Call me a snob, but being my father’s daughter has its perks.
On the flight home from Connecticut, I stretch out my feet in first class. Dad upgraded us using his frequent flier miles. The flight attendant serves me sparkling water, steak and mashed potatoes, and chocolate-covered strawberries for dessert.
Dad reads briefing paper after briefing paper on his iPad. He’s on the Senate Appropriations Committee on Foreign Relations, so his staff is always forwarding him information about overseas development. I glance over his shoulder. He’s reading a paper titled PEPFAR FUNDING CUTS. That’s the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief.
“What’s going on with AIDS funding?” I ask.
Dad lets out a long sigh. “I’m trying to keep it going at current levels, but some of the guys want to cut it. They don’t want to spend so much money on Africa when we could use the funding domestically.”
PEPFAR has always been a favorite project of Dad’s. At first, I didn’t completely understand why Dad would fight for it so hard when we have homeless, hungry people here in the United States, but then he explained that over the past thirty years, AIDS ran rampant in Africa, leaving twenty-five percent of kids without parents. Kids without homes are more likely to join groups that promote violence. Without PEPFAR, the entire African continent could’ve destabilized.
But still, what about hungry people here in America? It’s a hard balance. It would be great to help everyone, but funding has its limits.
“Do you think funding will be cut?” I ask.
“I’ll get the guys to change their minds, but not without giving up something else I want.”
“That doesn’t seem right, Dad.”
“That’s politics for you. But don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to keep it funded. It’s the right thing to do.” Dad flips the lid on his iPad, covering the screen. He nods at my laptop. “What are you working on?”
“Just finishing up my English essay that’s due Monday. It’s on Chaucer.”
“Ahh, the Cadbury Tales.”
I laugh softly. “No, The Canterbury Tales.”
“I know. But I always thought about Cadbury eggs when we were reading it in class.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Dad elbows me. “If only your mom would buy them for us.”
It’s such a comfortable moment between us, I rest my head on his shoulder. I can’t remember the last time I did this. I must’ve been a little girl?
He pats the back of my hand, then keeps his fingers there. Again, something that hasn’t happened in a long time. It feels awkward, but I like it too.
“So how’d your interview go?” he asks quietly. He must’ve been waiting for me to bring it up, because he hadn’t asked until now, even though we left Yale a few hours ago.
“Mr. Brandon was really nice,” I say. “Our conversation was very real.”
Dad nods. “I’ve heard that about the admissions office. They’re no bullshitters.”
“Exactly.”
“What did he think of your résumé?”
“He said it looks great. He didn’t mention any ways I need to improve it, but he said the committee will have to carefully consider my application, you know, because of what happened at St. Andrew’s… I may not get in.” My voice cracks. A tear slips down my cheek.
Dad squeezes my hand. “I’m proud of you no matter what.”
I wipe my nose. It’s nice to hear that.
“So what’s going on with Ezra Carmichael?” he asks.
Hearing my boyfriend’s name always puts a smile on my face. I shrug at Dad, hoping he won’t make a big deal of it. “We’re dating, I guess.”
“Does your brother know?” Dad asks.
“Not yet. I’m trying to figure out how to tell him. Ezra wants to do it in person.”
“Don’t wait too long. He deserves to hear it from you and Ezra and not somebody else.”
I take a long sip of my drink. “I like him a lot, Dad. I have for a long time. I know he’s got some stuff to work out, but he’s a great guy—”
“Of course he is,” Dad interrupts. “You forget I’ve known him since he was a little boy. Other than taking apart my lawnmower and always winning all your brother’s money at poker, I admire his character. What teenage boy asks permission from a girl’s father before starting a relationship?”
That makes my heart race. “Seriously?”
“Yes, he asked once a couple of years ago and again last week.”
I laugh. “What did you say?”
“I said okay. But I told him he’d better follow through and ask you out, because I won’t say yes for a third time.”
With a smile, I snuggle my head against Dad’s shoulder, and he leans his head back against the seat. His black hair has a lot more gray in it than it used to. Frown lines accentuate his mouth. I can’t help but think those lines are my fault. My mistake is blotting out everything my dad has worked for for eighteen years.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry. For everything.”
“I know,” he replies quietly. “I hate how the press is portraying you.”
The guilt might drown me.
“I’m worried about you,” he adds.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’m good. But I feel terrible about what’s going on with your campaign,” I say. “I wish I could help somehow.”
“I want you to focus on you, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a small smile.
After that college interview and all my conversations with Ezra, I like the idea of figuring out what I want. What I need.
I just hope I figure it out before it’s too late.
Relaxing
“I don’t think Ezra and I need your prompts anymore,” I tell Miss Brady.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, we’re dating now.”
Miss Brady smiles. “I’m glad you have someone to talk to. How about friends?”
“I’m getting closer with Alyson and Chloe from the soccer team. They’re different from my old friends, but I like them.”
“Different how?”
“They’re more laid-back. Like, Chloe never talks about her plans for the future except for how she wants to travel. With my old friends, and with Ezra—my boyfriend—it seems like we only talk about the future.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you want to concentrate on. But don’t spend so much time thinking about the future that you forget to live now. High school needs to be a balance of serious and fun, just like life.”
? ? ?
It’s Friday night, and Ezra is coming over to hang out. When he arrives, Marina answers the door and calls up the stairs, “Taylor! Ezra’s here.”
I love how when my parents are here, Marina walks from room to room and makes quiet announcements, but when they’re gone, she shouts like a normal person. It makes this house feel more like a home.
I finish my makeup and check my hair in the mirror, then jog down the stairs. Ezra’s not in the foyer. I poke my head into the living room. He’s not in there either. Then I hear his voice coming from the kitchen.
“Mustard, please. Thanks.”
I find him standing at the island, relaxed in a navy-blue pullover and loose, worn jeans. Marina hands him a sandwich cut into triangles.