Okay, so I'm looking for a good part of my novel to share here... okay, chapter seven. (My chapters are kinda short, as far as chapters go.) Oh, and the story is about a girl who lives in this small Texas town and desperately wants to get out, especially after her best friend moves to Chicago and the guy she used to have a crush on gets a scholarship to a university out in California.
Seven thirty sharp is dinner time in my house. I set the table, Mom sets out the food, and Dad comes home from work to take a shower.
It’s all very old fashioned.
“So Kris,” Dad says to me over his plate of chicken in something-sauce, “how’s things?”
“Fine I guess.”
“I heard your friend Becca’s moving,” he prods.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“That must be hard,” he says.
I shrug, “She’s doing fine.” In general, my rule in dealing with Dad has always been: use the fewest words possible. Our relationship is amicable at best, but by no means anything great and wonderful like you see on Seventh Heaven or those cheap Lifetime movies Becca and I watch. We may live like this is Leave It to Beaver, but it isn’t.
“How are you holding up?” he asks. Holding up. Like he’s a freaking psychologist or something.
“Fine I guess.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just goes back to the chicken.
And then Mom has to step in. Here’s the thing about my Dad rule: it works fine so long as certain people don’t interfere. And “certain people” means Mom. “Kris!” she says suddenly. So suddenly, in fact, that the milk I’m drinking spills.
“What?” I choke out.
“Why don’t you talk to your father?”
“I am,” I say irritably.
“Don’t take that tone with me young lady. You know very well what I mean.” Which is true. I do know what she means.
She means I never answer him with anything more than a (very) few words.
She means I am perfectly civil to him, but really
She means I don’t give him the time of day.
All assumptions are true. They are facts. And I don’t feel like arguing with her so I get up, dump the leftover food that is on my plate into the garbage, and lock myself in my room.
Through the door, I hear them talking.
“I swear,” my mom’s saying, “that girl has some learning to do!”
“Kerry, ease up,” Dad says. “She’s seventeen; give her some time.”
I can almost hear my mom rolling her eyes at this. “Seventeen my butt! What does that have to do with anything, Charles?”
“I’m just saying that when I was her age I was awful. Ten times worse than her. And you know it.”
“Christ, Charles, quit making excuses for her.”
“It’s not an excuse.” Another pause, “I just think she needs some time. She’ll come around.”
See, this is the odd thing about my parents. Dad’s the one I’m rotten to, yet he’s the one sticking up for me.
That says something about something, I’m sure. I just can’t figure out what.
I want to apologize to Dad.
Really I do.
But the thing is, I always do. But then I go up to him and start talking and he does another infuriating thing that gets me upset again.
Like this morning. When I wake up, Dad’s already at the shop, so I walk up there. My shoes make this empty, hollow, thud sound as they hit the dust, but I ignore it like I always have.
Then I get to his shop, push open the glass door that says, in big red letters, Charles Car Fixins! Like it’s a cheap barbecue place or something.
“Dad?” I say, looking around. The glass door swings open into his shoddily furnished office, where his computer, desk, and two chairs sit. Nothing else. Just those three things and a picture of him and mom when they were younger. “Dad?” I call again, opening the door to the actual work garage and poking my head in.
“Kris! Hold on! I’ll be just a few minutes!” He has to yell this over some machine whirring at high, high decibels. I swear, it’s a wonder he’s not deaf by now.
I take a seat in one of the chairs, crossing my legs over each other, then uncrossing them and folding my arms. Then unfolding my arms and sighing. Lordy, even being in here makes me nervous.
Finally, after what feels like eternity but has only been five minutes (I’ve been watching the clock on the wall) he comes in from the work garage. “So,” he takes a seat behind his desk. “What’s up?”
I start to open my mouth – really I do. But then his cell phone rings and he holds up one finger in the universal just one minute sign.
“Hello, Charles Anderson here.” He takes a pen and starts jotting numbers down. “Uh huh, yeah… sure… of course.”
So here I sit, twiddling my thumbs, resting my head in my hands, waiting for him to finish. I watch the clock as it ticks on. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes.
This is crap.
I wave bye to him and leave, making sure to give the door a nice hard SLAM behind me.
Did I mention he infuriates me? Because he does.
Okay. There it is. Any opinions?