by Sheri Duff
CHAPTER TWELVE
I sit in my room at my desk and sketch. My pollywog is Jack. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t find the perfect green colored pencil to match the true color of his eyes. My phone rings and I pick it up without looking. “First game of the season this Friday,” Dad says in that little-kid voice he gets when he’s excited about something. “You going?”
I’m still not done being mad at my dad. And, seriously, like he’s just going to talk about the game after that hateful message he left on my phone. Okay, I know it wasn’t hateful, but it felt like it.
“Hello?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’m not going to start arguing. It’s not worth it anymore. He can show his artwork to her first. I’ll get over myself. Maybe I’m taking this too far. And I started my period last week, which sends me off the deep end. I get all emotional and shit, crying for no reason. Not that this was one of those times. I had every reason to let the waterworks explode like that geyser in Yellowstone.
“Alicia could sure use someone company with me coaching.”
He pauses.
“What?” I ask. He’s got to be kidding. This is why I need to keep my guard up. Every time I bend he ties me in a knot, actually a double knot.
“I’m working with the Varsity O Line,” he says.
“Great.” I know he’s super excited about this. A couple of years ago I would’ve shared in the excitement for my dad. He’s dreamed of this opportunity to coach high school football. Before he started coaching high school, he won the three division titles in the youth Titan league. He’s been working with the freshman and now has moved up to varsity.
“She’ll be alone at the game.” My father’s not going to let it go.
“Really, Dad, I have a life. Remember, I’m in high school. This is my football team. My high school. When I go I sit with my friends. Mom doesn’t sit with me.”
“Your mom doesn’t go.”
“I wonder why,” I spit into the phone. Ooh, that was mean. But the woman he cheated with, that destroyed my family, was a football mom. Her son played on my dad’s team. My mom is over football.
“Okay, fine. Never mind. I’ll shut up.”
What a fantastic idea, Daddy!
I blurt out, “Dad, I gotta go.” I hang up and let out a scream. Not like the kind that would break glass. More like the kind that would send a mother racing to make sure her child is okay.
My mom shoves the door open to my room, trips over the pile of clothes strung across the floor, and lands on her butt. She scowls at me. “Dang it, Massie.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I feel bad. She’s asked me several times this week to straighten up my room. I keep meaning to do it, but there’s always something more pressing, like eating, sketching, hanging out with my friends, or staring at the wall while I think about Jack.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Dad called. Are you okay?” I close my sketchpad and stand.
Her butt is still planted on the floor. She scans the room.
“I know. I’ll clean it.”
“Yes, you will. And before you go anywhere.”
I help my mom to her feet. She flings a pair of jeans with her foot toward the corner where my laundry basket is. Two points for my mom, because the jeans land in the center of the basket.
“So I hear your dad’s trying to make up and you’re being a pill.” She walks over to my bed and takes a seat. She pats the space next to her and I sit.
“He asked me to sit with her at the game on Friday night.” I change the subject. I don’t want to clean my room so I’m hoping this discussion gets me out of it. I know I shouldn’t use this to manipulate the situation but I really don’t want to clean it today.
“What game and with who?” my mom asks.
“Dad got promoted to the Varsity team.”
“Football.” Her eyes roll back into her head. Not like me and my friends do it. My mother does this way better. Her eyes roll back, and then they twitch. I can’t do it. I wish I could.
“He wants me to sit with Alicia at the game.”
“What an idiot—I didn’t mean that,” she quickly clarifies. “I meant that I can see why you would say no.”
“I love the idiot comment. It’s so accurate.”
Mom doesn’t push anymore, which means she’s on my side for the moment. She pats my leg and says, “Sometimes your dad doesn’t think before he talks.” Then she walks out of my room.
I take this opportunity to pick up my room and not just hide everything. If she does a thorough inspection, this will give me even more points. I’m thinking I can use them to get her to let me stay with my friends while she’s in London.
A couple of hours and three trash bags later, Natalie and Vianna bounce into my room shaking their blue-and-white pom-poms.
“Whoa.” Natalie halts when she finds me lying on the floor in my favorite black yoga pants, which I usually wear to bed. “What the hell?”
She’s either shocked by my spotless room or she’s worried that I’m not going to the game. Probably the room. She knows I won’t miss the game.
“We’re tailgating before the game,” Vianna says. “If you don’t hurry up, we’re gonna miss it.” She wants to go because Hunter is kicking tonight. At least soccer boys are good for something.
“I’d like some of that good hot chocolate before we go in.” Natalie winks.
“Didn’t you drink enough at Andrew’s party the other night?” I ask. The orange soda and cola was not really what she was drinking. That was to keep me from lecturing.
“You’re such a prude.” Natalie hops on the bed.
“Someone’s gotta drive your drunken ass home,” I say.
It’s not like I haven’t ever drank. I’ve had my share, especially after the divorce. I like the mint taste of the Schnapps in the cocoa, but after I high-centered my car because I didn’t realize the road ended—I thought better of drinking and driving.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s my turn to let go. Why should I always be the responsible one?
