by Claire Adams
“You ask a lot of questions,” I tell her.
“You’re the one who was asking my opinion on everything this whole walk home,” she counters.
“I don’t know how to answer that, really,” I tell her. “I like you as more than a friend and I know that I wouldn’t want to stop calling you. The thought of dating you makes me kind of nervous, though.”
“Why’s that?” she asks, stopping on the side of the road.
“Because you don’t have a problem talking to me about the things that matter, but you do have a problem talking to me about things that do,” I tell her. “Why were you avoiding me all week?”
“Can we just not—” she starts, but I’m getting bored of treading water, so I interrupt.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I tell her. “Relationships work better when the people in it have an idea what the hell each other are thinking. Maybe it’s nothing at all, maybe you’ve just been busy or there’s some perfectly justifiable excuse, but at the same time, maybe it’s something big and we should talk about it. All I can tell from where I’m standing is that we were getting along until my dad got home that night and then we haven’t really talked until today, and I had to badger you to get that much. I know what I want out of—”
“You get obsessed about these little things instead of letting them go when I tell you not to worry about them,” she interrupts.
“Yeah, how dare I want to figure out why you’re acting like you’ve got a second or third copy of yourself walking around, each with different personalities,” I tell her.
“It’s not like that,” she says. “I just don’t want to get you into anything you’re going to regret.”
Now there’s a shot out of left field.
“What would you get me into that I’d regret?” I ask.
“Your dad,” she says. “He told me that it’s people like me that are making it so hard for you to do what you need to do to make a good life for yourself. I mean, I hardly even know you and already I’m causing things to go bad for you.”
“My dad’s a prick,” I tell her. “If there’s anyone in the world making it difficult for me to have a good life, it’s that asshole.”
“You live at home, though,” she says. “It sounds like he’s helping out a lot.”
“Okay, he helps me in that he lets me live in his home while I’m going to college,” I start. I have more to say, but Mia’s quicker.
“Isn’t he paying for your tuition?” she asks.
“Well, yeah, but—” I stammer.
“So why would you talk about him like you’re talking about him?” she asks.
“Because he’s a dick!” I protest. “He helps me out financially and he gives me a place to live and I am very grateful for that, but the only reason either of those things are true is because I made a deal with him a few years ago that I’d go to college right out of high school, I’d stay at home with him and mom, and I’d put schoolwork before anything with wheels. In exchange, he allows me to live in his home and he pays for me to go to college for something I’m not passionate about and if I were to make too big a fuss about it, he’d cut me off like that.” I snap my fingers.”
“If things are so miserable, why not move out?” she asks.
“One of the side-effects of living at home is extra time,” I tell her. “If I was out on my own right now, I wouldn’t be able to put so much time into the board and I wouldn’t be anywhere near prepared for the competition. It’s a means to an end.”
“You’re not particularly prepared for the competition as it is,” she says, punching me playfully in the shoulder and we start walking again.
“There’s one thing I haven’t been able to get quite right,” I explain. “In the grand scheme of things, that’s pretty impressive.”
“It is,” she says. “It’d be a lot more impressive if that ‘one thing’ wasn’t so completely crucial to your entire performance, though.” We take a few more steps and she stops again, saying, “Wait.”
“What?” I ask, stopping next to her.
“Let’s just talk for a minute before I get home,” she says.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to actually listen to me when I tell you that you’re not in danger of ruining my life, are you?” I ask.
“You’re right,” she says. “The only person that can really do that is you. I just don’t want to be a bad influence.”
“Okay, that is hilarious,” I tell her. “I think maybe you knew things were starting to heat up between us and you took the first out that was presented to you.”
“You’re right,” she says.
“Yeah, I know you’re going to say that’s not what you were…” I stop. “What was that?” I ask.
“You’re right,” she says. “I got scared. Okay, your dad helped with the scaring a bit, but I was already there.”
“What is it about me that scares you?” I ask.
She crosses her arms and looks down. “I like you,” she says. “I think I might like you a lot.”
“I like you, too,” I tell her. “What’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem,” she says. “It’s just, that’s kind of the problem. I’ve got a complicated situation at home that I’m not sure I’m going to actually be able to get myself out of anytime soon, and I go to college full time. It’s not the easiest time in my life to figure out how to squeeze in a relationship, and I know I wouldn’t want anything with you to just be halfway.”
Wow, she just opened right up there.
“You’re busy, I’m busy, we’re all busy,” I tell her, “but if you don’t figure out how to make some time to enjoy your life, you’re never going to—”
“You always say that,” she interrupts, “but that’s not it at all. I go out and do things. Just relationships are more than just the time two people spend together, they’re everything else and all the time and there’s not really an off-switch or a time-out signal.”
“I think you’re looking a bit too far down the road,” I tell her. “We haven’t even kissed yet and we don’t know where a relationship would go. Wouldn’t it make more sense to find out before simply calling it—”
“Can we just not…” she interrupts and I really can’t tell you who makes the first move or if we both make it at the same time, but before another word leaves her mouth, we’re kissing right there on the side of the road.
Her arms are resting on my shoulders and my hands are on her back, pulling her close.
We pull apart long enough to look at each other with wide-eyed surprise, but an instant later, we’re making out again and our hands are starting to wander.
I’m not much of an exhibitionist, but it’s impossible not to get turned on kissing Mia’s soft lips, her tongue and my tongue coyly mingling with one another.
Then it’s over and I’m still facing where Mia was only moments ago and she’s walking off, waving and saying, “Gotta go.”
What the hell was that?
Chapter Nine
The Art and Impossibility of Changing Minds
Mia
I come to the front door of my house, having just left Ian on the side of the road a couple blocks away, and I feel like people say teenagers are supposed to feel. Maybe that’s just something to do with us both living with our parents, though.
Earlier, Ian was complaining about how I just act and don’t tell him what’s going through my mind and then that happened, whatever that was.
My heart’s pounding in my chest as I open the door and walk inside.
I’ve no more than kicked my shoes off when my dad pokes his head around the corner, asking if I’ve got a few minutes to talk.
I follow him into the living room and he motions for me to sit down.
“What is it?” I ask. “You’re kind of freaking me out.”
“Please,” he says, “let’s sit and talk a minute.”
I sit and wait for him to tell me what’s so urgent, but as usual, he’s c
ontent to beat around the bush a while before getting to the point.
“How was your night tonight?” he asks.
“It was fine,” I tell him, still feeling the phantom imprint of Ian’s lips on mine.
“You know, I’ve been working extra hours to make sure you’ve got enough money for school and a nice house to live in and clothes and everything you need, right?” he asks.
“What’s up, dad?” I ask, trying to get him to speed things along.
“Well, I think I may have done you a disservice, especially over these last few years,” he says. “I’ve been going to a therapist recently, I don’t know if I told you that.”
“You didn’t,” I respond, “but I think that’s great, dad.”
“Well, we’ve been talking and she suggested that maybe I haven’t done enough to prepare you for life and the real world,” he says. “I think I’ve been trying to hang on to the memory of you as a child and, in my mind, I haven’t let you grow up.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “I seem to remember telling you that a couple times a day for the better part of a decade.”
“The point is,” he says, “there’s not a lot left I can do for you. Another year and you’ll be off to medical school and, as much as I would love for you to stay here for that, too, I am aware you’ve been looking at out-of-state schools—”
“I’m not trying to get away from you, dad,” I sigh. “I just want to make sure I get the best possible education. Psychology’s serious stuff, you know. If I don’t know what I’m doing, I could cause some serious damage in a person’s life. I want to make sure I’m absolutely—”
“I know,” he says, holding up a hand. “I know. I’d love to keep you here with me forever, but I don’t think that would be fair to you or a good thing for either of us.”
“You’re kicking me out?” I ask.
“No,” he says hastily. “Like I told you, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. I just know that the day’s going to come that you’re going to want to get out of here and start your own life.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask. “I really have a lot of stuff to do tonight.”
Okay, that last part’s a lie, but I’m sick of the pussy-footing.
“You were out with that boy again tonight, weren’t you?” he asks.
I told him I was out with Abs, but there doesn’t seem to be much point in denying it.
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“You lied to me,” he says. “We’ll talk about that later. What I want to talk about now is even more serious.”
“More serious than a daughter lying to her father about a guy she likes?” I mock. “Sounds terrifying.”
“I know you think I’ve been overbearing parent since your mother left, and I don’t know if you realize it, but I’m kind of learning as I go, here. I get one shot to raise you the right way and, although I’ve made a lot of mistakes along the way, I love you more than anything else in this world,” he says.
“I love you too, dad,” I tell him and wait a few seconds. “Is that it?”
“I want you to stop seeing him,” dad says.
“No,” I answer without even thinking about it.
“I know you think you like him now, but do you really think he would make a good provider for you and your future family?” he asks.
“Dad,” I moan, “we’re not even dating. Even if we were, we’re not anywhere near ‘what are you doing for the rest of your life?’ Besides, you may be my dad, but I’m an adult. I may live in your house, but you can’t tell me who to spend time with.”
“I can,” he says. “I am. You’re going to have to be mad at me for a little while,” he says. “I get that, but I’d rather have you be mad at me for a while than hitch your trailer to a sinking ship and watch the whole thing blow up.”
“You know, you mixed like three different platitudes in that one sentence,” I tell him.
“I know you think skateboarding is exciting now, and of course you’re going to have a special attraction to any guy who looks like he represents that lifestyle, but it’s not a lifestyle that has a real future,” he says. “Do you know how many people try to make it in professional sports, even skateboarding? Out of everyone in the world, there are only a handful of people who make a decent living skating, and I’m sure we can both agree that it’s a little naïve to think that he’s going to be one of them.”
“I really don’t care if he becomes a pro skater or not,” I tell my dad. “He’s smart, he’s determined. Yeah, he’s a little unpolished, but that’s not a crime. Besides, who wants to be around an uptight etiquette freak all the time anyway?”
“Does he have any prospects?” dad asks.
I know what he’s asking, and it doesn’t have anything to do with skating.
“He’s pre-law,” I tell my dad. “I think lawyers still make a pretty decent living, don’t they?”
“I’ve met this young man,” dad says. “Even if he’s as smart as you say he is, nobody’s ever going to take him seriously with all those tattoos, much less hire him. I think it’s in your best interest and, even his, too, down the road, if—”
“Hold on,” I interrupt. “Why would it be in his best interest for me to stop seeing him?”
Dad’s face has been pretty red this whole conversation, but my question turns red into maroon, and I’m actually a little worried. He scratches the back of his head, saying, “It’s not like that. I mean, that’s not what I mean. I think that you’re going to be a wonderful companion for whomever you end up with, but maybe you letting him know that you’ve got more important things to focus your life on than skating will help him see that there comes a time to grow up and start getting serious.”
“You don’t even know him,” I protest. “Besides, we’re still at you telling me who I can and cannot see, and I’m twenty years old. What are you going to do, ground me?”
“It might not be such a bad idea with that tone of yours,” he says.
I’m on my feet.
“I know mom taking off with another guy screwed you up, dad,” I seethe. “It screwed me up, too, but at some point, you’ve got to let it go,” I tell him. “You’ve got to move on.”
“This isn’t about your mother,” he says, “and I’ve told you before that I would appreciate you not bringing her up so casually after what she did to this family.”
“What she did was terrible, dad,” I tell him. “It hurt you and it hurt me and I don’t know if that’s ever going to be completely okay, but I think you should start taking your own advice and stop seeing me as this frozen image of who I was when mom left.”
“You’re not to see him again,” dad says. “That is final.”
“You know what?” I ask. “I’m out of here.”
“Where are you going?” he asks, getting out of his chair.
“I’ll be with Abs,” I tell him. “I’ll be trying to figure out a way to get out of your hair as soon as possible.”
“Oh, so I tell you I have some concerns about this derelict that you’ve been seeing behind my back,” he starts.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I snap. “He’s got some tattoos and he says ‘fuck’ sometimes, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to pull me under and ruin my life.”
We’re both a little surprised at my use of the word, but it’s out and I can’t put it back in.
“Well, it’s good to know I’m doing the right thing,” he says. “If I ever catch that boy on my property again, I’ll have him arrested for trespassing.”
“I wouldn’t be too worried about it,” I rejoin. “I’m probably not going to be around much after today, anyway.”
And, with that, I turn and walk out.
Every step I take, I’m expecting my dad to stop me, but he never does. He doesn’t even say anything.
I know I hurt him, but I’m done feeling sorry for him. He’s a grown man. He’s a father, my father.
It’s only after I’m a few bloc
ks from my house that I pull out my phone and give Abs a call.
“Sup, Mia?” Abs answers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “What’s up? You sound upset.”
“Me and my dad kind of had a fight,” I tell her. “Would you mind if I stay over at your place tonight?”
Abs doesn’t answer.
“Abs?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Come on over. The place is a mess as usual, but we can fix the couch up for you. What happened?”
“Would you mind if we talk about it in person?” I ask. “If I don’t have a few minutes just to breathe, I’m probably going to start yelling or crying or throwing things, and I’d rather not do that.”
“All right,” she says. “See you when you get here.”
Good old Abby. She can be a bit of a handful, and to be honest, I don’t really like being around her longer than a few hours at a time, but she’s always come through for me when I’ve really needed it.
Abs doesn’t live with her parents, but moving in with her isn’t exactly the best option, either. Along with her brother, who rents the other room from her and is in and out with the kind of people my dad really should be worried about, Abby is also an avid collector of cats.
I’m not allergic or anything, but I don’t want to live with something called a glaring: too creepy.
The walk to Abs’s place takes the better part of an hour, but at least I’m feeling a little less stressed when I get to her door.
I knock and what sounds like twenty or thirty tiny air raid sirens start going off inside Abs’s apartment.
The door opens and I’m almost ready to compliment Abby on her new carpet before I realize the cats have all gathered to see who’s at the door.
“What up?” Abs asks, trying to herd some of the more daring felines away from the door. “Wanna come in before you start letting all the cats out?” she asks.
I shuffle inside, being very careful not to step on any of the partially-contained balls of hatred and viciousness. All right, so I may have had a couple of bad experiences with cats as a kid.