My father was quiet for another moment, and then I did look at him. It was the first time I had looked at him since our fight. There was a discolored bruise on his right cheek and whatever was left of a cut on his lip. Triumph flooded my chest, and I held my head higher.Ihad done that. For once,Ihad hurthim.Ihad given him reason to make up lies, stories, excuses to his clients and employees at the law firm, just as I’d been lying for him for years.
And that was when I noticed something else—the look in his eyes. In them, I saw something reflected that I’d never seen before.
He wasproud.
Ofme.
I had finally, finally, for the first time in my life, done something right by my father’s standards, and I didn’t really know what to do with that.
“I, um … I’ll go after school tomorrow,” I said softly, holding his gaze.
He nodded approvingly, satisfied. “All right. I’ll tell your mother to cook dinner.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The real slap in the face was that, from that point on, my relationship with my father—if you could call it that—wasn’t all that terrible.
The tension was certainly there. We hardly spoke. But it was almost as though we now had an unspoken agreement that, after graduation, I would be leaving and he would tolerate my existence until the day he could forget I ever existed at all.
I had taken the bus down to the Military Entrance Processing Station the day after I told my father I would and expressed my interest in joining the Army. The recruiter was thrilled with my enthusiasm, and because I was already eighteen, I was free to enlist. He told me that, in order to begin basic training, I’d need my high school diploma, and that was fine. It was only a few months away.
The only people who knew, apart from Dad and me, were Lucy and Grace. Nobody else. Not my mother, not Ricky, not Laura. I had kept it between those of us at thedinner table, not wanting to talk about something that wasn’t happening until after graduation anyway.
But one day, the signs for junior and senior proms started to pop up around the school hallways. I couldn’t say I cared much about it, but Ricky did.
And more importantly,Lauradid.
I wasn’t sure I could call myself her boyfriend. Months had gone by, and we hadn’t kissed again since that first time. But sometimes, her fingers would reach out for mine in the hallways, and we always spent our lunch break together, reading more than talking. It was a daily occurrence for me to spend time with her, and that felt like enough.
She wanted more though, and that was made obvious by the envious looks she gave Ricky and Molly as they kissed our lunch break away. Yet I never saw her show interest in any other guys. It was always just me, and for me, it was always just her. Whether we were making out or not.
But I was leaving, and she didn’t know.
“Do you …canyou take me to prom?” she asked abruptly during lunch, looking up from the pages ofThe Hunchback of Notre Dame.
I stared into her hopeful eyes and hated that I had to hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. God, it felt so stupid. I was eighteen and had to wonder if I wasallowedto take my prettiest friend to the school dance.
“Okay,” she replied softly, even as the hope in her eyes was snuffed out.
She didn’t bring it up again for the duration of our lunch break, and when we went our separate ways, I was filled with determination to put that spark back where it belonged.
That afternoon, I went home to find my mother in her robe, shuffling around the kitchen in a half-sleep stupor. The older I got, the more I realized how abnormal her condition was. I didn’t know what exactly was wrong, didn’t know if it was organic or a result of something—someone—else. But it made me uncomfortable. It scared me to see her like that, day in and day out. It scared me more than my father ever did.
What are they going to do when I’m gone?
My feelings on the thought flip-flopped daily. Some days, I was excited to go, to get out of this house and see, do,besomething else. Other days, I was filled with terror … and today was one of those.
Mom’s lids were half-mast as she turned around from the stove, holding a pot of boiling water. She didn’t notice me, and we collided. The pot sloshed in her hands, half of its contents spilling on my sneakers and her bare feet. As she screamed, I grabbed the pot from her hands, placed it on the counter, quickly pulled the hose from the faucet, and sprayed her feet with the cold water.
“Look what you did,” she cried, gripping her tangled hair. “The floor is all wet. Your father will kill us both for this.”
“It was an accident, Mom,” I told her as I grabbed the dish rag. “Let me see your feet.”
She shuffled from my view, sloshing through the puddle. “No! You’ll make it worse!”
“Mom,please.” I moved closer to her, knees in the water.
