weird. If I tell her to stay, she’ll wonder why, and I can’t say I don’t want her to meet my father, then I’ll need to explain that too. If she walks out before me, chances are she’ll introduce herself anyways, and I’ll be stuck listening to his judgment of her all the way home. An opinion he has no right to make, but as usual, will ring true in some way and change my perception of her.

  I don’t want him to dislike you.

  She opens the entrance door, letting me out. Dad’s red Porsche glimmers under a lamp post.

  “It must be such a joy having a successful father, huh?”

  His success has nothing to do with joy.

  I don’t respond. I don’t want to ruin his image.

  Dad exits the car. His black suit, once tailored, is now too tight to button the blazer around his recently expanded belly fat. He’s a good-looking man, tall with black hair. He has a certain way of looking at women that makes them blush, touch themselves in response to him, on the neck, the face. It’s embarrassing.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Dad extends a hand to greet Miss Ask. Here it comes, his usual performance of pretending to know her already. I witness it all again, the sparkling eyes, his silky-smooth voice, and the deceptive fake smile.

  “What a pleasure to finally meet you. Thank you for making Amalie feel welcome in your class. I’m Amalie’s father, Hermann Skar.”

  My dad should run for office—he’s that good.

  Come on, Miss Ask. You can see through this bullshit.

  I wait by the side of the car to observe her reaction.

  You’re too smart to fall for his lies.

  But Miss Ask blushes and dabs her face with her hand before shaking his. “The pleasure is all mine. Hanne Ask. What an incredible daughter you have. You must feel lucky to bear witness to such growing talent.”

  Please tell me you’re being polite and not falling for Dad’s theatrics.

  Dad gestures for me to get into the car while laughing along. “I don’t know where she gets it from.”

  He knows very well it’s from Mom and Nana.

  Placing the canvas in the trunk, I kick my feet together before entering the car to make sure I don’t bring any dirt with me. Observing them through the front window is like watching a play. Dad, portraying the loving father, while Miss Ask giggles every time he winks at her or touches her arm. “Don’t fall for his lies,” I whisper. “You’re smarter than this.” But hearing myself say the words doesn’t convince me. She might be good at her job, but Dad has proven she’s a sheep like everyone else.

  He knows how to use his charm to his advantage, and often tells me it’s what makes a good salesman—to be liked. I don’t agree with him. It all seems wrong somehow. Being fake. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy hiding behind my designs. No one can judge me to my face or pretend they know who I am. I don’t have to put on a show. Like Dad is doing to Miss Ask now. He has no idea who she is, and she will never know.

  Dad’s muffled voice wraps up the conversation. “Well, I hope to see you again soon.”

  No, you don’t.

  I buckle my seatbelt.

  Miss Ask jumps at the sudden cut in their chat. “Oh, yes. Of course. It is late, isn’t it?” She waves to me and calls out. “Please let me know if you hear back from DAP.”

  I put on a smile, roll down my window. “I will. See you next week.” A part of me wants to baaa out the window from the disappointment stirring up inside me. Not even she sees past Dad’s charm, a person I’ve heard analyzing artists hiding behind their work, deciphering the meaning behind a stroke of a brush in a painting or the color choices in a poster, or explaining why one font tricks the audience to feel a certain way about the message. Dad’s flashing his font in her face, his colors shining bright and still, but she’s blind to it.

  What an idiot I am for believing she’d be different. Nobody is. They’re all sheep.

  Dad kisses her cheek. Her face turns red, bright like the car, which reflects her desperate gaze. “What a beautiful car,” she says.

  Great.

  Dad clears his throat. I mouth his response along with his answer. “I’ll give you a fantastic deal. I have a vast variety of luxury cars like this one at my dealership.” He fishes a business card from his pocket, which she takes before walking off. She turns her head; Dad waves. He gets in the car with me and roars the engine.

  Sure, let's disturb the whole neighborhood.

  I stare out the window, bracing myself.

  Here we go.

  “What a sheep. If people want to knit their wardrobe, take a class first unless you want to look like a hobo. They serve doughnuts for lunch at this school?”

  No.

  His comment makes me think of her body, which I don’t want to. She’s slimmer than I am.

  I should begin exercising.

  As much as I concentrate on her lessons from the classroom, a doughnut-eating sheep pops up in my mind, its eyes purple and glazed.

  Stop it.

  “She’s knitted all her life.”

  “Well, it looks like something you made at school when you were ten.” Dad rolls his eyes when she is out of sight. “Art people. They all look so scruffy. Whoever said purple and yellow is a good color combination? Buckle up.”

  I peer down at my already buckled seatbelt, but don’t respond. The doughnut-eating sheep appears before me again, spitting the doughnut out, replacing it with grass while staring blankly out into space.

  When we drive past Miss Ask’s car, which she, of course, hasn’t lined up perfectly with the lines on the asphalt, Dad mumbles, “How stupid do you have to be not to park your car straight? It’s lined up for you.” He waves again and flashes a grin at her.

  She returns the gesture.

  There goes that trust the same way as last time.

  It happens like this with every single teacher I’ve had. After Dad meets them, or anyone else I’m safe with in a relationship, the trust is ruined. From now on, all she’ll ask about is him or how happy my family is.

  Dad roars the engine. “For a teacher, she should use her brain cells more. Thinking is allowed, it’s not an activity anyone needs to ask permission to do. Speaking of which, did you clean your brushes?”

  When have you ever cared about my brushes?

  I stare out my window. Nana bought me those brushes five years ago, and I treat them dearly. It’s a trap question. If I say no, he’ll be upset I don’t take proper care o
f my things, use it as an excuse to explain why I’m not responsible. If I say yes, I shouldn’t have kept him waiting. “I came as fast as I could.”

  He stops at a red light. “So, you didn’t clean your brushes. This is the reason I can’t trust you with nice things. What’s the point in having them if you don’t take care of them?”

  The sheep in my head is now on its back rolling around and kicking, trying to get up. It’s stuck, and so am I. “I’m sorry.” I’m in no mood to argue. He’s stressed, playing his favorite game, “find mistakes Amalie made today.” I glare at the door handle and imagine myself jumping out of the car. I never will, but it brings a smile to my face picturing his frustration in finding a way to explain it to the community. I wonder what he’d say. A bee flew into the car, and she’s terrified of bees, so she jumped out? I’m not, but that could work. No doubt, he’d find a way to make it about himself, I’m sure.

  “Have you heard from Mom?”

  “Just because she offers to pick you up every time you go to these classes after work doesn’t mean you should accept. You need to stop being so selfish and start thinking. Your brain is there for a reason. She has enough on her plate. As do I. Busses do run here.”

  Thunder resounds from far away.

  You know the last bus leaves too early.

  “If I could only borrow one of your cars, I…”

  He glares down at me. “Do you have any idea what these cars cost?”

  Of course I do. I clean those cars for you at work every day.

  But this isn’t why I can’t drive them. He hates when city kids come to our town each summer, driving fancy cars, acting entitled. He’s scared people will think I’m like them, spoiled.

  “What would people say if they saw you driving a Porsche? No. Absolutely not. Save up for your own or leave your DAP class earlier.”

  “This isn’t….DAP is a school. Design and Arts in Porto? The dream I’ve been working towards for years?” I stare at him for a hint of recollection. Nothing. “I applied for their scholarship a few months ago?” There’s more frustration in my voice than I intend.

  Why can’t he listen?

  “We’ve talked about this. You have to present your ideas like an adult, not an emotional child.” Dad turns on the radio.

  I did. Several times.

  But hey, your daughter’s one dream must be too much to pay attention to.

  It is, after all, an insanely expensive school I can’t afford. Me living in Portugal for four years if I get a scholarship, but never will with only two out of three thousand applicants winning? The reason I check the mailbox every day? A guaranteed prosperous future for me if I get in.

  As if he’s heard my thoughts, Dad increases the volume on the radio.

  He won’t want me to attend DAP, but Nana pushed for my art classes, and she’ll never back down on me pursuing my dream, and neither will Mom.

  A sign to Årøysund lights up in front of us, and Dad turns down the radio as we drive off the main road towards our coastal community. “I need you to spend less time doodling and more time focusing on your work at Skar’s Auto. You know as well as I do we need a sale soon.”

  Country music plays from the speakers, too low to sing along to or drown out the noise from the tires echoing off the worn asphalt. When Dad turns onto the single lane road creeping down towards the fjord, he stops at the only intersection in town. Behind us, dark clouds cover the skies. Årøysund always seems to have a barrier of some kind, holding lousy weather away. In front of us, the moon shines on ripples in the water. Nana and Grandpa live to the right only two streets up from Årøysund center, population 1636. We turn left through the forest where humid pine trees glisten in the moonlight. Their shadows stretch across the dirt road leading us to its only house, our home, an old wooden house painted white but appearing blue in the night, surrounded by grass fields sloping down into the water below.

  Eager to escape Dad’s company, I grab my bag from the back seat and jump out.

  “Amalie! What have I told you about cleaning your shoes before entering my cars? Look at this.” He points to the floor mat below the passenger seat I just left.

  I pick up one piece of gravel I know I didn’t bring into the car and add it to the rest that fills our driveway.

  “See? Now doesn’t that feel so much better?” He turns away, not waiting for an answer.

  No, it doesn’t.

  As I head to the mailbox, I’m relieved it’s empty. The school sends the rejection letters out first, so one day closer to a scholarship. The lavender scent in the air from Mom’s flowers grows stronger as I approach the front door, smelling of home.

  “Oh, and by the way.” Dad’s words stop me from opening the door. “Since I picked you up, it would be nice if you open the shop tomorrow. I have an important meeting in the morning.”

  And there it is. No help for free in Dad’s family.

  MOM

  Taking a deep breath, my body tenses as Dad walks up to me wearing the same grin he flashed Miss Ask half an hour ago.

  I don’t have time to think before my frustration escapes me. “You gave me tomorrow off, remember?”

  His grin grows wider, his voice is cheerier. “Amalie. How often do I ask you for anything, huh? I’ll be there at twelve o’clock at the latest. You’ll have plenty of time to play around.”

  I’m not playing. I’m showing Mr. Dahl...I remember my canvas in the trunk. I could kick myself for forgetting, but it’s not the first time my need to escape Dad’s words has taken over, and I forget everything else. Usually, designing is my escape from this; now it’s trapped me. “I need the canvas to give to Mr. Dahl tomorrow. Can you open the car?”

  Dad doesn’t move. He’s got the upper hand.

  What an idiot I am.

  “Okay, I’ll open Skar’s tomorrow. Please open the car?”

  The Porsche clicks open. “That’s better. Now, go to bed so you’re well rested tomorrow. And smile. Nobody likes a sour looking girl.”

  An hour later, I perfect a line in my painting when the familiar creak of my bedroom door startles me.

  My desk lamp illuminates Mom’s worried smile as she peeks in. She closes the door behind her with a soft click to muffle Dad’s snores. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry I couldn’t pick you up today. Did you finish it?”

  I push my chair back to show her, attempting to decipher her reaction.

  Mom ruffles her hair, rearranging it into the same hairstyle she’s always worn. Parted in the middle, two curtains of blonde locks drape her round face and kind open eyes. She glances at the canvas, and her petite nose lifts with her grin. “Mr. Dahl will be thrilled.”

  My hands shake as I think of him not approving. “I hope so. I don’t want to let anyone down.”

  Mom steps back to take it in, covering her chin with her hand. “If that is your goal, your work is done. Josefine hasn’t stopped talking about it since you agreed three months ago. I can’t read the poster he’s got in his window now, it’s so faded, and this is a real upgrade.” She sits down on the edge of what used to be her old bed, now mine, viewing the room that belonged to her when she grew up in this house.

  She glances at the yellow dress I bought last week hanging by the window. It matches the pastel wallpaper she chose for this room before I was born. “You shouldn’t have spent this much on a dress for dinner with the Skars tomorrow, honey. It’s beautiful, but…can you afford this?”

  “No. But I need to get it right at least once.”

  If my grandparents approve, it’s worth it.

  At our last dinner together, according to my grandfather, my purple maxi dress made me look like a hippie. “A young woman should know how to represent her family,” he said.

  Dad was so disappointed in me. I can’t see that look on his face again.

  “After working at Skar’s—” I start to say.

  Mom’s eyes shoot up as she realizes that Dad has asked me to work on my day off, but she doesn’t comment.
We’re used to Skar’s Auto being our family’s main priority.

  “—then meeting with Mr. Dahl, I’m spending the rest of the day planning for May seventeenth. I’ll iron both my bunad and yellow dress and find a tutorial for a way to put my hair up. I want to show that I’m trying.”

  Mom kisses the top of my head and heads toward the door. She pauses with her hand on the handle. “Why don’t you wear your bunad, like me?”

  “My grandparents don’t wear them. I want them to know I care.”

  “They do. They love you, no matter what you wear.”

  “Dad doesn’t.”

  “Don’t say that. Of course your father does. He’s been working a lot lately. I'll leave the car out front for you in the morning.” She points to my dress. “It’ll look great on you.”

  Mom opens the door to leave, and Dad’s snoring fills my room, reminding me about her meeting, so I whisper. “What did Mr. Jensen say?”

  Mom ruffles her hair again. “You’re looking at The Bluebird’s new partner. Mr. Jensen offered to let me buy fifty percent of the shares.”

  Wow!

  “Congratulations.” I withhold an ecstatic scream. “Do you have that kind of money? And why does he want you as his equal partner?” Mom has been the head chef there since I was born.

  “I’ll talk to the bank tomorrow. Mr. Jensen has an art project he wants to spend the money on, and he says he’s thought of us as equal partners for years. This makes it official.”

  She closes the door behind her but pops her head back in. “I forgot to ask, any word from DAP yet?”

  “No,” I say, smiling.

  “Good. June twentieth, right?”

  “Yes. I’ll know by then.”

  “I’ll put the date in my calendar. Get some sleep. Your mind won’t work well without it,” Mom says.

  As soon as Mom closes the door behind her, I continue working on my design.

  When I wake up at six o’clock the next morning, I continue to perfect my poster for Mr. Dahl.

  Skar’s Auto opens at ten every morning, so at nine o’clock, I pack up, wear my favorite red sweater for good luck and run downstairs.