by Farrah Penn
I hear more shuffling as they enter the kitchen, so I step into the hallway so I can hear better.
There’s more rustling as Nonnie pours food in a bowl for Wallis. “—and it’s like we’ve been telling Peach. It takes time. You broke her trust.”
I’m surprised Nonnie understands.
“—and you don’t want to give up on her. Not when she needs her dad back. She doesn’t need the kind of father who resorts to drinking when he’s upset.” Wallis barks again, and I hear Nonnie set down the bowl with a loud clank! “Heidi was a wonderful woman to you both, but it’s the two of you now. You’ve got to heal together.”
I step back into my room and quietly close the door. I knew there was a chance my dad could relapse, but I didn’t realize he was still struggling. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe the ranch would completely cure him, but it seemed like spending time with the recoverees was helping. He’s been trying with me, but maybe I’m the one who needs to try harder with him.
Nonnie’s right. We’re both alone, and we shouldn’t have to continue to suffer alone, either.
I’m about to walk downstairs, but I hear the front door open. “—need to clear my head, take a walk. If Kira asks—”
“I’ll let her know,” Nonnie says, her voice sad.
The door shuts. He’s gone.
EIGHTEEN
AFTER SCHOOL ON WEDNESDAY, WHITNEY, Lin, and I agree to help Raegan and a few other students from our year build the homecoming float for the junior class. The parade is a week from today, but she’s afraid that with everyone’s schedules we won’t be able to get it done on time.
I’m surrounded by flatbed trailers that we will decorate and hitch to trucks, most of which came from volunteer dads. Principal Lawrence allowed the trailers to sit in the back of the faculty parking lot while we worked on this, which was good because there were nearly a dozen floats and not much room anywhere else on school grounds.
Leadership Council decided “Sensational Swashbucklers” would be the junior class theme, which is why there are eight of us surrounding our flatbed in attempt to transform it into a pirate ship. Raegan lays out the blueprint and I try to envision how we’re going to pull this off with our unimpressive materials that consist of chicken wire, burlap, poster board, paint, and a staple gun.
“Okay,” Raegan says. Her dark hair is twisted into tiny braids and pulled back into a classy bun. She’s holding two rolls of cellophane—one clear and one blue. “Before we can start on the ship, let’s lay this down as the base. It’ll be the water.”
“I don’t see how we’re supposed to build this ship,” Lin says, still staring at the blueprint. “It’s pretty complicated.”
Raegan narrows her eyes.
Lin shuts up.
The cellophane is the easy part. After scrunching and stapling layers to the base of the flatbed, it begins to look like the choppy seas. Raegan walks around the perimeter and uses the staple gun to secure a silver fringe bed skirt for flair.
Half an hour later, Whitney plops down on the asphalt and scrolls through her phone. Deciding that I need a break, I sit down next to her.
Ever since Breck’s party she’s been slightly warmer toward me, but our conversations are surface-level. Like what time dance practice ends and the number of essays we’ve had to complete for our English classes. They’re baby steps, but it feels like progress.
“She was more fun when she was less tyrannical,” Whitney says as we watch Raegan lecture Tyler Hornsby about using too many staples.
I don’t disagree. “Do you think the baby is putting her more on edge?”
Whitney shrugs, looping her thick brown hair into a secure ponytail. “Maybe.”
I glance back at Raegan. She’s hovering over Tyler’s shoulder, monitoring his staple usage. She’s always been the take-charge type of person. In second grade she was the one who started the unofficial red rover tournaments at recess. When she decided to take up dance in middle school, she stayed committed to it. She was the only one at her studio who never missed a single class.
I immediately feel guilty. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I haven’t even made the effort to talk to her about how she feels about her mom’s pregnancy. Maybe staying busy with all these organizations and activities is her way of coping.
Whitney’s gone back to scrolling through her phone. I wonder if she still feels weird about the whole Jay thing. She never brings him up—probably to spare my feelings—but I don’t want him to be the thing holding our friendship back. It’s time to start making some strides in my twelve steps. She’s near the top, so I try and make a better effort.
“Have you and Jay coordinated what you’re wearing to the homecoming dance?”
Even though I keep my voice casual, she looks at me in surprise.
“Uh, yeah, actually.” She lowers her phone away from her face. “I found this dress? It’s amazing. The embroidery is so classy. It’s blue and white, and Jay bought a tie to match.” She pauses, then meets my gaze. “Are you going?”
“To the dance?”
Whitney nods.
“Oh. I don’t know.”
She turns back to her phone. In a soft voice she goes, “I think you should.”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “Really?”
She shrugs at her screen.
“Okay,” I tell her, feeling a little more hopeful. “I’ll think about it.”
“Well think fast. It’s next weekend, in case you forgot.”
We glance at the homecoming float. “Who could forget with Raegan around?”
Raegan, as if she’s heard us, looks over and hollers, “We need all hands on deck.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “She’s literally speaking pirate now.”
I laugh, and she smiles. For a fraction of a second, the tension eases between us.
I stand up. “Tell her I’m going to grab water. I’ll be right back.”
She nods, waving me off.
September is coming to an end, and we’re having one of those rare days that really feels like fall. The cool shift came out of nowhere. I had to borrow Raegan’s extra Wavette sweatshirt to protect me from the slight chill in the breeze.
I’m heading toward the double doors of the school when I hear footsteps coming up behind me. When I turn around, I see Alex heading in my direction.
He’s wearing his black beanie atop his head of curls. The black sleeves of his shirt are pushed up to his elbows, and I can only guess he’s working on one of his many theater projects.
My lips pull into a smile as he nears. “I didn’t know you were out here.”
He gestures across the parking lot. “I’m helping with the theater float. They only want me for my building skills.” He turns toward me, holding up an empty toolbox. “We need more nails, but I think there’s an extra box in the shop.”
“What’s your float’s theme?”
“Little Shop of Horrors,” he replies, his eyes animated with excitement. “Mrs. Henson announced that’s going to be our musical this year, so everyone’s pretty excited about it.”
I’ve never even heard of it, but his enthusiasm is infectious. “That’s awesome.”
We fall into step as we walk inside. Students have already gotten a jump-start on decorating the hallways for Spirit Week. Bright posters plaster nearly every inch of free space stating things like DEFEAT THE JAGUARS and WILDBOARS WILL WIN.
I turn to Alex. “Are you going to homecoming?”
Alex fumbles to keep a grasp on the toolbox for a moment before it slips through his grasp and onto the linoleum floor with a loud smack. He quickly picks it up. When he looks back at me, I notice his face is flushed.
Oh. Oh CRAP.
From the uncomfortable look on his face, I can tell he thinks I’m dropping a hint about the dance. Which, no.
Well, not that it would be a bad thing. Going with Alex, I mean.
Wait. Do I want to go to homecoming with Alex?
; I can tell he’s searching for a way to try and let me down easy. “Uh—”
I think fast, trying to backtrack. “It’s just that, you know, Raegan was wondering about the head count at the pep rally. She, uh, doesn’t think too many people will show up this year. Which is crazy. Everyone loves homecoming. Well, maybe not everyone. That’s kind of a blanket statement, but… well. Yeah.”
Wow, what a spectacular speech. Where’s my Oscar?
“Oh.” Does Alex look… relieved? He could at least try and hide it. Do I come off like I’d be that terrible of a date? “Yeah, sure. Are you performing?”
“With the Wavettes?” As soon as I ask it, I realize it’s a silly question. No, Kira, he’s wondering if you’ll be performing WITH THE CIRCUS.
Alex laughs. “Yeah.”
I nod. “Mandatory.”
His brown eyes linger on mine a moment. “Okay, sure. Count me in.”
“Cool.” I’m having trouble returning eye contact. “Raegan will be happy.”
Alex gives me a strange look, like that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear.
“Well, I better get those nails so we can finish the replica of Audrey II.”
“Aubrey who?”
He grins. “You were never a fan of musicals.”
I lift my hands in the air. “Guilty.”
“It’s the talking monster plant in Little Shop,” he explains. “I’m in charge of creating it, actually.” His face lights up. “I can show you once it’s finished, if you want. Mrs. Henson thinks we can spruce it up even more and use it in the show.”
I nod, and mean it when I say, “I’d love to.”
He lifts the toolbox, glancing down toward the theater wing. “I’d better—”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my face flush. God, what is wrong with me? “I’ll see you later.”
He smiles, then heads to the woodshop classroom. My heart pounds as I make my way toward the vending machine. I put my dollar in and retrieve a water bottle, but the thumping doesn’t cease. I don’t even realize Whitney’s pushing through the double doors until I nearly run into her.
“Whoa.” She stares at me for a moment. “Uh, you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly.
She moves past me, shrugging it off. I steal one last glance down the theater hallway before shoving the door open and heading to the parking lot.
NINETEEN
I’M ON THE COUCH AVOIDING homework when my dad comes home from work on Thursday. No one else is here, so I’ve spread out on the sofa with a bag of stale tortilla chips. There’s a rerun of Chopped playing on TV, but I’ve been more focused on texting Lin about potentially going to the homecoming dance as a group.
“Feel like a burrito from Lucky’s?” he asks.
We haven’t had a chance to talk after I’d overheard him and Nonnie’s conversation the other night. I don’t want to admit to eavesdropping, but it did make me think of my list again. And the truth is, deep down, I do want to forgive him. It’s the only way to go back to the way things were.
I slip my feet back into my flats. “Yes, are you kidding?”
We haven’t been to Lucky’s in forever. It’s a customizable burrito joint twenty minutes away, but it’s totally worth it because they have seven different types of salsa and the best carne asada I’ve ever tasted. Grams hated Lucky’s burritos. She always said they got too soggy too fast and gave her heartburn. But Thursday nights, when she went to the Y to play bridge with her friends, my dad and I would make a special trip together.
He drives. Talk radio is set on low, and it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve trapped myself in a car with my dad for a significant amount of time. It doesn’t feel as awkward as the ride home from the airport, but I still can’t think of a single thing to say.
After a few moments, he turns to me. “Do you have a home or away game tomorrow?”
“Away.”
I feel slightly guilty about not extending him an invitation to come see me perform with the Wavettes, but he and Grams never came to away games anyway. The drives were always too long, and she liked to be in bed by nine.
“Do you need money for dinner?”
I shake my head, but another pang of guilt stabs through me. He’s being so supportive. It would be easier if he were uninterested. At least then I wouldn’t feel so bad.
We drive the next few miles in silence. I watch acres of green pastures and roaming cattle fly past my line of vision as the sun dips below rich green treetops. When I was younger, I remember asking Grams why she lived here her whole life. She looked confused, like I’d just asked why there weren’t eight days in a week.
But then she’d said, “Because there ain’t nowhere better than this.”
“I miss her,” I hear myself say. My heart aches in the familiar patterns of loneliness. “I think about her every day.”
My dad is quiet for a moment. I know he understands who I’m talking about. When he glances over at me, there’s a sad smile on his face. “I do, too. To tell you the truth, I still struggle with missing her.”
My hands twist together in my lap. I decide to come clean. “I know. I heard you and Nonnie talking the other day.”
“Did you?”
I nod. “I want to trust you again… I just don’t want things to be like last time.”
He turns off the radio. “I won’t lie to you, Goose. It isn’t easy, but I’ve been in touch with Michael.”
Michael. His AA sponsor. At first, I blamed Michael for my dad’s decision to go to Sober Living. He was supposed to be his mentor. Why couldn’t he help him?
But now I think I understand the difference in his struggle back then and his struggle now. This time, he’d made the decision to stay sober. I just needed to trust he’d follow through.
“Michael recommended seeing a counselor, and I want you to know I’ve taken his advice.”
“Oh.” This isn’t what I expected him to say.
“I want to make sure I’m not going to slip again,” he explains. “I don’t want you worryin’ about me. It was never fair to put you through everything I did.”
I swallow, thinking back to all the nights he spent closed off in his bedroom. All the nights my sadness ate through me like acid.
“It wasn’t,” I agree. “I was a bit skeptical about coming home, actually.”
I expect this confession will make him mad, but it doesn’t.
“You know, I can’t say I blame you. Although I sure am glad you did. Your Grams—well, she was there for us. But you were there for me, too. And I let you down.”
I don’t say anything. We both know it’s true.
“Grams was always so good to us. If she were still here, she’d—”
“—have a few choice words for you.”
He laughs. “Yes, that’s true.” He glances over at me. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want.”
I know it makes him sad, but he’s trying. Maybe I can try a little harder, too.
My lips curve into a smile. “Are you sure we don’t have to taco ’bout it?”
He grins. “We can guac about it another time.”
I snort. “That was awful. It doesn’t even make sense.”
But he’s still smiling, the gesture showcasing the tiny wrinkles around his eyes. I know he’s still struggling, but we’re different now. Somehow I know we won’t ever move back in time to when I’d keep his secrets when he drank far too much.
Trust. That’s what I want most with my dad. There aren’t any excuses for his addiction, but I try and think of Grams’s loss from his perspective. Not only had he lost his mother, but he also lost the only other person who helped raise me. He was truly on his own.
Only, he wasn’t. He had me. Has me.
I think of the others—Saylor and Nonnie and Peach. I remember what I overheard the other night, how Nonnie was helping my dad. I know he’s making an effort to turn things around, so shouldn’t I accept that they’re trying to do the same?
I’m the world’s biggest hypocrite. Because I know the answer, but it’s not the one I want.
Colton forgot to mention that his band is playing around the same time the football game ends on Friday, but because we suffer an embarrassingly big loss, Raegan, Lin, and I are able to book it out of there as soon as it ends. Luckily the venue is a few miles from the stadium, so once we ditch our uniforms for more appropriate going-out attire (a button-down skirt and black halter top, in my case) we hit the road.
My dad said I could go as long as I’m back by midnight, which is fair. After our journey to Lucky’s last night, it feels like we’ve fallen back into familiar territory.
“I can’t stay long,” Raegan says, tapping her bright-red fingernails on her steering wheel. “I have so much work to do for Spirit Week.”
“That’s fine,” I say as Lin texts someone from the backseat. They’re coming with me because this is a big deal for Colton, but I’m also secretly pleased to get to hang with them outside of school.
Whitney and Jay ditched out and decided to go see a movie instead. I hate that it bothers me more than it should.
The venue is a divey little place called the Pit that’s squished between a liquor store and a twenty-four-hour laundromat in downtown Keegris—a bigger city close to Cedarville. They’re already playing by the time we walk inside. It’s very dark, lit only by the red-and-blue lighting coming from the exceptionally small stage, where the drum kit takes up most of the space on the checkered floor. There’s a humid smell of too many bodies packed into one place mixed with cigarette smoke, but when I spot Colton stage left with his guitar, he grins like he’s headlining Madison Square Garden.
And, honestly, his band isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard.
They’re in no way the best, but they manage to stay somewhat on beat. The singer has a pretty decent range, too.