by Ally B
Calculus is the same. Mr. Osborne has a substitute for some unknown illness, so we fill out a notes packet from a PowerPoint presentation and then work on our homework when we’re finished. Not really productive, as Jacob decides it’s the perfect day to pick on yet another underpaid substitute. I can barely focus on the once-easy work as the clock ticks down toward the bell.
When the clock finally hits three, I’m too nervous to say goodbye to Max, and he’s off to the locker room to change for practice the second the bell rings anyway.
Aquila
The Eagle
When I finally reach my car in the back corner of the parking lot, the line to leave is already thirty vehicles deep.
I sit in the parking lot for what feels like forever. I wait for the busses to finally leave and the cars to file out after. I make a left turn instead of the familiar right toward the planetarium, home, and safety.
The drive is much longer than I remember it being the first time I made it with my mom, but the first time there wasn’t anyone waiting there with take-out and four and a half years of life to catch up on either.
Every single light on the way is red.
It almost seems like a sign, the bright color begging me to turn back, and as much as I wish I could heed its warning, I force myself to press the gas pedal every time it turns green.
My eyes bore through my windshield as I pass through the small towns on the other side of mine—one after the other. Train tracks, pine trees, and trailer parks pass me by as I stare forward, desperately wishing I could just turn back, yet still forcing myself to press the pedal.
I take a deep breath as I park the car in the tight spot against the curb. Why does it have to be parallel parking only? I nearly failed my driver’s test because of how terrible I am at parallel parking. The people parked on either side of the spot are too close, too. My 2009 RAV4 isn’t exactly equipped with a self-park feature button like Violet’s cute little Volkswagen.
I spend an incredibly frustrating two minutes trying to squeeze into the spot, but when I finally do, I don’t want to get out, wishing—instead of forcing, that I could just press the pedal.
After a few therapy-trained breathing exercises, I open my eyes and look around.
I’ve almost forgotten how cute the area is, and now I force my focus on just that.
The little brownstones seem so out of place here. The rest of the area is nice enough, but it’s full of residential streets with upper-middle-class suburban houses and too-expensive organic grocery stores. The apartments are very copacetic, but even in their elegance, don’t seem so compared to the homes across the street.
We lived in a little out-of-place apartment in Emerson once. But it was when I was little before he got his gig as a professor and we could afford the too-big upper-middle-class house that we’ve struggled to afford since the day we bought it.
I used to sneak into Jack’s room at night and sleep in the chair in the corner of his room just to hear him snore. It was weird, but I was a weird little kid. It just didn’t feel right being that far from each other when we’d shared a bedroom for all of my life up until then.
I’m reminded of the real reason I see the pizza delivery boy knock on the door right across the road from me.
I fight the idea to slump down and hide, but it only takes him opening the door for me to realize that it’s a stupid idea.
I pull my keys out of the ignition and stuff them into my pockets before taking a deep breath, unbuckling my seat belt and staring at myself in my rearview mirror. My first instinct is to fix my hair, which I quickly realize is stupid. It’s not a job interview or a date I’m getting ready for—it’s my father.
I shove my phone into my other pocket, frustrated by the fact that it doesn’t fully fit. Stupid girl pockets. The pizza boy leaves quickly, and my father closes the door behind him. He looks good from the few seconds I see him, and he got a haircut, which is great, I guess. He’s not bald yet, which is lucky for the fate of Jack’s hair. See, me focusing on the positive.
I allow the car coming toward me to pass before I open the door as you never know if someone is going to swerve.
I lock my car once I’m on the sidewalk, pulling out my phone and sending a quick text to my mom.
Mom
Made it. Wish you were here - Phoebe
I allow myself a few more moments of quiet before approaching the big wooden door.
It feels just the right amount of formal for my father. He’s always liked nice things, sturdy things. He would rather save money for something dependable than buying ten that look exactly like it for a lower price. He never settles.
I wonder how much his rent is here.
His mailbox is one of those fancy black ones that’s attached to the brick wall. His new neighborhood is too good for regular mailboxes, apparently.
It doesn’t have the numbers, just a simple ‘U.S. Postal Service’ engraved on it.
I remember how much of a fight he’d picked with mom when she’d purchased the little stickers reading ‘233’ to put on our mailbox at home. Jack had taken me to get ice cream to avoid listening to their argument, but when we got home, they were still fighting. We sat in the backyard as the sky grew orange, and the air grew colder, eating our mint chocolate chip with rainbow sprinkles. The cicadas and sound of the creek flowing behind our house worked well together to drown out their argument.
As the sky grew dark, the first star in the evening sky became visible, and I wished on it.
I wished that he would stop arguing with Mom about trivial things like numbers on mailboxes.
The next morning the numbers were peeled off of the mailbox.
It was then I should have started to doubt the naïve belief about wishes on stars.
Yet it took so many more failed wishes for me to learn that wishes on stars don’t always come true.
I go to knock on the door, but I hesitate when I see the gold lion knocker.
My father has always loved lions. He wanted to name Jack, Leo, but mom wouldn’t let him. He always said that they’re the strongest animal he’d ever seen. From a young age, he’d instilled a love of them in me, too. When I came a month early, my parents didn’t have anything prepared for the hospital. My dad felt terrible when all of the other babies were curled up around their stuffed animals and blankets in the nursery, so he went to the gift shop and bought me a tiny lion and a yellow blanket.
After learning that, I loved everything ‘lion related’. Lions at the zoo, The Lion King and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. He was never one to love the stars as much as my grandfather did, but he always managed to point out the Leo constellation in the sky.
I wonder if he put the knocker up himself or if it was there before. I don’t think he would go out of his way to purchase a knocker for the door, but maybe he could’ve. I don’t know him that well, not anymore.
And yes, I am procrastinating.
Leo Minor
The Little Lion
I grab the knocker and slam it against the door three times, startling myself with the volume of brass on brass.
The door flings open before I’ve had enough time to think about what to say. Of course, I’ve thought about what to say in this moment for years. I’ve been planning it in my head every spare second I’ve had since we found out he was getting out.
I still can’t think of the words when he speaks up.
“Hey, good to see you, kiddo.” He steps aside to allow me in.
I step inside, quickly realizing it’s not at all what I expected. The place is fully furnished with black appliances and brown leather. The walls are white with trim that matches the hardwood floors, and there’s even a Rolling Stones poster hanging in a black wooden frame on the wall.
I don’t know why, but I expected something more along the lines of a frat house.
He leads me to the kitchen island where pizza is waiting.
“Sorry about the pizza, I haven’t gotten out to get gro
ceries yet,” he says.
“No.” I’m quick to interject. “Pizza’s great.”
“Do you still eat meat?” He asks. “I know that you were thinking about going vegetarian…”
“Yeah.” I nervously interrupt as he places two slices of pepperoni pizza on my plate.
“Good. I know you had problems with your iron levels when you were little, I didn’t know if being vegetarian would be good for you anyway. Anna said to let you experiment with whatever you wanted, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.” I allow him to continue rambling as I take a bite of the pizza.
We sit at the kitchen island and eat in silence, for the most part, allowing little bits of trivial conversation about the weather to break through between bites of greasy food.
“I can take you to go get groceries if you want.” I offer as I place the pizza box in his near-empty fridge.
“No, you don’t need to worry about that,” he says.
“It’s not a big deal at all,” I tell him.
“It’s really okay, Phoebe.” He pauses then asks. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I tell him.
“I just haven’t figured out the bus system around here yet, and the grocery stores within a few blocks are crazy with their organic and non-GMO hiked prices.”
“It’s not a big deal at all. This area is crazy,” I tell him, pretending I know anything about the town. I pull my keys out of my pocket after throwing away the paper plates we’d eaten our pizza on.
“These are yours. Sorry, I should’ve said something sooner.”
“No, they’re yours. The car is yours. I’ll find one once I can drive again.” He shakes his head.
“It’s not a big deal at all,” I respond.
“It’s yours, really,” he says. “You ready?”
He locks his apartment door before following me to the car.
Inside, he buckles his seat belt and says, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen this old thing.”
“Yeah. She’s still kicking.” I tell him, pulling out of the spot I’d taken forever to get into.
“How’s school been?” He asks as I drive further from Emerson and toward the other side of my father’s town.
“Good. I’m salutatorian now.”
“Is Tommy still valedictorian?” He asks as I make a left turn.
“No.” I nearly laugh at the idea of Tommy getting good grades. “I’m pretty sure he almost failed English last year.”
“Who is it now?” He asks me.
“Erika Davidson,” I sigh.
“She was on your basketball team, right?”
“Yeah. She’s going to play in college.” I briefly look at him and look back to the road ahead.
“So, what does a typical week in the life of Phoebe Mitchell look like now?”
“School, work, soccer games,” I tell him simply. “That’s all I have time for.”
“Are you still working at the planetarium?”
“Yep,” I answer shortly because now the shock of seeing him has worn off, annoyance seems to want to settle in. I concentrate on pushing that feeling away now. I don’t want it to be any more awkward than it already is, and probably always will be.
“Does Jerry still own it?” He asks.
“Yeah. I don’t think he’d ever sell.”
I try to think of things to ask him to keep this a very normal conversation in a not very normal relationship, but what can I ask him?
So, how was prison? Did you make some new friends? Get any cool tats? How was the food?
So, I settle on silence.
Finally, I see a store he may be okay with, one that’s full of non-organic food with loads of GMOs.
Nodding toward an upcoming supermarket, I ask, “Is this good?”
“Perfect,” he says as I pull into the parking lot.
We don’t talk about much in the supermarket, either. He buys his groceries with cash, which is odd for him. I don’t ever remember seeing him pay with anything but his bright blue credit card for my entire childhood, but if I’m honest, I don’t really remember much of him during my childhood at all.
I drive him back to his apartment with even fewer words spoken between the two of us than on our way there.
We’re unpacking his groceries from their brown paper bags when I realize the sun has nearly set. The clock on his stove reads 8:28, and I know I have to leave.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell him, gesturing to the time. “I have to be off the roads before nine.”
“Oh, okay,” he says. “I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you at the party on Saturday, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, see you then.” I can tell by his body language that he wants to hug me or say something more, but I’m not ready for that.
Not even close.
“Bye,” I say and hurry out the door toward Rosie.
Inside my vehicle, I quickly send Max a text.
Max
I don’t know where I am on a scale of Ben and Jerry’s to M&M’s. - Phoebe
Swedish Fish then? - Max
You know me so well. - Phoebe
The drive home feels short compared to the drive there. I make it home at precisely 8:56, and my mom’s car still isn’t in the driveway.
I lock my car and tuck my keys into my pocket, walking toward Max’s backyard instead of going inside.
“How was it?” He whisper-shouts from his old swing-set.
I walk toward him and sit on the swing next to him and answer, “awkward.”
“Like seeing another teenager in a grocery store awkward or saying ‘you too’ to the ticket guy at the movie theatre when he tells you to enjoy your movie awkward?” He asks, tossing a bag of Swedish Fish at me.
“Like seeing your dad for the first time since he got out of prison awkward,” I say, catching the candies.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“It was really weird. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say, ya know? There isn’t a handbook,” I say, throwing one of the gummies into his mouth.
“Is there anything I can do?” He asks, chewing on the sticky red fish.
“I’ll let you know,” I half-joke. “So, how was practice?”
He studies me for a bit, no doubt trying to figure out if he should press me to talk more about seeing my dad when I see acceptance in his eyes to move on.
“Hellish. We ran for the first hour because Dad wants us to be ‘ready for tomorrow.’” He rolls his eyes.
“It’s a big game for you guys,” I defend.
“They aren’t fast. They just play dirty,” he explains. “The kid who fractured Jacob’s foot at the end of last season is on their team. They’re assholes.”
“Swear jar.” I interrupt.
“Remind me tomorrow,” he huffs, popping another Swedish Fish in his mouth. “I just hope they don’t try and pull that this year. It’s too early in the season.”
“Maybe you should all just play nice,” I joke. “I don’t have to try and survive your driving tomorrow, by the way.”
“Why’s that? Did you find a new carpool buddy?”
“He didn’t take Rosie,” I tell him with a shrug. “Says she’s mine.”
“That’s good because I feel like driving might not be my strong suit.”
“No kidding,” I laugh. “Last time you drove, you tried to parallel park for five minutes before giving up and paying for the garage.”
“Should’ve paid for it four-and-a-half minutes before that,” he huffs.
“Or I should’ve driven.” I roll my eyes, throwing another candy in his mouth.
“Do you want to do homework?” He asks.
“Let me get my stuff out of the car?” I huff as I stand from the swing.
“Yeah,” he says, running into his house as I walk the short distance to my driveway, grabbing my backpack and flinging it over my shoulder before relocking the car and heading back.
Max gives me that l
ook again, and I give a slight shake of my head, telling him no, I don’t want to talk about it.
“You’re doing good Phoebe, you really are, better than I would be in your situation. But sometimes it’s hard to tell with you. So I’ll keep talking soccer and schoolwork if you wanna talk about feelings or something, you let me know.”
“Honestly, I’d rather talk about soccer than put words to feelings I’m not sure I have. But thanks.”
We sit on Max’s patio and finish that night’s homework under his mom’s solar lights before I eventually leave Max and the emotional support Swedish Fish at his table.
Sagittarius
The Archer
When my terrible default alarm-tone rings, I throw the comforter to the foot of my bed and drag myself to the bathroom.
In a haze caused by a nearly sleepless night, I brush my teeth before turning on the shower.
Once I’ve showered, I wrap my hair in a towel and splash some water onto my face before massaging cleanser into my skin. I hastily wash it off before applying toner with a cotton pad and rubbing moisturizer into my skin.
I open the drawer furthest from the bathroom sink and pull out my concealer, dabbing it under my eyes and onto a blemish forming on the tip of my nose.
Apparently, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, has decided to share the wealth, or maybe give me a reminder that Christmas is coming up.
I silently curse the weak-link of Santa’s sled team as I blend the concealer into my skin, and tap a tiny bit of highlighter onto the tip of my nose and the inner corners of my eyes. I apply black mascara to my eyelashes, and give myself a once over, before running back into my room and pulling on a pair of black leggings and an Emerson soccer T-shirt.
I pull on the same pair of white sneakers I wore yesterday, along with one green sock and one white sock. The superstition had started when Jackson brought one green and one white sock on their first game against McArthur's freshman year. Mr. Sanchez had made the entire team run for the nearly invisible error, but he won that game for them in a shoot-out.