***
Dad is sitting at the faux-granite breakfast bar, newspaper lying flat in front of him as he sips coffee from his favorite mug. The mug is a hideous greenish-brown mash-up that I’d made for him when I was in kindergarten. I’d been trying to make it look like camouflage, but it turned out more like pea soup and mud. I glance over his shoulder as I make my way past him to the pantry, dropping my bag on the counter with a clang as I go.
“The Giants looking good this season?” I ask, rummaging through the packages of instant food he picked up last night.
He grunts, his narrow eyes never leaving the paper. Must still be on his first cup, I decide.
Dad looks like your typical marine, puke-green T-shirt tucked carefully into camouflage utility pants. His hair is shaved to the skin in what they call a “high and tight,” which resembles a patch of freshly mown grass on an otherwise barren lawn. His eyes are an intense blue, like mine, and his face is clean-shaven and stern. Basically, he scares the living shit out of most people, which in his chosen profession is a good thing.
After some debate, I settle on a pre-packaged snack cake and a green sports drink—the breakfast of champions.
“We need to get some real food in this place,” I say, tossing the crumpled wrapper into his lap. I hop onto the counter, turn the snack cake upside down, and suck the filling through the holes in its underside.
Without looking up, he balls up the plastic and tosses it in the nearest pile of trash. “I’ll do some shopping after work.”
I swallow. “I could do it, if you need me to.”
It’s a shallow offer. I hate grocery shopping, but I’ll go if it’ll help him out. Another thing my therapist kept drilling into me. I have to earn Dad’s trust back with small, meaningful gestures. He hasn’t said anything about putting me back in therapy since the move, and I’m not sure I want to bring it up. On one hand, I can’t imagine having to relive everything—again—with someone new, but on the other hand, I can’t imagine not having someone to talk to when things get bad.
And they always seem to get bad.
“Nah, that’s okay, kid. I’ll do it. You’d better get going, though, or you’ll be late for your first day,” he says, taking another sip of coffee.
Relief spreads through my body, but I just nod.
He looks up at me for the first time, his fuzzy brow furrowing in the middle. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
My head jerks back. Is he really criticizing my wardrobe? That has to be a first. “Um, yeah. Why?”
I look down at myself, hoping I haven’t forgotten anything important, like pants. To my relief, I am, indeed, fully clothed. I frown, wondering what his comment was all about. I’m covered in all the necessary places, nothing stained or torn that isn’t supposed to be.
“I just thought you might want to try something less abrasive for your first day.” He shifts in his seat and turns the page, turning his attention back to his paper, “You should at least try to make friends.”
I’m absolutely dumbstruck by his assessment. This is abrasive? And he wants me to try to make friends? As if I hadn’t tried before? “I can go put on the Ask me about my STD T-shirt if you prefer. It’s quite a conversation starter,” I quip harshly.
He sighs, and I know I’m dangerously close to upsetting him again. Dad’s eyes dart to me, and then back to the paper quickly.
In fairness, there might have been some alternate-reality me who spent her days scavenging the mall for the perfect dress, getting manicures and mocking people like, well, me. But that all went out the window for me when Mom died. Now I was more of a black-or-darker girl. I’ve spent the last year and a half learning not to give a shit what people thought of me, and I’ve learned it really well.
“Lucy got here this morning. She’s out front if you wanna take her today,” he says.
I slide off the counter. “Really? And I can drive her?” I have to admit, I’m really surprised. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get driving privileges back until I was forty.
He nods and points to where the keys hang on a hook near the fridge.
I slurp down half my lime drink and replace the cap, stuffing the rest into my backpack for later. I’ve slipped some notebooks, pencils, and my tablet in my little red bag too. At my last school, there would also have been a can of pepper spray. Hopefully, I won’t need that here. I do, however, tuck my wallet into my back pocket and fasten the chain onto my front belt loop. What can I say? Old habits.
“I’m taking off. You need anything?” I ask, grabbing the keys on my way out the door.
“I’m good. I’m going to be at the squadron today. Still getting pass downs from all the shops. If you need anything, call me on my cell. I don’t have the office number memorized yet. I should be home around six. You alright to fend for yourself tonight?” he calls down the hall after me.
“Yeah. I’ll grab something on my way home. Have fun, try not to make anyone cry,” I shout through the door, shutting it behind me.
I hear him mutter right before it closes, “Right back at ya, kid.”
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Queen of Always Page 16