“Nope. No boyfriend.”
And I don’t. Have one, that is. Unfortunately.
“Well, let me tell you something, honey. All a boy wants is for you to give him a blowjob. Better than sex.”
My stomach turns. Why does he tell me this stuff? This is sick.
“Dad…”
He laughs. “I’m serious!”
What the hell is he on?
“Dad! Eww, stop.”
“You need to know about these things. All boys care about are tits and fucking.”
“No, actually, they don’t. Not all of them.”
I think about you sitting backstage with your black notebook, writing songs, your lips moving slightly. Or how you’ll give me one of your earbuds so that we can listen to a song together. The way you exaggerate choreography to make everyone laugh, your perfectionism when it comes to music.
“Yeah, they do, honey. You ask ’em. Tits and fucking, all day, every day.”
“Dad. Seriously, I don’t want to talk about this. It’s, like, totally inappropriate?”
He just laughs.
I have four vivid memories of my dad and here they are:
When I was a little girl, maybe seven years old, he had me for the weekend. He lived in San Diego at the time, near the Marine Corps base. We went to the beach and we were there all day because the beach is my dad’s version of heaven. I had a blast. But then we got home and I realized I hurt so bad all over. My pale skin had turned a fiery red everywhere. Some blisters had developed over the burns. I cried all night. Dad had forgotten the sunscreen, but not the cooler full of beer.
When I was in sixth grade, my dad went to Afghanistan again. Before he left, I got to see him walking into a roomful of Marines and all of them stood and saluted him. Pride filled my chest. We got ice cream after—mint chocolate chip.
I remember how later that day, my mom dragged me onto the tarmac where rows of men stood. Where is the money? she yelled. You don’t just get to go and leave these girls stranded. This was in the desert—29 Palms. It gets cold there at night and you can see thousands of stars in the sky. There are snakes that hide under the sand. If you aren’t careful, their fangs will latch onto your skin, fast as lightning.
My most recent memory of my dad was when I went to visit him over the summer when I was in junior high—seventh grade, going into eighth. He’d had a lot to drink and we were sitting in the living room of his bachelor pad. He sat in a beach chair because that was all he could afford.
I killed people—bad guys. They were planting bombs next to the road, killing our guys left and right, fucking us up, he said, his eyes glassy, his whole face zeroed in on people and places that I couldn’t see. I saw a lot of my friends die. They’re just … gone.
Mom walks into the kitchen and I put my hand over the phone.
“It’s Dad,” I say, my eyes begging her to let me off the hook.
She sighs and holds out her hand for the phone and I pass him to her mid-rant (now he’s onto politics) and then I run to the backyard and find a hidden corner to cry in.
Tradition.
I want to call you so bad, tell you about Interlochen and my dad. I want to hear your voice telling me it’s going to be okay. But would my family situation make you less into me? Would it make you run in the other direction? I know my family isn’t normal. We’re fucked up. I’m sure there are lots of non-fucked-up girls who could make you happy.
I sit on a patch of grass and pull up the blades as I think. My mind plays hopscotch, jumping from you to Dad and back again. Instead of the trip I was supposed to take, I think about how you come up behind me in the hallways at school and wrap your arms around me. I think about how you hold my hand backstage, secretly so no one can see. You belong to a different world from the one at home. A place where I’m seen, where there’s gentleness. Hearts that beat in time.
I take a risk and call you. You answer on the first ring.
“How’s my favorite girl in the world?” you ask.
“Whoa,” I say. “My status has been seriously elevated since last we talked.”
“Since last we talked? Nuh-uh. You’ve been my favorite girl for a while now.”
“Is that so?” I say.
“It is so.”
I break down crying. I can’t keep the sobs in. You ask me what’s wrong and when I tell you everything—about my dad and Interlochen and how fucked-up everything is—all you want to do is come over. But you can’t.
“It’s a school night,” I say. “My mom has this rule—”
“What is up with these rules?” you growl.
Since you can’t come over, you do the next best thing. You grab your guitar and sing me “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” putting your own Kurt Cobain angst twist on it. I can’t get over the fact that Gavin Davis is serenading me over the phone. That you’re upset because you can’t see me. That I’m your favorite girl in the world.
“Feeling any better?” you ask after you finish the song.
“I’m perfect. Great. You’re amazing.”
You laugh softly. “You bring it out in me. You bring all the best things out of me.” You pause. “I want us to be together, you know that, right?”
There are fireworks inside me. I press my phone closer to my ear, as if that could somehow make you less far away.
“Do you?” I breathe.
“Yes, hell yes,” you say. “I just don’t want to go too fast and fuck it up, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say softly, “I know.”
We talk for another hour while I stay in the backyard, huddled on Sam’s jungle gym. You tell me corny jokes and secrets and all the unhappiness in me seems to get whisked away, as though the sound of your voice has the power to banish badness.
We hang up when my mom calls me inside, but just before I’m about to go to bed, you call me back.
“I know you,” you say. “You’re going to lie in bed and think about Interlochen all night. Am I right?”
I grudgingly admit that you are.
“Not on my watch,” you say. I hear you strum your guitar.
My life has become a fairy tale. Evil stepfather, prince in disguise.
I keep my phone against my ear and let you play me song after song until finally I fall asleep to the sound of your voice, to words that say everything you can’t yet say to me.
ELEVEN
Two weeks later:
There’s a tap at my bedroom window and I wake up, scared. But it’s you. You point in the direction of the sliding glass door. It’s three in the morning. All I’m wearing is a tiny pair of shorts and a cotton tank top. No bra. I should get decent, but I don’t.
I listen for my mom. For The Giant. But they’re sound asleep. The door slides silently open and your eyes travel from my feet to my knees, to my thighs, to the way my nipples press against the thin cotton tank. You lean against the doorway.
“You’re torturing me. On purpose.”
I smile. Bite my lip. Lean closer. (Who IS this girl?) “Is it working?” I murmur.
“Yes,” you breathe. Your lips are close, but you don’t lean in. We haven’t kissed, not yet.
“Want an adventure?” you ask, eyes sparkling.