“Oh, yeah!” I hollered, spinning to face them. “But he can call me hormone queen! That’s gender harassment! I’m a persecuted minority in this family! I’m calling the ACLU or … or the Lifetime Channel, or something!”
“Lila, I mean it. I’ve had enough.”
“Bite me,” I whispered under my breath as I stomped away, immediately feeling a stab of guilt for having said it. Sure, I was cranked off at my dad for this latest bout of persecution, but as fathers went, USUALLY he was an okay guy. Still. I had every right to be angry. My life kept getting worse, no matter how hard I struggled to make it better.
I tried to earn car money babysitting, but everyone wanted the peppy little cheerleaders (a monopoly, mark my words). I subsequently found another creative way to earn fundage, but NO. One of my chickens**t clients had to go and rat me out, the hypocritical dirtbag. Then, instead of Dad recognizing my entrepreneurial genius, he—and all the other adults—saw me as some sort of at-risk youth. A juvenile delinquent.
My license? Gone.
The car-matching fund? Pffft.
Now, just when I had the chance to, perhaps, find a way out of my bottom-feeder social cesspool? DENIED. Again.
SO wrong.
I pounded my way up the steps but exercised enough self-restraint to avoid slamming my bedroom door off its hinges. Dad hated that more than any other annoying thing, and there was no sense pushing my luck at this stage of the game. I threw myself facedown on my bed until my pounding heart had regulated itself and my breathing returned to normal. I never could think straight when I was flipping out. When my mind had cleared, I pondered the dilemma as rationally as possible.
Here’s the point my father did not grasp: I COULD NOT MISS THIS EVENT!!! Fate had brought the idea of the dumb supper into our lives. I was sure of it. What if, by missing it, I annoyed the fate gods enough to assure I would never have a single date? Years would drag by, and I’d wind up as a career virgin by age twenty-seven. Life would be OVER for me. Future teenagers would study me in history class, in an effort to avoid repeating my mistakes. Couldn’t he see the horrible gravity of the situation?!?!?!?
Okay, so he didn’t actually know what fate had planned for us that night—he thought we were studying—and I might be overreacting slightly with the career virgin scenario (the jury was still out on that one). But I couldn’t exactly spell out the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but for the guy. Hello, GROUNDED! Remember that? Thanks to his cruel and unusual punishment, I HAD to use the studying spiel. He’d left me no other choice.
I frowned so hard it gave me a headache behind my eyes. Unfair, unfair, unfair. All of it—from being the only girl in a family of five creepy males, to having my cash cow chopped into hamburgers (ew!), to being grounded, to missing the equinox. ACKKKK!!!! My own FATHER would see more homecoming action than I would. In fact, I’d be the ONLY Moreno stuck at home that night!
How much worse could things get?
I was 0-for-3 on homecoming dates in my thus-far illustrious high school career. Now I’d be on house arrest while Luke escorted Supertramp to the festivities and my FATHER trolled from party to party with the rest of the cops. The heavy police presence was my dad’s proactive solution to avoiding a rash of alcohol-related teen deaths that would land White Peaks (and him) on the front page of The Denver Post. Of course, I’d never wind up in the Post, because I’d be stuck at home surfing bad digital cable like all the rest of the losers, and ALL of it simply because I’d found a profitable way to fill a sorely needed market demand. (Who? Me? Bitter? What makes you think that?)
Wait one freakin’ second.
The realization hit me like an electrical jolt.
I was missing my own point. Dad would be at work.
I lifted my face from my pillow, hope bubbling up out of my pool of pissed-offedness and making me smile like the Grinch. What the old guy didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt him, right? Meaning my dad, not the Grinch. If he wasn’t even home, how would he know whether I’d gone to Caressa’s or not?
Relief flooded through me now that a viable idea had percolated in my brain. I sat up, then scuffed my way across the room to my computer, booted it up, and checked my buddy list for the presence of Meryl and Caressa (both there). I quickly sent them a chat invite, then drummed my fingers on the desktop until two identical musical “blings” alerted me that they’d entered the private chat room.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Hey, Lila. Whazzup?
MerylM:
Hi guys.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Hi MM!
LawBreakR:
First off, MY LIFE SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Sucks, I tell you!
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Why?! What happened??
MerylM:
Why?
LawBreakR:
My freakin’ dad told me I couldn’t come to your house on homecoming night, Caressa, that’s why.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
R U kidding?
MerylM:
You HAVE to come!!
LawBreakR:
Oh, don’t worry, Mer. I’m coming. I don’t care WHAT he says. For God’s sake, I’m SIXTEEN!!!!!!!! It’s not like I’m a CHILD.
MerylM:
Wait a minute. Lila, don’t make things WORSE for yourself! Your dad will KILL you if you disobey him.
LawBreakR:
Life couldn’t possibly BE worse, Mer!!!!! I am NOT, I repeat NOT, missing the dumb supper!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just listen to my idea.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Don’t do anything crazy.
LawBreakR:
Sheesh, you wimp girls. I’m not going to run away or kill him in his bed or anything. If I was going to whack anyone while he slept, it would be Luke. Believe me. I do have a foolproof plan, though.
MerylM:
Uh-oh.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
What kind of plan?
LawBreakR: He (Dad) works that night, because of homecoming, remember? He won’t be home until three or four A.M. I’ll sneak out and be back before he realizes I’m gone. It’s perf!!!!!!!!
MerylM:
UGH, I don’t know. That makes my stomach nervous. He’ll end up hating all of us.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Lila, yeah. Meryl’s right. Just forget it. You’ll end up grounded until you’re thirty, and this time you won’t be able to see us, either. We can reskedge.
LawBreakR:
NO WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We HAVE to do it on the equinox! I just feel it!
Lipstickgrrrrl:
It’s our INTENT, right, Meryl? We can do it anytime.
MerylM:
Right.
LawBreakR:
I will NOT put my life on hold just because I got unfairly busted for creating an empire out of forged siggys! Donald Trump would probably give me my own company if I was HIS kid.
MerylM:
But, you’re NOT Trump’s kid. You’re the POLICE CHIEF’S kid. GRASP THE DIFFERENCE, LILA! What if you get caught??
LawBreakR:
[scoff] I WON’T get caught, and anyway, my life already blows. Even if I did, what could he possibly do to make it worse?????????
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Famous last words.
LawBreakR:
Ha-freakin’-ha. I will not live under these conditions! I’m a human being! An American. I have RIGHTS!!!
MerylM:
Actually, as a teenager, not many. Not even as an American teenager, which we can discuss further sometime if you’re interested in the parameters of the law. And the bust was kind of a big deal. No offense!!! I’m not discounting your unique talent for forgery.
Lipstickgrrrrl:
LOL! Rights, [snort] You’re so dramatic, Lila. Maybe YOU should be in the stupid play instead of me.
LawBreakR:
I can’t act. I can’t sing. Be quiet. And I don’t want to hear about my teenage rights, Meryl, or the lack thereof. I’m depressed enough as it is. WAHHHH!! You guys are NOT giving me the
props I need. Crap, gotta blaze, [sigh] He’s bellowing that dinner’s ready, LIKE I want to eat. Anyway. I need to fly under the radar big time until next Tuesday, so I can pull off my plan to sneak out—AND I WILL!! So, color me scarce. Hit me on email if you need me or talk to me at school. Later, chicas!
Lipstickgrrrrl:
Ciao, bellas. (((((((((Lila)))))))))))
MerylM:
TTYL! ((((((((Lila))))))))
LawBreakR:
Thx, GFs. Hugs back! (((((((((((U2))))))))))))))) (not the band. Duh.)
I signed out of the chat room and bounded down the stairs, wondering why Meryl and Caressa were so afraid of me getting busted. PLEASE. I could handle this. Had they no faith at all? My stomach growled, alerting me to the fact that I actually was hungry after all. I wasn’t surprised, though. Having a scheme in the works always gave me an appetite.
My older brothers’ voices carried into the living room as I walked through it, reminding me that this was the night we were all together for dinner. I already knew, of course, but I’d forgotten. We only got together about once a month with the way everyone’s schedules conflicted. My two oldest brothers, Nathan Jr. and Gilbert, were cops down on the flats, for the Aurora and Denver Police Departments, respectively. David was in the DPD academy. Luke was a Police Explorer here in White Peaks, aka a member of the junior narc squad. (Puke.)
As you can see, I was outnumbered by all these freakin’ GI Joes, not to mention being the only girl in the family and the only kid who would rather DIE than become a cop. Still, for better or for worse, they were my family. Now that Nate and Gil and David were out of the house, I didn’t mind seeing them in small doses, although their law enforcement conversations were mindnumbing at best. Luke, of course, remained a hemorrhoid on the hinter regions of my life, and I was counting the days until the screen door hit him in the crack on the way out of the house for good. Thank God he was a senior.
For once, I didn’t scowl at the testosterone-overloaded atmosphere that typified life with my dad and brothers, nor did I intentionally rebel against everything they believed in. This was my chance. I’d show them all just what a perfect angel I could be, and soon Dad would stop watching me like a felon on parole. If I could really lay the innocent stuff on thick, next Tuesday’s plan would be cake—angel food, of course.
I strutted into the kitchen and shocked each of my brothers with a kiss on the cheek (except Luke—I gave him a wet willy when my dad’s back was turned, which earned me a backhanded smack in the gut, which earned him my middle finger, and so on), then took my seat and spread my napkin neatly on my lap. I even paid attention to my posture.
Dad set a bubbling casserole dish on the patrol car—shaped trivets some badge-bunny single mom had made him a couple years ago, in an effort to snare him. The way they chased him was truly gagworthy, let me tell you. I wanted to date, sure, but I made a silent vow that I’d never be THAT desperate for a guy, even if I DID get to be as old as The Moms and remained single.
TRIVETS?! Please.
I leaned up and peered into the dish, launching into my Operation: Lie Low plan. “Yum,” I said, with a combination of sincerity and enthusiasm. “Looks great, Dad. What is it?”
My dad blinked twice in my direction, taking his time to answer. The complete one-eighty turnaround in my attitude had clearly thrown him. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “It’s chicken spaghetti casserole.”
I didn’t even lecture him about what excessive carbs would do to the body of a man his age. HELLO, LOVE HANDLES! (A scary misnomer, if you ask me.) Instead, I smiled sweetly. “Can I have seconds?”
He raised one brow in disbelief or doubt, I wasn’t sure which. My brothers had fallen silent during the exchange—which was, admittedly, quite un-ME-like—and they all stared at me with mistrust. I held my breath and prayed none of them would call me on it.
“You haven’t even had firsts,” Dad said.
“It just looks that good,” I said, in this completely altruistic Mother Teresa tone of voice. I impressed MYSELF, I have to tell you.
Luke was the first to front me off. He rolled his eyes and launched into these exaggerated gagging sounds. I kicked him under the table, and he kicked me back. Hard.
Okay, so I’d laid it on a little thick, I admitted to myself, rubbing the rapidly growing knot on my shin. Still, by the time we’d all been served, the boys had launched into yet another lobotomizing cop conversation about probable cause or the latest chase policy, blah blah blah. I peered around unobtrusively, noting that Dad’s focus had already shifted ever so slightly from me to them. One full week of this I’m-a-perfect-naive-Jessica-Simpson-angel schtick, and I’d be off the paternal radar screen completely. It so rocked.
I took a bite of the casserole—which actually was dang yummy—and chewed to hide my smug smile. I hated to boast, but I had this whole gig SO totally bagged. I may not want to follow in Dad’s footsteps like all my cows-in-the-chute brothers had (vomitous thought), but you didn’t grow up as a cop’s daughter without picking up a few stealth-maneuver tricks along the way. If I do say so myself (and I DO), I excelled at stealth, and this week would prove it.
Next Tuesday night’s escape-the-house plot? No sweat. And, the dumb supper? I was SO there.
three
My homecoming-night escape was going perfectly according to plan until Luke and Mattress Girl unexpectedly returned to our house just as I was climbing out my window. Murphy’s Law. He must’ve forgotten the dictionary his girlfriend needed in order to understand the most banal of conversations. (Banal: drearily commonplace and often predictable; trite. Surely, she could grasp the meaning of THAT word.)
The sweep of his headlights across my body scared the living crap out of me, and I froze in mid-dangle, my fingers cramped around the windowsill. I’d chosen to climb out the window rather than leave the oldfashioned way because it meant I could (1) leave my stereo on and (2) lock my door from the inside, so anyone who checked would think I was still home, sleeping away to my music like usual.
It was pitch dark out, but there I hung, trapped in the glare of the headlights, like some hardened crim scaling the wall of a prison while the searchlights moved over his orange-clad form. For several fingerdestroying moments, I didn’t move. I waited until Luke had disappeared inside the house, then jumped way too many feet from my window ledge to the ground.
OOF!
My landing knocked the wind out of me, so I hid facedown in the wild rosebush to catch my breath—which was NOT fun, let me tell you. Ever heard of freakin’ thorns?
Luke’s bubbleheaded wench of a girlfriend stood outside next to the idling car the whole time, smoking a cigarette. I kept an eye on her, just in case she was stupid enough to drop the smoldering cigarette on the ground and start a forest fire, but—miracle of miracles—she didn’t.
I waited until she’d safely stowed her ciggy butt in a Coke can inside the car, then I took in a deep now-ornever breath. Teeth clenched, I low-crawled across our property until I reached the grove of aspen trees on the edge of the woods. Meryl would be waiting for me in her Überancient, turquoise Volvo station wagon on the other side of the ridge.
I don’t know what brought Luke and Miffany (I am not making that name up, sadly enough) home, but I needed to get to Meryl before they drove by, saw Meryl, put two and two together, and ruined the whole night. Meryl’s ride wasn’t exactly the blend-in sort. I usually loved the Volvo, but right now I was wishing her parents had bought her a maroon Subaru Outback station wagon, aka the National Car of White Peaks, which would have virtually disappeared into the landscape; there were so many of them.
I cast one more glance over my shoulder at the edge of the aspens, then stood up and crashed my way through the woods as if the Blair Witch was after me. Tree branches tore at my hair and clothing as I ran, and I fell not once, but three times. Hey, it was dark. What can I say? I had my camping headlamp clamped to my skull, but I couldn’t risk turning it on. Our neighborhood gets so dark,
any light source, no matter how small, shines through the trees like a million candle-power spot. So, I stumbled, ran, fell, and felt my way over the ridge to safety. I just prayed there were no bears or mountain lions lying in wait, with a huge hankering for a snack of freaked-out human.
Relief rushed through me when I caught a glimpse of Meryl’s big ugly car, circa 1970-something, idling in the distance. I picked up speed, but tripped a few feet outside the car, launching myself airborne and landing facedown on the front window. OUCH.
Meryl jumped half a mile, letting out a little shriek; then she reached over and unlocked the passenger door with a shaky hand.
I peeled my aching body off the hood and hurled myself into the car, checking behind us before hunkering down in the seat.
“You scared me!”
“You knew I was coming,” I whispered, for no logical reason. It wasn’t like Luke and Friends had bionic hearing.
“Yes, but I didn’t know you’d pull the bug-splattering-on-the-windshield routine.”
“I didn’t mean to. I tripped. Luke and his blowup play pal came home and almost caught me climbing out my window.” I whipped another panicked glance behind us. “In fact, you need to step on it. They could come around the curve at any moment and our dinner plans will be screwed.”
“Oh no!” Meryl, usually a careful driver, got caught up in the excitement or the urgency or something. She made like a Spy Kid on crack, spinning her wheels and chucking gravel in an arc behind us as she peeled out. “Why’d you cut it so close?”
“I didn’t mean to! Luke came back to the house at ten P.M. for some reason. Why would he do that? He must’ve forgotten something, like his brain.”
“What if he checked your bedroom?”
“Why would he?” I didn’t want to think about it. “Besides, I left the door locked.”
“Locked? From the inside?”
I nodded.
“That’s why you climbed out the window?”
I nodded again.
She paused. “Uh, Lila? How are you going to get back in?”
I turned to stare at her profile. Um. Oh. Well, there was an aspect of my perfect plan I hadn’t accounted for. My bedroom window was too high up to reach from the outside. I rolled my shoulders. “I’ll figure something out when the time comes.”
Who's Your Daddy? Page 3