by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
How can yesterday be so great and today suck so badly? Oh, yeah. I have to move in with my dad and his new wife. I don’t let my mom help me pack, even though she keeps coming into my room and trying to help.
“I’ve got it, Mom,” I say as she refolds one of my shirts.
“I know you’re mad,” she says. She pulls my favorite stuffed animal off of my bed and lays it in my suitcase. The cat is a grey-and white stripped Beanie. My mom has always washed her in a pillow case to protect her, so she’s worn but clean. Her name is Grey Kitty. I named her when I was three. My mom gave her to me.
I pull the stuffed animal out of my bag and lean it against one of my pillows on my bed. “At least one of us shouldn’t have to suffer.”
“I still love you.” Mom kisses my forehead. “Even if you are mad.”
I leave the house without crying. It takes everything I have not to break down. I really don’t want my mom to feel bad for leaving. She deserves this trip. Before I pull away I tell her, “Make smart choices. Make friends. Love you, Mom.”
My dad only lives fifteen minutes away. I wouldn’t even have to change schools if I lived with him. This was a choice he made when he bought his new house, which I guess says something. I’ve driven by the modest house several times since my father purchased it. It was his wedding present to Alicia. The three-car-garage tri-level rests on an oversized lot. Even though the cold has set in, yellow, white, and purple flowers still grow in clay pots on the porch. Deep-green Adirondack chairs longing for someone to sit in them are strategically placed along the stamped cement, and an oversized swing filled with huge pillows is secured to the ceiling of the covered part of the patio.
I pull my car close to the curb in front of the house, unsure of where I should park. I want to rev the engine and peel out of here, fast. Instead, my father opens the front door and Alicia follows him out. Did they hear me pull up? Maybe my foot hit the gas by accident and I made the engine squeal. He struts toward the car. My dog Buster paws at the window from inside my car.
“Traitor,” I mumble under my breath. He loves my dad.
He opens the car door and the dog jumps out onto the cement then runs around him, jumping on him every time he does a complete orbit. After giving the dog attention, my father hands me a small black device. “The third bay is yours,” he says.
“Okay.” I press the button and the garage door opens.
Buster runs to the front door of the house. A small black-and-white clone of him scratches at the glass door and barks. “That’s Loki,” Dad says.
“Adoptaboston.com?” I ask. Mid-American Boston Terrier Rescue, the rescue where we found Buster.
“Of course, I wouldn’t buy a dog from a store or a breeder. Your mom would kill me.” He stops, looks around. Probably to make sure Alicia didn’t hear his slip. I want to tell my father that Mom doesn’t care about anything he does, but I don’t. This time I’m taking Mom’s advice. I’m going to try and give them all a chance. I’m not going to make any judgments until they are warranted.
Alicia stands on the front porch, waving. She’s wearing a smile. She can’t be happy that I’m here for the next three weeks— Shit. No judgments.
My dad keeps talking and I’m trying to pay attention but I feel like I’m gonna toss my lunch. “The dog isn’t mine, though. She likes Alicia better. Go figure.” He puts his hand out. “Let’s move your car into the garage.”
I hand him my keys and start to walk to the front door. I don’t know which way I should go. Do I follow my father—that is where my stuff is—or do I go and talk to his wife so she doesn’t think I’m being rude? Too many things to think about.
Alicia moves forward. “Hi, Massie. How ’bout I get the dogs inside the house, and your dad can help you bring your things in?”
Relieved, I nod then head toward my father. After parking Edna, he helps me bring my luggage into the house. The house smells like fall, spicy cinnamon with apples. Lingering from the kitchen, I can smell creamy wine sauce brewing. My stomach rumbles.
“You smell it, don’t you?” he asks, rubbing his hands together. I nod. It’s my dad’s beef stroganoff.
“Alicia cooked homemade noodles,” he says.
The dogs rip through the house. Alicia almost trips over Buster. I wait for her irritation to show but the chaos doesn’t seem to faze her. “Come on, puppies, let’s go outside!” She opens the back door and the dogs bolt.
“I’ll show you your room.” My father grabs my suitcase and heads up the stairs.
“I didn’t do anything to it,” Alicia says in this tone, like she’s sorry.
I wonder if she didn’t do anything to the room because she doesn’t really want me here. Stepmoms say one thing, mean another. Natalie warned me. But is my friend right?
“I thought you’d want to decorate it.” Alicia follows us up the stairs, wiping her hands on a towel. “Your dad and I picked out some basic furniture. I kept the bedding simple, but we—” She looks at me and then to my father. “—or you and your dad can go pick out some color to make it yours.”
“Okay?” I peek into the bare room. “I don’t need to decorate it. I’m only staying for a few weeks.” A white daybed is propped against the wall. White sheets, white pillow cases, and a white fluffy comforter. A small matching white dresser sits against the other wall and next to it a matching desk.
“If you hate the white we can exchange it.” Alicia looks in, and then at me. “It’ll match anything, that’s why I—”
“Alicia, it’s fine,” my dad interrupts. He tosses the suitcase onto the bed. It hits the wall with a thud.
“It’s fine,” I agree.
Actually, it’s more than fine, it’s really cute. What’s the catch? Even though I can try to be nice, I still need to keep my guard up. Natalie did warn me not to fall for Alicia’s tricks. Natalie and Vianna have both been hurt because they allowed themselves to be tricked.
“It’s yours, kiddo, for more than just the three weeks. Do what you want,” my father says before walking out.
Alicia briefly clings to his arm like she did at the wedding, then follows him down the stairs. I hear soft whispers coming from her. I don’t even want to know what she’s saying.
I rest on the bed. If I decorate it and Alicia doesn’t like it, she might complain. If I don’t do anything, she might paint me as a selfish, spoiled brat. What to do? When in doubt, do nothing.
So that’s what I do, nothing. Except stand up and look around this room that I’ve been told is mine.
There are three doors. Door number one leads to the hall. Behind door number two, a bathroom. It reminds me of a hotel bathroom, with white towels, white washcloths, and a white shower curtain. On the counter, sample-sized soaps and lotions are laid out. I’m glad I brought my own; they would never last me three weeks. Three weeks. Please God, help me get through this. Behind door number three, a small walk-in closet. I shove my unopened suitcase inside. I want to go home. Instead, I tiptoe down the stairs to where the smell of food is coming from. Dinner is ready and we sit down at a table set for four. I don’t ask, because I may need a conversation piece later on.
Alicia starts talking immediately: “I was thinking that you and your dad could go pick out some fun accessories for your room this weekend.” She passes the bowl of noodles to my father.
“Her bedroom’s fine.” He grabs a bowl with bread rolls and hands it to me.
We never eat bread with beef stroganoff. Everything is different. The noodles are different, the smell of the house is different, the paint is different, and the furniture is different. This is nothing like my mom’s house, and Alicia’s nothing like my mom. Sometimes I feel like if I cross over, I’m cheating. I never want my mom to feel like she’s been replaced.
I take out a roll; it’s warm. “The room is fine,” I say.
Alicia rips her bread and slaps butter on it. “Okay.”
Now I’ve pissed her off. I really don’t want t
o fight about my room. I decide to keep my mouth shut, since anything I say will end in disaster.
Mr. Morales walks into the kitchen from the garage. “I think you should brighten up the room. It’s plain and boring,” he says.
Great, now the old guy gets to add his opinion to the conversation. This should be fun. I just want to get through dinner and then hibernate.
“Papi, where have you been?” Alicia asks.
“Just because you let me live here with you doesn’t mean I need to tell you where I am every second of the day. I’m a grown man.” Mr. Morales winks at me. “She thinks she’s my boss now. I wanted to live in assisted living—”
My father cuts him off. “We love having you here.”
“You’re newlyweds, you need time alone. You don’t need me hanging around.” Mr. Morales sits down at the table and grabs the bowl of noodles.
“Or your new husband’s daughter,” I say under my breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Massie!” My dad drops his fork. It clanks on the plate.
Alicia jumps.
Here we go. I should’ve kept my dang mouth shut. My favorite dinner is ruined by the silence that surrounds us. I inhale my food and ask to be excused without seconds. Once I leave the table, I slither into the back yard. I can’t go into that white and crisp room. Even though it’s cute, the rest of the house radiates color and warmth. Hickory floors with rich colored area rungs fill the house. My dad’s artwork covers the walls. Those paintings don’t belong here: they belong in my house with me and my mom.
The dogs seem happy. They continue to race around the backyard and through the mature pines, aspen, and maples, then slam in and out the dog door. They rip back into the house through the kitchen, dropping dead grass and leaves on the living room floor, I’m sure, before charging back outside. I don’t follow the dogs back in right away. I sit on the cold cement patio and look up. The colors of the trees match the tones in the new house. But the façade of secondary colors doesn’t tell the real story. What’s showing on the outside doesn’t match the inside.
I sneak back into the house. It’s filled with silence, interrupted by the occasional slamming of a kitchen cupboard. Probably Alicia. My father’s MO is hiding out, so she’s probably cleaning the kitchen all by herself. I would help, but I’m not getting in the middle of their lovers’ quarrel. I have to get out of here.
I walk past my father’s den. I don’t look in or stop at his door. “I forgot something at the house,” I say.
“Yep,” he says without looking at me. He does this well, talking but not.
The room looks like the dogs tore through it. His electronic playbook, bright and open on his large monitor, illustrates the latest scores for his fantasy team, which he calls The War Dogs. The television is tuned in to a football game. The sound needs lowering a few notches. I used to love watching Bronco games with my dad. I look at the screen and see that we’re losing by fourteen. Time to slip away; the score will only make my father’s mood worse.
I almost escape. I open the inside door to the garage and find Mr. Morales by my father’s toolbox. He’s trying to organize it. “I really messed that one up,” he says.
I stop moving but don’t say anything. I want to tell him that I had the situation under control until he came in and made it all a million times worse, but I don’t. I stare at him, wanting to run or at least get in my care and peel out of here, but I don’t, I stand like I’m waiting to be excused.
“They want you here.” He continues to straighten the tools.
“Doubt that,” I say without looking at him.
“Change can be hard if you let it. Or…”
He scans the garage filled with my dad’s stuff, most of it is junk. I should advise the old man that he’s wasting his time. The garage will never stay organized. The garage staying clean would be a miracle. Organized would be like raising the dead. My father never puts anything back where it belongs.
Instead of advising, I finish Mr. Morales’s sentence: “You can ignore change and hope it goes away.”