by Claire Adams
“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 pussyfooting.
“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 20 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 blocks 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 prob
ably 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 20 or 30 tiny air raid sirens starts 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.
Abs manages to get the door closed and the cats disperse, all but a few of them leaving the room.
“So, what’s going on?” she asks. “You’re quiet. I don’t like that.”
I fill her in on the conversation I had with my dad and even let slip a few details about Ian and our brief rendezvous earlier in the evening.
“I know it’s a little weird talking about this. I know Ian caught your eye, too,” I say. “Are we cool?”
“Yeah,” Abs says, “we’re fine. Nothing happened at that party, by the way. I don’t know if you knew that, but yeah. We just talked a little bit.”
“You’re really not mad?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Tell you what, though. When you’re through with him, I’ve got dibs.”
I snicker a little. “I don’t even know if I’ve officially started with him,” I tell her. “A few hours ago, I had every intention of telling Ian that we couldn’t see each other if it wasn’t class-related. Actually, I did end up telling him that, but all that just fell away so fast. I didn’t really see it coming.”
“What do you think changed?” Abs asks, holding up portions of her hair, one after another, looking for split ends.
“I think it was his dad,” I tell her. “My dad, too.”
“Okay, that’s kind of gross,” Abs says, crinkling her nose. “I can understand having a thing for his dad, but—”
“Not sure where you got that,” I interrupt, “but not what I’m saying.”
She motions for me to proceed and then leans forward to grab a thin pair of scissors from her coffee table, cutting about half an inch off a lock of her hair.
“Ian’s dad told me to stay away from his son because he thought I’d just end up holding Ian back. He was pretty angry at the time, but he seemed to make a convincing argument,” I say. “Then tonight, before I went out to meet Ian, I just saw this look on my dad’s face. I wouldn’t say I knew the conversation was coming tonight, but I had a pretty good idea that it was coming sometime soon.”
“So it’s a forbidden fruit thing?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “It was just this realization that it’s time to grow up and stop letting my dad or his dad or anyone else’s dad dictate what I do and don’t do or who I see or don’t see.”
“Or who you do or don’t do?” Abs says with a smirk.
“Haven’t really gotten that far yet,” I tell her. “It was just that 30 seconds… Abs, I can’t even—you know, right in the middle of everything, I just pulled away, told him I had to go and walked off?”
“You’re such a—” she starts.
“I just didn’t know what else to do,” I say, barely noticing that I’m interrupting. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.”
“I’ve seen you kiss guys,” Abs says. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve had a boyfriend or whatever, but you can’t tell me it was that much different.”
“It was, though,” I tell her. “I mean, the kiss felt the same, maybe a bit—all right, pretty substantially better, but it was everything that went with it. Ever since I saw him that first time, he’s just continued to confound my expectations.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?” Abs asks, holding up a hand mirror to make sure her hair’s still even.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I know I don’t want that kiss a couple blocks from my house to be the end of the story.”
“You’re staying over, though, right?” Abs asks, glancing up at me as she starts trimming her fingernails.
“Yeah,” I answer, “if that’s all right with you. I just need to be away from my dad for a little while.”
“It’s fine,” she says, picking up a stray nail clipping and dropping it into the wastebasket in front of her.
I still haven’t sat down.
We have dinner—leftover pizza—and settle in for a movie.
After a while, I hear snoring from the other end of the couch, and it’s hardly a debate. I get up off the couch and make my way to the door, locking the knob on the way out.
My body’s weary, but my mind is racing.
I don’t know if he kissed me or if I kissed him, but I do know neither of us seemed to be holding anything back. Well, until I got scared and bolted anyway. That’s the problem.
I’ve never really been the type that could get away with playing games like that for too long. I know that’s what he thinks I was doing.
It occurs to me about a block from Ian’s house that I’m probably not going to have a lot of luck going through the front door. I would just call or text, but I want it to be more of a surprise than that. That way, if he’s changed his mind, at least I’ll have a few more moments with the fantasy.
Ian’s house looms against the starless night sky, and I don’t know what my plan is, but I should probably figure it out pretty quick.
If I knew which room was Ian’s…
I set off around the side of the house, for once grateful for all the light pollution in this town. It makes the areas without street lights just that much darker.
Most of the windows are dark, and even those that aren’t all seem to be covered by blinds or curtains. This might be a short trip.
I reconsider knocking on the door, but even if Ian’s dad wasn’t such a despot, it’s still too late to risk waking the whole family.
I’m almost all the way around the house when I notice something different about what’s blocking the view into one of the windows. It’s a capital A with a circle around it.
I seriously doubt Ian’s lawyer dad considers himself an anarchist.
The room is on the second floor, though.
I look around for a ladder or some other way to avoid trying to go up the drainpipe, but decide maybe I shouldn’t just break into his room. The romantic in me still thinks the idea has its merits, but the rest of me is insecure enough not to take being welcomed for granted.
I’ve got an idea.
I cautiously make my way back toward the front of the house and continue to the side of the street, bending down and collecting a small handful of gravel.
Making my way back to the side of the house with what has to be Ian’s room, I feel my face growing hot and I’m becoming very aware of the more sensitive areas of my body.
I throw the first pebble and immediately rush to the side of the house, crouching down and out of sight.
“What are you doing?” I ask myself under my breath.
Rather than talk it out with myself, huddled
in a little ball at the side of somebody’s house, I let my will dominate my won’t, and I take a few steps away from the side of the house.
There’s no motion in the window, the flag’s still in place, and there’s no sign of light in the room.
I throw another pebble ,and though I once again feel the urge to hide, this time, I stick it out.
There’s no response.
You know, it’s entirely possible he’s not even home, or if he is, who’s to say that he’s even in his room? I should just call him.
No, I’m not going to do this over the phone. I don’t want to talk to him until I can talk to him face-to-face.
I throw another pebble, and am really starting to feel silly. That’s when something moves one corner of the anarchy flag to one side. It’s too dark in the room for me to see in, so I just look in the direction of where I think his face might be, and I smile and wave.
The flag resettles, and that’s a clear enough answer for me.
I let the rest of the tiny rocks fall from my hand, and I turn to head back home or back to Abby’s or I don’t even know where when I hear the sound of a window opening.
“Psst!” a hushed voice comes from up above and I turn to see Ian standing with most of his upper body out the window.
PART THREE
Chapter Ten
The Hesitant Miss Dillinger
Ian
“I’m pretty impressed,” I whisper to Mia as I help her the rest of the way into my room. “Most people have a harder time climbing that thing.”
She shoots a glance at me, asking, “Just how many people climb your pipe on a regular basis?”
“You know, the way you phrased that, I’m not quite sure how to answer,” I laugh.
She lets out a derisive snort and leans her head forward a little, looking up at me. “Really?” she asks.
“I reinforced that drain back when I was like, 13,” I tell her. “Rob’s dad always had tools lying around and my parents were out of town. When I was younger, a lot of people climbed up that thing. Not so much the last few years, though.”
Her stance relaxes a little.