by CJ Daly
He looked at me for a couple of seconds, I guess weighing the worth of
the few dollars he pilfered with the smug satisfaction of being right about my
employment being a waste of time.
• 41 •
I pressed on during the pause: “I could look for a better job, but you said I could only work Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons on
account of my chores at home and worship.”
“If yer dumb enough to waste your time waitressin’ for a few dollars
down at that crummy café, then I guess that’s up to you,” he said, while
simultaneously slipping the bills into his back pocket.
I flashbacked to earlier when another domineering male did the exact
same thing (only that one was much better looking). And I was core hurt.
Here I was wasting my glory days slaving away to help our little family survive,
and I was being chastised for it. I clamped my jaw shut. No way was I gonna
get sucked into a pointless argument with my father. I would never win, and as
he liked to point out on numerous occasions: he was the “head of the house.”
I was supposed to just suck it up and fall into line like a good girl. My hands
began furiously scrubbing dishes.
“Goodnight, Katie-girl.” Daddy’s voice softened a bit. “Get some rest . . .
we got church in the mornin’,” he added unnecessarily. I knew the drill.
After finishing the dishes, I made for the door with my dwindled earnings
and paused. Even though I was beat-down tired, the answering machine’s
light caught my attention. It was blinking at me. Relentlessly.
Blink. Blink. Blink . . .
I was tired and already mentally checked out. So why was I so drawn to it?
Blink. Blink. Blink . . .
It could wait. I would just check it tomorrow then. I shuffled on past
and turned out the light, saw red blinking at me in the dark. Like a siren.
It continued to gnaw away at me like I was going OCD or something—I
couldn’t not listen to it.
Arg! Dumping my bag on the counter, I lowered the volume and pressed
play. The automated voice communicated that we had one saved message,
then a sharp Beep! and a cheerful voice began speaking like there was a contest for brisk professionalism:
Hel o, Mr. Connel y! This is Emma Mathers cal ing again from the
International Elite Academy. We wanted to formal y welcome
your family to our mentoring program and thank you for giving
us the opportunity to work with your son, Andrew. As per our
agreement, an elite cadet will meet with him after school every
day beginning Monday, August 29.
• 42 •
My heart stopped, but the bad news didn’t wait for it to restart before continuing.
. . . A copy of the contract should be forthcoming in the mail.
Please sign the highlighted areas and return it in the return
envelope—no postage necessary—at your earliest convenience.
Should you have any questions regarding the program, please
don’t hesitate in cal ing the office. We will be happy to assist you
anytime. Thank you and have a very pleasant evening.
What’s going on? My ears began a dull buzz. I leaned over and gripped the
counter. I thought Daddy was dead set against any of the schools that were
after Drewy. After being the right word here. What had happened to change that and when?
I was seeing red (not the blinking kind). Instinctively, I dove into the
bottom of my bag for the glossy, embossed envelope. I wasn’t even gonna wait
to recycle it now. I was gonna heave it right in the middle of the trash heap
to burn! Something was off with this organization. I could just feel it, right down in my bones.
Like a deflating balloon, all my angry energy seemed to be leaching from
me. I slumped against the wall and slithered into a heap of misery on our
linoleum floor. Maybe I was overreacting? I mean she didn’t say Andrew was going away anywhere, only that someone from them was coming here—an
elite cadet. But I’d never heard of a mentoring program for a boarding school.
Why would an elite private institution dip its beak into public school that way?
If they were that interested in Andrew, wouldn’t they just request for him to
be tested and interviewed there?
Blue’s nudges roused me out of my stupor long enough to get me moving.
Even though I smelled like a basket of tater-tots, I didn’t have enough energy
for a shower, so I splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth,
noticing in the harsh bathroom light just how splotchy my face was and how
red my eyes were. How had Daddy missed that? And then I realized with a
jolt—he hadn’t. He just hadn’t bothered asking me what was wrong. How
many ways could a person be hurt in one night? Is the ceiling gonna cave in on me next?
A sob escaped, and Blue gave an anxious whine. “It’s okay, Bluesy,” I
assured him with a hug. “We won’t let anyone take Drewy from us.”
I also noticed how enlarged my pupils looked tonight. Like huge, black
saucers in my eye sockets, making me look positively bewitched. I usually tried
• 43 •
to avoid taking photos because, inevitably, I always had the devil red-eye . . .
when nobody else did. I had to agree with Andrew—I did look kinda spooky.
Especially after a good cry. I didn’t mind though. That part of my eye was
from my mother; the color was from my father.
Only one Connelly child inherited Mama’s warm, hazel eyes . . . and
Mikey, too, suffered from a bad case of the red-eye.
I thought with satisfaction about the other bits and pieces of her I had
inherited, like the angle of my cheekbones and my thick chestnut hair. My
skin was a shade darker than my Irish father’s, but unfortunately, I still
inherited his furious blush.
After throwing my scratchy uniform over the shower to air out the cloying
diner smell, I pulled on Mama’s favorite T-shirt, the one with a leafy tree
and the word hugger written beneath it. It was getting really late (or early,
depending on how you wanted to look at it), so I turned off the light and on
the tulip lamp I’d inherited from Ashley-Leigh, then went and stuffed a towel
under the door. Just in case.
My feet dragged back to bed, but instead of falling into it, I kneeled
down to withdraw my stash-of-cash from where it was hibernating under
there (hoping to grow fat) with some of Andrew’s brilliant stories and Mikey’s
extravagantly macaronied art. After fishing around in my bag for tonight’s
catch, I hauled it out for inspection. The light cast its pink glow on the
origami-heart in my palm. I dropped it onto my bed, along with the other bills
I’d pilfered from myself, and the envelope that was starting to burn my hand.
Guilt and relief dueled it out for dominance over me as I stared at the
hefty envelope, bearing my father’s name. It was long embedded in me to
do the right thing. But that was just it though—it felt like hiding it was the right thing to do. Already it was a hated, sinister thing, and I knew I didn’t want it under my bed, tainting the serenity of my bedroom. So like a thief
in the night, I crept back into the kitchen and stuffed it in the flour jar for
safekeeping. I exhaled deeply, instantly feeling better with it sealed
up like a
neurotoxin.
I tumbled back into bed, but before turning out the light, I wanted to
add my three bucks to the seventy-two I had saved for school stuff. I hated
to undo the origami heart because it was so beautifully done, but I didn’t
want it to get lost. Plus . . . it might be a fiver. Before I changed my mind,
I lifted the little flap, tucked into the single fold holding it all together, and
began methodically unfolding the work of art. After straightening it out, I
noticed the face of the president was different from the other bills. My breath
• 44 •
caught. The man on this bill wasn’t a president at all—it was none other than Benjamin Franklin!
A Benjamin? Holy Cow! A real honest-to-God Benjamin! My mind raced,
believing and disbelieving in equal measure. Could this be real? A hundred
dol ar tip? I’d heard stories before but had never met anyone who actually received one. It certainly looked authentic enough, not that I was an expert,
but Ms. Norma made me learn how to spot counterfeits my first day on the
job. With shaking hands, I fingered it again, feeling the tiny ridges running
throughout. It felt just like a regular bill. God knows I received enough of
those to know the texture well enough by now. Hmmm. The details seemed
to all be there. It felt right and looked right. My gut was telling me it was the
real deal.
So now that I concluded it was authentic: Who was it from?
I quickly dismissed Mr. Tatum and Ms. Norma as being way too cheap.
Scanning my mind back through the night’s events, it only took about two
seconds for the a-hah! moment to hit. And when it did, it was like a swift — but soft — punch to the gut. An excruciatingly beautiful face filled my mind. I
recalled, with perfect clarity, the fluttering feeling I’d felt around my stomach
that had me recoiling at the time. I’d barely registered what he was doing
because I was so engrossed in staring at him.
Holy Smokes! Baseball Cap is my freakin’ fairy godmother?
• 45 •
5
GIRLS’ NIGHT
The week following my encounter with the haughty-hot guys, as I’d
dubbed them, went by in a blur of chores, church, and chastising
Daddy about that Elite Academy Mentoring Program that he went
ahead and signed Andrew up for.
As I banged around the kitchen getting dinner ready, I went over how
I could’ve handled the situation better. I’d gone off on Daddy the next day
without thinking, with the end result being—I had extra chores all week. Fits
of temper never seemed to work with him, yet Mama always seemed to get
her way. My ears warmed as I conjured up scenarios of how she might have
managed that.
So far Daddy was firm in his belief that a little military training and male
bonding would do Andrew some good. Plus, the elite part seemed to gratify
his manly pride, and the truth of the matter was: he really didn’t want to put
forth the time and effort to raise sons properly so was using this “opportunity”
as a get-out-of-jail-free card for his paternal duties.
I was disgusted yet felt helpless to do anything about it at the moment. So
I was busy taking my frustrations out on the cutting board, dicing up onions
like a ninja to add to the hamburger meat browning in the pan. It was taco
night at the Connelly house, so I was happy to skip out on dinner. We took
our own cows to the meat locker to be butchered, which pretty much made
me a vegetarian since I’d raised them up from baby calves.
I was looking forward to a little break from Norma’s but somehow found
myself dreading my girls’ night excursion. Probably because of all the awkward
questions I would surely get from Ashley-Leigh’s mom: How are you doing?
Why don’t we ever see you anymore?
• 46 •
The splat of dirty feet on newly waxed floors was quickly followed by Mikey’s sweet face poking under my arm. “Kadee, can I hewlp do the cheese?”
Even though he would make more of a mess for me to clean up, I obliged,
as I always did with Mikey, setting the cheese grater and a plate on the counter
for him. “Wash your hands first,” I said, privy to all the ick-worthy items I
routinely dumped from his pockets.
“But I alweady washed when I came in!”
“Do it again, cause if you’re gonna be my sous chef, you gotta do more
than just give the germs a bath.”
He grumbled but began scraping the stepstool over to the sink to wash his
hands, spraying water and dripping suds on the floor in the process.
Andrew strolled in blithely crunching an apple. “The best way to kill
germs is to wash in warm, soapy water for thirty seconds,” he informed us.
“I can count to thuwty,” Mikey retorted over his shoulder and began
loudly proving himself. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .”
“Yeah, but can you do it in Spanish?”
“Hey,” I greeted Andrew while trying to snatch the apple from him. He
laughed at my failed attempt, taking a last bite before tossing it into the sink,
where it landed with a ker-plop in the bowl I had soaking.
“Hey!” Mikey protested, good-naturedly mopping water from his face.
“Okay, hotshot that’s enough three pointers. Go wash up for dinner.
You two boys are on your own tonight, so please be on your best behavior.
Comprende?”
“Yeah right,” Andrew smirked. “When the Katie-kat’s away, the mice
will play!”
“Seriously, Drews,” I warned. “Daddy’s already on the warpath, and you
know how he gets.” I tipped my head toward Mikey, who was still working
through his Mississippis.
“Yeah, but he’s not mad at me.”
“Yeah,” I grabbed Andrew’s shoulders and whispered in his ear, “but you
know how he gets with Mikey.” Mikey had just turned off the faucet and was
drying his freshly cleaned hands on a dirty dishtowel. I ignored the health
code violation to stare into Andrew’s wide blue eyes.
“Comprende, alright? Sheesh!” Andrew shrugged out of my grasp and leapt
onto the counter, landing firmly on his backside . . . without using hands.
The boy was spry. He proceeded to snatch the wiggling strings of cheese as
fast as Mikey could grate it.
“Hey! You stop that, Drewy!” Mikey vainly swatted his starfish hand at
the quick pincers stealing his hard work.
• 47 •
“Okay boys, enough,” I intervened. I needed to get going or I’d be late for sure. “Drews, fill your glasses with the fresh lemonade from the fridge.” Both boys perked up instantly. I usually made it from a mix but I’d been squeezing
lemons and boiling sugar all week, just like Mama used to do.
“Yeah!” The boys celebrated with a high-five, causing fragments of yellow
cheese to squish out between clasped hands. Peals of laughter, like merry bells,
flooded our shabby little kitchen. I smiled with deep satisfaction, a case of the
warm-fuzzies enveloping me. I knew this was what Mama wanted for us, and
I wished she could see us like this—happy, healthy, together.
Andrew sunk another sink-goal with the grater while I swung Mikey
down, whirling him around to prolong his infectious giggles. “Okay sh
ort
stuff, set the table.”
“What are you gonna do, Kadee?”
“What am I gonna do?” I repeated incredulously. “I’m gonna shower, get
dressed up, and go out for a well-deserved night on the town and leave you
two monsters to your vittles . . . that’s what I’m gonna do!”
Mikey stopped laughing to wrinkle his nose. “Is viddles wittle veg’tables?”
Andrew interrupted my explanation to say, “Who do ya think’s a better
shooter? Me or Steph Curry?”
“Scoot!” I pushed Andrew away and patted Mikey on the backside. “Your
tacos are gettin’ cold.” With a fading smile, I padded to the bathroom and
hopped in the shower with a determination burning up inside me to protect
my little brothers at all costs. It was my responsibility to pick up where Mama
left off . . . and her last request before she died.
I would not let her down.
A few minutes later, I was out of the shower debating the most important
question of the day: What to wear? Hmmm. That was a toughy. I desperately eyed the few new items I’d bought with my waitressing money. A pang
reminded me of where most of that money had come from.
Usually, I just threw on one of my bell-skirts and button-downs and
headed out the door, too preoccupied by other matters to worry much about
my appearance. But tonight was a rare night off from my life; a night to head
out to the hippest restaurant Clovis had to offer. It was also a night I would be
scoped out by the “cool crowd” when I walked in with Queen-B Ashley-Leigh.
So I didn’t want to just blend into the background like I usually did.
Not sure why. Vanity? Or maybe it was that hardest of deadly sins for me to
overcome—pride? Nah. I chalked it up to the innate predisposition of a female to want to dress up and look pretty. Whatever. I was in the mood to look cute
so I put on the butter-yellow tank top I’d bought at an end-of-summer sale,
• 48 •
and slipped on the long brown prairie skirt I usually reserved for church. My classic cowboy boots (which were requisite on our snake-infested ranch) and
one of Mama’s turquoise belts completed the outfit. I’d have to conceal my
tank with a button-down while I was still home. No way Daddy would let me
walk around in nothing but a tank top. Females are supposed to be modest,