“You’ve seen it, too?” Mom asked. “And didn’t say anything to me? I guess I can’t trust either of you girls. Good to know.”
I sat across from Dixie on the floor. There was a pizza box there, too, open, with three slices left of Mom’s favorite—Greek Special. I took a piece and watched Dixie. She was about to cry. I could always tell when she was about to cry.
Mom dropped onto the couch with the letter, rereading.
“This is such shit. I knew this letter would be full of it but I didn’t think he was this stupid. He wants to ‘surprise’ me? What the shit kind of surprise is that? Your deadbeat ex showing up at your door with no warning. Thanks but no thanks.”
“He’s clean,” Dixie said.
Mom laughed. “He might have been when he wrote this. And maybe he actually is done with drugs. But he is far from clean. He’s into something, I guarantee it.” She dropped the letter to the floor; Dixie picked it up and glared at me, her tears spilling.
“What did I do?” I said.
“Nothing. Just keep shoving pizza in your face.”
Mom, aggravated, said to Dixie, “Why are you such a little shit to your sister?”
That surprised Dixie and me both. Dixie looked at her lap and wiped the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her cheek.
“I’m tired of it, Dixie, okay? Give it a rest. I’m tired of every time I turn around you two are in some kind of battle.” She looked from Dixie to me. “You used to get along so good. I don’t know what happened and honestly it’s time to grow up and out of this shit.”
We did grow up. That was the problem.
“I’m telling you girls,” she continued, “that if I had any way to reach your dad I’d call him right now and tell him to stay away from us. I don’t trust him for one second. Neither should you.”
“Why can’t you give him a chance before . . . like . . . judging him?” Dixie asked.
Mom put her hands up to the sides of her head. “Dix. I know him better than you ever will. He hasn’t changed. He’s coming here because he wants something or because he’s really fucked things up back in Austin. I promise you.”
I got another piece of pizza, then Mom slid the box closer to her with her bare foot and took the last one. After a bite, she said, “He’s never setting foot back in this house, and you need to both swear to me you’ll keep your distance from him. He shows up, calls you, anything. You tell me. You tell me everything.”
Dixie was pouting now, arms crossed, and watching us eat. “You can’t keep me from seeing my own father.”
“Go ahead and see him if you want. But ‘keep your distance’ means keep your distance. I’m saying don’t trust him. Don’t let him get close.” She took another bite, then pointed her slice at Dixie. “You especially. You think too much of him.”
“No I don’t,” she muttered.
Mom laughed again. “Why do you think he wrote to you and not Gem? Or me? Because he knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger. Dixie, you’ve got stars in your eyes when it comes to him. Even worse than I did when I met him.”
Dixie got up and stomped off to our room, still holding the letter.
Mom called after her, “Don’t let your guard down. He’ll run you right over.”
I wanted it to feel better, thinking Dad wrote to Dixie because of what Mom said and not because he loved her more. But part of me still wished it was me. I wished I was the one wrapped around his finger.
Mom lowered herself to the floor next to me. “Good pizza, right?”
I nodded.
She stretched her legs out in front of her and leaned back. “I shouldn’t have spent the money. But I wanted pizza so bad. You know when you just have to have something?”
Yeah. I knew.
“You need to keep an eye out for your sister.”
As if she ever had to tell me to do that. “At school she pretends like we’re not even related.”
Mom rubbed her temples, like our conversation was giving her a headache. “Do it anyway, Gem. Whatever you can.”
6.
DIXIE HARDLY talked to me the next week. At school it was pretty much the same as always, but then she gave me the full silent treatment at home, too. It was a week of Mom not going out except for work, staying straight. Like she was trying to keep alert for Dad’s arrival, and whatever it might bring with it. She bought a few groceries—a roasted chicken, a jar of spaghetti sauce, boxes of instant rice. She asked me about school, how my classes were. On the weekend, she even made us breakfast. At noon, but still.
I was wary. It couldn’t last.
I wanted to talk to Mr. Bergstrom about everything going on—in our appointment or in a Come say hi anytime. But in our appointment on the next Monday, words couldn’t get past my throat, could barely form in my head. He tried to get me to draw on the whiteboard; I refused. He asked me if I’d found out what was in the letter and I lied, I said no.
He rocked back in his chair and waited, then rocked forward and folded his arms on his desk. “I’m kinda worried, Gem, to be honest. You’re upset, and I wish you’d tell me what’s up. Did your mom find out about you getting on the lunch list? Was she mad about it?”
“No.”
“Did I do or say something to make you not want to trust me?”
I shook my head. He hadn’t, but I knew when I heard the word that trust was something I didn’t feel for anyone at that time, even the one person who might deserve it.
“Okay. I’m not going to push. That works on some people. You’re not one of them. Listen, though,” he said, then paused for a long time. “For the record, I am here and I do actually care. It’s my job, but not just that.”
We sat quiet. Then I asked if I could go, and he said yes but without his usual smile. I felt I’d let him down.
Through another week, I ate, at school and at home. I did my homework, I kept my side of the room neat, I smoked my Haciendas. Every day I felt sure something would happen.
And finally it did.
On the next Tuesday morning, I got called out of English. “Gem,” Mrs. Cantrell said after hanging up the room phone. “They need you down in the office.”
A few people looked at me, including Helena Mafi, whose seat was in front of mine. “What’d you do?” she asked.
“Nothing.” I stood.
“You should probably take your stuff,” Mrs. Cantrell said. There were only ten minutes left in the period. I packed my bag.
You would think he’d know better than to just show up at school, where he’d have to go through the office and bring all this attention. That was his plan, maybe, catching us by surprise, making a dramatic gesture.
His back was to the plate glass window of the office as he chatted with Ms. Behari, the attendance secretary. I saw Dixie’s face before I saw his. She glowed, wide-eyed and happy, not the hard, cool Dixie she normally was at school. This was why Mom had told me to keep an eye on her. As tough as Dixie was, when it came to Dad she was a regular girl who wanted her father to love her.