“Come on,” Dad says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Why don’t I give you the grand tour.”
The grand tour consists of a brief stop in a galley kitchen, which is outfitted with an ancient microwave and crusty-looking counters. On to his bedroom, featuring the twin bed he took from my gran’s, the one he slept in as a kid, and finally a pocket-sized bathroom, where a slimy shower curtain covered in cartoon goldfish hangs from a rusting curtain rod.
“So that’s it,” he says. “I know it’s not much.”
It certainly isn’t. But I paste a smile on my face, look him dead in the eye, and lie. A talent, apparently, that runs in the family. “No, it’s great. I like it.”
“It’s only temporary. I’ll move someplace better in a few months,” he says. “I’d like to be closer to work.”
“You got a job?”
“Well, an interview. But I think there’s real potential at this company. Room to grow.”
“Dad, that’s great.”
I can’t help but feel hopeful. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time it will all work out.
“So? Shall we go out for breakfast?” Dad grabs his wallet and we head outside. It’s a beautiful day, the kind of blue-sky day when it feels like nothing bad can happen.
We go to the same restaurant every weekend and it’s not nearly close enough to walk to, but Dad starts down the street like that’s just what we’re going to do.
“Where are you going?”
“I thought we’d get some exercise,” he calls over his shoulder.
“It’s, like, thirty blocks! Can’t we take your car?” He keeps walking and I have to run to catch up to him. “Do you need gas money or something?”
He shakes his head. “I missed a couple of payments. It’s no big deal. I’ll get it back.”
“Are you telling me that your car was repossessed?” This has happened before, a few times actually, so I shouldn’t be so shocked. But I am. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone.
“Minor setback. I’ll get it back soon. After I … pay a few other bills.”
His bookie, he means.
“How much do you owe him?”
He hesitates. “Fifteen hundred dollars.”
Bailing him out is enabling him. I know this. But that guy was scary.
I do a quick mental calculation. If I give him the money, it will almost clean out my savings account. The most I can earn between now and September, when I’m back at school and working fewer hours, is seven hundred dollars. And that’s if I don’t spend another penny all summer.
If my mom finds out I’ve helped him, she will kill me. But what choice do I have? He’s my dad. He’s in trouble and I can’t stand by and do nothing. Gran would want me to help him. Besides, there’s no one else left to do it.
England will have to wait.
“I can lend it to you,” I say, trying to sound like I’m okay with this.
Dad’s shaking his head before I’ve even finished the sentence. “No, ladybug. I can’t ask you to do that.”
I force myself to smile. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.” I squeeze his arm. “Dad, it’s okay. It’s a loan. You can pay me back.”
He runs a hand through his thinning silver hair. “What about your band trip?”
“It’s just a trip. England will always be there.”
And in theory, that’s true. England will always be there.
At this rate, I may never get to see it, but it will always be there.
The relief on his face tells me I’m making the right choice. “I promise you, Quinn, I will pay you back,” he says, drawing me into a hug.
I should insist that he get help, that he learn from this mistake so it doesn’t happen again. But that’s all been said before, many times, by many different people. Whatever I have to say won’t make a bit of difference.
We start walking again. Dad’s steps are lighter and he’s chatty, trying to fill the space between us with words. I half listen as he tells me about his job interview. He hasn’t held down a job for any length of time in five years. Not since he worked with Wesley’s mom. And look how that turned out.
The last time I saw Wesley’s parents was at the going away party Gran threw for them. Mrs. James got some big-deal promotion and Wesley and his family were moving to Portland. I was miserable he was leaving and I avoided him for most of the night, figuring that, after an entire summer together, I might as well get a head start on learning to be without him.
Shortly after dinner—hamburgers on the grill, Dad’s specialty—Wesley found me hiding in the apple tree in Gran’s garden. He climbed up and sat beside me. The tree branch was just big enough for the two of us, but only if we sat really close to each other. I remember the roughness of the bark on the back of my legs, the smell of the not-yet-ripe apples, too bitter to eat and still small enough to fit in the center of my palm. What I could see of the sky through the leaves was purple and the stars were coming out. I caught glimpses of them twinkling like fairy lights, a million miles away. As out of reach, I thought, as Wesley would soon be.
We listened to the sounds of the party—the clink of glasses, the murmur of adult voices talking about things they wouldn’t have been talking about had they known we were sitting only a few feet away. I was glad it was getting dark because I was worried I might cry, and I didn’t want Wesley to see that. I had to keep reminding myself that being mad at him was pointless—it wasn’t his fault he had to move—and that maybe, despite the distance, we’d still somehow remain friends.
But we didn’t stay friends, obviously. Because not even five minutes later, Wesley opened his big mouth and told my mom that my dad had lost his job.
Everything bad that has happened since that night is Wesley’s fault. If he hadn’t said anything, my parents might have been able to work through their issues. They might even still be married. My dad wouldn’t be gambling. I’d still be going to London.
All of this—everything—is Wesley’s fault.
*
After our weekly crumpet—that I insist on paying for and, in the end, can barely eat—Dad and I walk a few blocks to the British store. It’s the last place I want to be right now but I’d already told him I wanted to buy some treats for Gran. He’s going to visit her today.
I could bring them to her myself, of course, but that would mean I’d have to actually go to the old folks’ home we dumped her in two months ago. And I’m not ready to do that. Truthfully, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
Union Jack’s is a specialty store that sells imported English candy and souvenirs. While Dad waits outside, I grab a wire basket and head past delicate floral teacups, a bobblehead of the queen, and commemorative tea towels of the Royal Wedding.