I’m looking forward to working with her more. This week I’ll only get Sunday in because of the game, but Peg and Max are understanding about prior commitments. I had to talk Dad into the work thing myself, but once the car was accomplished, it wasn’t hard. “Twelve bucks an hour, and even only working weekends, I can pay for my own gas. Besides, it’ll keep me busy. You prefer me busy, don’t you?” He agreed that he does, and I know it’s true, especially considering how much time I’ve been spending with Gabe.
Monica, too, but Dad doesn’t notice her the same way, which is kind of odd, all things considered.
But I’m not going to question it.
Tomorrow is Monica’s birthday, and tonight Syrah’s mom is out of town, so I’m going over there for a party, though I phrased it “cake and ice cream” to Dad.
I Even Baked the Cake
Not from scratch. I’m not that
great of a cook, but the mix
stuff isn’t so bad. I’m frosting it (canned icing, of course)
when Dad comes into the kitchen.
That there looks pretty good.
Save me a piece. A big one.
“Sure thing, Dad. Like there’ll be any left. Hey, don’t forget
about my game tomorrow.”
It starts at noon, and since I
figure we’ll party fairly late, I’m spending the night at Syrah’s.
Since when do high schools play girls’ basketball on Saturday?
“We only have a couple of weekend games. The rest are Monday or Friday nights. But this is a tournament.”
Well, I’ll try, but no promises.
Saturday’s my day off, you know.
In other words, he’d rather drink beer and play with Zelda. Thanks so much for all your support, Dad.
I Leave the Cake
On the counter, with a stern warning
to Dad, “Do. Not. Touch. The. Cake.”
I mitigate that and increase the odds of its survival by adding, “Please.”
I’ll be good, he says, taking a package of hot dogs out of the fridge. He puts two on a plate, takes them to the table. “Raw?
You could microwave those, you know.”
He shrugs. It don’t matter to me. I’ll eat something hot with Zelda later.
“Nice picture, Dad. I’m going to get
my jacket and take off. Be right back.”
On the way to my room, the telephone
rings. That is a strange occurrence.
We only have a landline because it
came with the cable bundle, and our
cell service can be iffy out here. I must sound surprised when I answer, “Hello?”
The woman on the other end mutters
something incoherent. Drinking, obviously.
She apologizes, tries again, asks to
talk to someone I’ve never heard of.
“Sorry. You have the wrong number.
No one here with that name.”
I hang up as Dad yells, Stupid jerk telemarketers. Tell ’em to buzz off.
“Wrong number,” I call, correcting
him before finishing my mission.
I grab my jacket, and by the time I get back to the kitchen Dad has finished his disgusting snack and popped
a beer. I’m glad I can drive myself
into town. Thinking about how many
times I’ve ridden in a car with him
driving under the influence is the stuff of nightmares. We’re both damn lucky to be alive and all in one piece. “Okay.
I’m off. You be careful, okay, Dad?”
He takes a long slurp. What makes you say that? Careful’s my middle name.
“Okay, then. See you tomorrow
at my game. Noon. Go to bed early.”
Careful
Go to bed early.
Don’t eat raw hot dogs.
Sheesh, I sound like his mom.
Still, I’m careful
with the cake, carrying it to my car and cautiously stashing it on
the front passenger seat.
I drive into town judiciously, vigilant about
speed limits and hairy curves. I park sensibly, well off the road in Syrah’s
driveway. I don’t plan on leaving tonight, so if I get blocked in by some partyer
it won’t much matter until tomorrow morning.
I’m wary about
announcing my arrival until I’m sure Syrah’s mom has already left.
So maybe careful is, in fact, my middle name.
The Mom Unit Is Gone
And seems like half the school knows Syrah’s place is an open invitation to fun, because within two hours her house is overrun.
So much for anything resembling a private party. The one thing I insist on is Monica having a piece of her birthday cake. I don’t mind skipping, but she does, cutting a giant slice. Compartiremos.
We’ll share. If I get fat, you do, too.
We share cake. We share drinks.
We share weed, but only a little because we both want to be on
our game tomorrow. Syrah
doesn’t much seem to care
about that, though she’s starting in Hillary’s position, and should.
The problem with this kind
of party is nobody worries
about trashing the place or
making too much noise. Not
surprisingly, Garrett and Keith show up, and they are two
of the worst offenders,
especially since they’re mostly soused when they get here.
At first, Syrah not only goes along with their obnoxious
crap, but actually flirts a little with Keith. When he goes to
take a piss, I pull her aside.
“What are you doing? Keith?
He’s disgusting. Whatever you
do, don’t let him kiss you. Who knows what goes in that mouth?”
He could probably say the same thing about you. She’s borderline wasted. But that’s okay. I like you anyway. And don’t worry, I’d rather kiss him. She points to Gabe, who’s just come through the door.
Shit. Gabe and Monica together again, and at Syrah’s party,
no less. I’d ask him how he found out about it, but it’s obvious something’s happening here.