by Marni Bates
I’m not good enough for him.
And it was only a matter of time before he realized it too.
Chapter 8
The whole notion of prom is fundamentally flawed. It’s meant to be one long romantic night; arrive in a limo with your One True Love in a dress with a matching corsage that elicits gasps from everyone in attendance.
Except if my One True Love is at Smith High School—well, I haven’t met him.
And I’m not willing to lower my standards to the point of kissing frogs.
—from “Promising Too Much,”
by Vida Condon
Published by The Smithsonian
I walked home.
I didn’t really see any other viable alternative, given that Isobel probably wasn’t speaking to me since I had ditched her with Spencer back at Dylan’s house. And the last thing Mackenzie needed while having a conversation with her dad for the first time in years was for me to call, asking if Logan could give me a ride.
My mom was still at work and wouldn’t appreciate getting a phone call during business hours at Sew Creative. And it wasn’t as if my dad would be in any condition to give me a lift home, even if he was working weird shifts in the hardware store this week. Assuming that he was at home, he was probably on his third beer and his fourth episode of NCIS. Or maybe it was SVU.
All of his TV shows blurred together for me. Someone was murdered. A concerned group of “good guys” tried to piece it all together. The case was solved. The theme music blared.
I had a case for him to solve: the one of his deteriorating liver.
That would be a much better use of his time.
Then again, my dad wasn’t looking for a good use of his time. He was looking for . . . actually, I wasn’t quite sure. Numbness, maybe. Or maybe he had just been drinking for so long that he’d stopped asking himself that question. What he wanted was a beer. And then another.
It didn’t matter that my mom and I desperately wanted to him quit.
Still, I’d never asked him to stop.
I had just accepted this as my way of life. Wake up. Make breakfast. Go to school. Come home. Maybe cook dinner. During most of the time we spent together, my dad would be quietly nursing a drink. We’d talk a little—stuff about my day, the idiocy of some people who couldn’t tell a Phillips head screwdriver from a wrench—normal, boring stuff like that, while he worked his way through the first one or two drinks. Then he would graduate to drinks three and four when I started making noise about going to my room to do my homework. He was usually on number six by the time my mom came home with a new quilt store sample project in her tote bag.
Unless he switched to something a whole lot harder.
Then there was no telling when I might find him passed out on the couch.
But I had never confronted him about it directly. My mom and I had discussed staging an intervention a few times, but it never went anywhere. We wanted to give him an ultimatum, but we couldn’t cope with the consequences if he called our bluff. If he didn’t stop drinking, then we would do what exactly ? Leave him?
He would be dead by the end of a week. Not from starvation or general incompetence, but because if the alcohol didn’t numb the pain of that rejection, he would use a bullet instead. That’s how I thought it would play out. And given the choice of watching my dad, the man I loved despite everything, drink himself slowly to death or getting that phone call from a neighbor that they’d heard a gunshot and that nobody was answering the door . . . yeah, I would pick the drinking.
I still couldn’t shake Dylan’s voice in my head.
He bailed.
So had my dad. Maybe Dylan had a point. It was time for me to stop running.
From everything.
I barely paused to scan the recycling bin—five beer bottles, one bottle of cheap gin that he had consumed last night—before I took a deep breath and forced myself to unlock the front door.
“Hi, honey.” My dad’s voice didn’t have the faintest hint of a slur to it, which meant he hadn’t made it even halfway through his latest six-pack. Good. “How was your day?”
I didn’t even know how to answer the question.
Really freaking terrible. I mean, I got to spend time with this guy I’ve been crushing on. So that would have been great if I hadn’t just totally screwed it up with him. And I’m not even sure why I said half of the things that I did. Why it scares me so badly to admit that I like him.
“Fine,” I lied. “Could we, uh . . . talk?”
My dad tipped his head quizzically. “I thought that’s what we were already doing.”
“No, I mean, yes. But—” I gestured awkwardly at the couch. “Could we really talk?”
He settled down on his preferred side of the couch, the place that had one enormous wet ring in the fabric from all the drinks he had rested beside him over the course of the past ten years. The couch we had before this one probably had a similar stain.
“What’s this about? Is someone giving you trouble at school?” My dad took a long pull from his beer as if he were bracing himself for the worst. Or maybe it was just because he wanted more.
There were times I didn’t know who made more excuses for my dad’s alcoholism: him or me.
“I . . . I’m, uh—” I stuttered before I froze.
There would be no taking back this conversation. So I hovered there, knowing that as soon as my silence was broken, my life would never be the same. My relationship with my dad would forever be altered by the outcome.
“I’m worried about you,” I blurted out in a breath. “Your drinking is out of control, Dad.”
He laughed.
That was one option I had never imagined. I’d anticipated a series of somber nods before he took yet another sip, or . . . for him to get defensive. Grumpy. Uncommunicative. Distant. Something.
Instead, he was acting as if I had pulled some childish prank on him.
“You had me scared for a moment, Melanie. I thought this was something serious,” he laughed again. “I just like finishing the day with a cold one. Nothing wrong with that.”
Denial.
I forced myself to remain outwardly calm.
“It’s not a cold one, Dad. It’s a cold eight.” My hands started shaking, so I pressed them flat against my jeans. “And if you had a long day at work—maybe a customer gave you a hard time about pipes or bolts or something—well, then time to break out the hard stuff.”
He rubbed his forehead as if I were responsible for a pounding migraine. As if he had just come home from a long, grueling day of work and the last thing he needed was his daughter giving him a hard time about the way he chose to relax.
My mouth snapped shut, but I still couldn’t find it within me to regret letting the truth out in the first place.
He bailed.
Maybe Dylan was satisfied with having that for an answer, but I had to try at least once to get through to my dad.
“I’m fine, Melanie. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
What was there for me to say to that? No, Dad, I’m not doing your drinking problem justice. It’s so much worse than I’m making it sound.
He kissed me on the forehead. A quick peck, a scratchy brush of stubble, and a whiff of the oh-so-familiar scent of liquor; then he ruffled my hair. I felt like I was back to being a six-year-old.
Because nothing, nothing had changed.
“I have homework to do,” I mumbled, moving toward my bedroom as I heard the click of the remote and another murder show claimed my dad’s attention.
I wanted to punch something. To rip something to shreds. Maybe throw a plate against the wall, shattering it into pieces. Something big enough that my dad would have to listen. Instead, I sank onto my bed and curled up so that I was hugging my knees to my chest while I tried to suppress the body-shaking heaves that wouldn’t quit. I wasn’t going to cry, though.
Not competent Melanie Morris. Not the girl most likely to move confidently between the Notables
and the Invisibles at Smith High School. She wouldn’t start blubbering just because her daddy refused to change his ways.
Although I wish somebody could get that message through to my body, because the tears were definitely sliding down my cheeks in wavering lines. And no matter how quickly I wiped them away, there was always a fresh set to take their place.
I couldn’t seem to move and once again, I heard Dylan’s words playing over and over again in my head. Only this time he wasn’t telling me that his dad had bailed on him. I heard him asking me a question.
What. Do. You. Want. Melanie? What. Do. You. Want. Melanie?
What. Do. You. Want. Melanie?
I wanted to scream, “I don’t know!” but I couldn’t get the lie past the lump in my throat. Dylan was right: I knew exactly what I wanted.
A father who would choose me over a beer bottle.
That was never going to happen.
My heart felt like it was being ripped to shreds by that simple truth. He was never going to be the man whom I needed. For whatever reason—assuming that a rough childhood with a disapproving mother I’d never met and a genetic predisposition to drink counted as legitimate reasons—that was beyond him.
I felt like I was being gutted. This, right here, was why I had fought so damn hard not to confront him. As long as I had been able to pretend that my dad would change if I ever mustered the nerve to ask him to do it, I had hope. I had a fantasy father who would face down his darkest demons for my sake.
That man wasn’t real, though.
I had wanted and tried and failed.
And it hurt like hell.
But it was also a relief. That fantasy father would still haunt my daydreams with his alcohol-free breath and his clean-shaven jaw. But I couldn’t keep beating myself up for not being good enough to make him a reality.
Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration; there was no escaping the what-ifs that constantly swirled around my brain. What if a proper intervention could convince him to enter rehab? What if we took him to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting? What if my mom and I left so that he could finally hit rock bottom?
What if he required his life to get that bad in order to make a change?
Yeah, I would be wondering those questions for years to come. And that was only if I got lucky and he didn’t drink himself into the grave first.
Still, I had spoken up.
I had finally admitted what I wanted, and there was a comfort in that knowledge even in the wake of rejection.
Now I had to face the unavoidable fact that you can’t always get what you want.
If it matters enough to you, then it’s worth crying through the pain.
And there was someone else who mattered enough to me.
So the real question was whether or not I had the courage to face another rejection.
Chapter 9
“It’s not fair!” Bethany Smarson pouted as she turned to face her part-time friend—and full-time rival—Ashleigh Brody. “We’re totally, like, the most popular girls at this school. How is it even possible that we don’t have dates to prom yet?”
Ashleigh contemplated that deep theological question while she checked to make sure her spray tan wasn’t blotchy. “Well . . . who do you want to go with?”
“Nobody in particular,” Bethany murmured coyly.
It was a lie and even Ashleigh knew it.
—from “Prom and Backstabbing,”
by Jane Smith
Published by The Wordsmith
Dylan had told me to give him a call when I figured out what I wanted, but I didn’t think he meant that literally.
I didn’t think I could handle having that conversation any other way than face-to-face. Although I couldn’t help imagining his reaction if I tweeted him.
HEY @DYLANWELLESLEY, I LIKE YOU. WANT TO BE SEEN IN PUBLIC WITH ME? ON A DATE? #SORRYABOUTYESTERDAY #MYBAD
Yeah, that wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all.
Especially if his response didn’t require anywhere near the 140 allotted characters.
NO THANKS, @MELMORRIS.
And, okay, it wasn’t like a private phone call would have any chance of turning into a public humiliation. But it also wasn’t exactly romantic. I mean, best-case scenario? He would forgive me and then we would have to awkwardly discuss our schedules in an attempt to seal it with a kiss.
My pulse raced so quickly at the thought of finally feeling his lips against mine, I very nearly backed out of my own plans.
In some ways a rejection from Dylan would be worse than having my dad pretend his drinking wasn’t a problem. My dad was a permanent fixture in my life and for all his flaws, I knew he loved me unconditionally. But Dylan?
It was entirely possible that I had already used up his patience.
I was already sick of dealing with myself.
But hey, he had managed to like me even after I shut him down right after the party. He had even tried to chat with me—twice—at his house. So maybe it wasn’t a total lost cause.
Then again, all of that had happened before I had pointed out that I didn’t want to be seen in public with him. Hard to imagine him just shrugging that one off. In fact, it was hard to see him wanting to speak to me at all. Ever.
It wasn’t like he would have any trouble finding someone to replace me in his affections either. There was probably a whole host of girls in his class who’d be perfectly willing to stand in the bleachers during his soccer games so they could see him flash a wild grin beneath a coat of mud.
I had to keep repeating to myself that if he wanted someone else, I would be happy for him. I would back off gracefully. I wouldn’t be as selfish as he had accused me of being yesterday. If he didn’t want me back, well, that might not be the worst thing to happen to him, considering that I was a mess.
And I wasn’t trying to hide that fact from myself anymore.
I kept my head down at school the next day and avoided Mackenzie at all costs so that I wouldn’t be tempted to dig into how Dylan was doing in the wake of all the dad drama that had just gone down at their house.
I couldn’t avoid Isobel, though.
“You have no idea what you got me into,” she hissed as she dragged me away from my locker and the prying ears of a small group of wannabe Notables who might try to climb their way into the in crowd by shoving us further down the social ladder.
“Yeah, about yesterday . . . I owe you an apology.”
Isobel’s eyes were frantic. “An apology?!” she choked. “Oh, you owe me a whole lot more than that! You talked me into going to Mackenzie’s house only to ditch me with Spencer King!”
Ouch. Yeah, I definitely wasn’t going to be getting a best friend of the year mug.
“Any chance the two of you got along brilliantly?”
Isobel shoved her glasses up her nose, but the lens did nothing to obscure the withering glare she shot me. “You also didn’t take any of my phone calls!”
I was tempted to tell her why. To explain that I had spent the night grieving for a father I would never have. That I’d been busy trying to tamp down the brutal, gnawing ache in my heart while simultaneously working up the courage to face my fears. To start making the kinds of decisions I’d look back on without regret.
But I still should have answered my phone.
Ignoring my best friend in her time of need wasn’t exactly a source of pride. No doubt about it, I had dropped the ball.
“So what did the two of you talk about in the car?”
Isobel glanced furtively around us and then apparently decided that it still wasn’t safe enough to disclose such top-secret information.
“Something that will probably lead to my death,” she mumbled.
I rolled my eyes. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Not really. Steffani Larson never struck me as particularly bright, but Ashley McGrady might be able to poison me. She’s probably got access to chemicals at whatever salon turns her orange on a regular basis.”
&
nbsp; “You’re being paranoid, Izzie. You didn’t make the best impression with them yesterday, but I hardly think they’re out for your blood.”
“You have no idea what’s going on, Melanie,” she snarled. “No. Freaking. Clue. I’m going to have to join witness protection and then where will you be, huh? Riddle me that, Batman!”
I stared at her in confusion. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay, Iz? Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act this way.”
She breathed out a long gust of air that succeeded only in flapping her bangs and mumbled something that sounded like, “Doctor Who, this would be a really great time for you to show up in the TARDIS!” before her eyes locked on to something behind me.
Or maybe I should have said someone.
Spencer King.
And he was headed right toward us.
“Crap!” Izzie squeaked. “Cover for me!”
Then she bolted. It wasn’t a particularly impressive physical display. Izzie isn’t exactly athletic, and her heavy footsteps resounded in the hallways as she sprinted away. Then again, I think the only thing she cared about was putting as much space as humanly possible between herself and the King of the Notables.
I turned on Spencer, ready to slice him to ribbons if I didn’t like the answer to one simple question. “What did you say to her?”
“Oh hey, Melanie.”
I moved closer, not caring who caught sight of me stalking toward Spencer. “If you hurt my best friend—”
“Relax. Instagram and I get along just fine.”
“Isobel.”
“Right. We’re fine.”
I shot him a disbelieving look. “Then do you want to explain to me why exactly she ran out of here as if Fake and Bake planned on using her for a makeup demonstration?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spencer said easily. “But I’ll be sure to ask her. She usually goes to the library after school, right?”
I found myself nodding instinctively. Then my brain caught up with my body. “Uh, no. She goes—”
