For the rest of the day, that red voice mail icon lurks in the back of my mind, ready to explode into a million pieces the moment I touch it and destroy every single bit of progress I’ve made. If my dad never finds love and turns back into the person he used to be, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.
15
Elvis doesn’t win Best of Breed, which means we’re free to leave early. And that means I can’t avoid the Beth situation any longer.
As soon as we’re in the car, I pull out my phone, and that evil little red circle glares at me accusingly, daring me to listen to my voice mail. For a minute I seriously consider throwing my phone out the window and trying to forget that my screw-up ever happened. But my dad genuinely seems to like Beth, and if she suddenly disappeared from his life, he’d probably get even more depressed than he already is, which is exactly the opposite of my goal. Plus, if I chuck my first phone into traffic after having it for only six months, there’s no way my parents will buy me another one.
Mom and Krishnan are deeply involved in a boring conversation about some meal-delivery service and aren’t paying attention to me, so I huddle up in the corner of the back seat, take some deep breaths, and press play.
“Hey, David!” says Beth’s cheerful voice. “I’m so confused—I thought you said your old number was being shut off, but then I got a weird text from it, so maybe you are still using it? But you responded to me from your other number yesterday, and I’m not sure why you’d send me a picture of dogs? Maybe the number got reassigned to someone else . . . but I’m not sure why that person would send me a picture of dogs either. I tried calling, but the voice mail message is a robot. Anyway, call me back if this is still actually your number? I’m gonna try texting the other one again.”
No. No. No, no, no, no, no.
I can’t possibly deal with this alone, so I send my friends a message describing exactly how I screwed up and begging for help. All of them respond right away.
Keiko: OMG no, my Dalmatians messed up everything!
Jordan: You’re gonna have to ghost her
Keiko: Arrrrrggggghh this one was perfect tho!
Me: I can’t do that! Ghosting is so mean!
Mir: That wouldn’t work anyway . . . she has your dad’s actual contact info.
Mir: She’ll tell him about the weird text and the picture and he’ll figure out it was from the dog show and know it was you.
Mir: She might’ve done that already.
I feel sicker than I did that time in fourth grade when Jordan dared me to eat an entire package of Oreos at once. But then something occurs to me.
Me: Wait, you guys. My dad is TERRIBLE about checking his phone on the weekends. He doesn’t even respond to me most of the time.
Me: Maybe he hasn’t seen Beth’s messages yet?
Me: He probably would’ve called me if he’d figured out what I’ve been doing, right?
Keiko: Probably!
Jordan: Or maybe he’s waiting till you get home to yell at you in person
Mir: No, I think he would’ve called. He probably doesn’t know yet.
Mir: So you just have to get his phone before he does and delete the messages.
Dad’s always leaving his phone lying around on counters and tables, and I’m pretty sure he still uses my birthday as his passcode. He’ll be busy cooking for Italian Food Sunday when I get home, so maybe I’ll be able to steal it and do what I need to do. My stomach, which was clenched tight as a walnut, relaxes the tiniest bit, and I feel able to uncurl my body.
After consulting with my friends, I text Beth:
Me: Hey, who is this?
Beth (Yoga): It’s Beth
Me: From the yoga studio?
Beth (Yoga): Yeah. Who’s this?
Me: It’s Ella. You helped me when I crashed my bike?
Beth (Yoga): Oh hi!
Me: Sorry about texting you that dog picture
Me: I was trying to send it to my friend Bethany and I must’ve tapped the wrong name
Me: My dad gave me his old phone and I forgot to delete the contacts
Beth (Yoga): Oh, that makes sense! I was so confused. :)
Me: Ha, I bet
Me: You said you were gonna text my dad at his new number . . . did he answer?
Beth: Not yet
Me: When you do talk to him would you mind not mentioning the picture? He didn’t want to give me a phone in the first place and I don’t want him to take it back cause he thinks I’m not being responsible or whatever
Beth (Yoga): No problem, it’ll be our secret.
Me: Thanks!
Me: Hey, why were you calling my dad anyway?
Beth (Yoga): He texted to thank me for helping you and we kinda became friends
Me: Oh cool ok!
I slump against the window and take some deep breaths. So far so good. As long as Dad doesn’t look at his phone in the next forty-five minutes, I should be in the clear.
When Krishnan pulls into Dad’s driveway, I leap out of the car like the back seat is full of scorpions. I grab my backpack and my dance bag and run toward the house as I shout, “Love you, bye!” and blow a kiss over my shoulder. I fling open the door, kick my shoes off, and head straight for the kitchen, scanning the coffee table and the couch and the dining room table on my way—no phone. I peer around the kitchen door. Dad’s chopping veggies, and I skim the counters around him, but all I see are salad ingredients, empty jars of sauce, and half a ball of mozzarella. The kitchen table’s set for dinner, but there’s no phone there either. Where is it?
“Hey!” I say, trying to sound not panicked.
“Hi, kiddo!” Dad puts down his knife and hugs me. His voice is breezy and normal, which is a relief—if he’d gotten Beth’s messages, he’d probably be a little tense. I still have time to fix this. “How was your day?”
“Pretty good,” I say as he lets me go. “I did a bunch of trials for my science fair project, and I think I’m starting to see some patterns in the tail wags. It smells really good in here. What are you making?”
“Chicken parm,” he says. “I think it’s about ready to come out. You hungry?”
“Starving,” I say. “I’ll go wash my hands.”
I head into the hall at a normal speed, but once I’m out of Dad’s sight, I race through the living room and up the stairs. I search the office first, but the phone isn’t on the desk or the end table or in the filing cabinet or between the cushions of Dad’s favorite reading chair. It’s not on his bed or nightstand or dresser or the counter in his bathroom. It’s not in the guest bath. I even check in my room, though there’s no reason he would’ve come in here.
No phone anywhere. The only logical place left is his pocket. And if it’s right there within his reach, anything could happen at any time.
In a flash of inspiration, I pull out my own phone and dial his number as I run back downstairs—an incoming call will take up the whole screen, so he won’t see Beth’s messages. That boring marimba ring every adult has starts chiming from the kitchen as I make my way through the living room. “Ellabee?” my dad shouts. “Why are you calling me?”
“My phone was acting weird earlier,” I say. “I wanted to see if it was working. I guess it’s fine now.”
He silences the ringer. “What was wrong with it? We just got you that phone. It shouldn’t be acting up already.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was trying to call Keiko, and it wouldn’t connect.”
“There was probably bad reception in the convention center.”
“Yeah, probably.” And then Dad sets his phone down on the counter. If I take five steps to my left . . .
“Ready to eat?” he asks. I tell him yes, hoping he’ll have to turn back around to serve me, but he’s already got a full plate in his hand, and he holds it out. There’s tons of extra sauce, the way I like it, and my mouth starts watering like crazy. I take it and move toward the table, eyes still on the phone. Maybe I could say my glass is dirty, and then I cou
ld come back over here to get a new one and—
My dad’s phone chimes with a new text.
Before I’ve even had time to think it through, I throw myself between Dad and the phone. My plate hits the counter and slips out of my hands, and chicken and cheese and all that beautiful extra sauce goes flying. Only a tiny bit gets on my pants—the rest hits the dishwasher—but my plate shatters into a million pieces on the floor. Thank goodness I wasn’t eating off the octopus one tonight.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry,” I say.
Dad’s eyes go wide with worry, and he forgets all about the phone. “Did you cut yourself?”
“No, I’m fine. Just clumsy. Sorry about the food and the plate.”
“It doesn’t matter as long as you’re okay. There’s plenty of food.”
“I’ll go get the broom,” I say. “Let me—”
“No, no, no,” Dad says. “You don’t have shoes on. Don’t move or you might step on something sharp. I’ll be right back.”
He hurries to the front closet, and the second he’s gone, I lunge for the phone. I’m just able to reach it if I stand on tiptoe on my left foot and stretch my arm as far as it’ll go. It takes me a minute to make my trembling fingers type the passcode right, and for a second I panic that he’s changed it, but the phone finally unlocks on the third try, right as I hear my dad close the closet door. There are four long texts from Beth, but I don’t have time to read them. I write back “This is the correct number!” and then, with a few swipes and taps, I make the last few messages disappear.
And I’m safe.
Every single one of my muscles relaxes at once, and I want to melt onto the floor in a puddle of relief. But there’s already a puddle of tomato sauce down there, so I don’t.
“All right,” Dad says as he comes back in, wielding the broom and dustpan. “Let’s—What are you doing with my phone?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I mean, nothing bad. I wanted to see who texted you.”
His eyes widen, and a panicked look crosses his face. “Who was it?”
“Your dentist’s office reminding you to make an appointment for a cleaning.”
Dad’s face relaxes. “Oh. Okay.”
“Who did you think it was?” I ask. I’m so giddy and relieved that I managed to delete the messages that I can’t stop myself from teasing him a little. “Someone special?”
“No. There’s— No.” Dad holds out his hand. “Can I have that back now, please?”
I hold it out of his reach and dance it around. “Why, Dad? Is there all kinds of secret stuff on here you don’t want me to see?”
He sighs and leans on the broom. “I wasn’t going to tell you this tonight . . . but I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
“Wait, what?” I ask. “What weren’t you going to tell me?” My heart breaks into an excited gallop—is he really going to say what I think he’s about to say? I definitely didn’t picture this revelation happening while I was trapped on a tiny island of floor, surrounded by tomato sauce and broken plate shards, but I guess there’s really no bad time for a person to say he’s in love.
“Well.” Dad takes a deep breath. “Remember how I promised that if I happened to meet someone awesome, I’d go on a date with her, even though I was afraid it might upset you?”
I’m not sure how my voice will sound if I open my mouth, so I just nod.
“As it turns out, I did meet someone pretty special. And it’s actually all because of you.”
It takes a second before I remember that even in Dad’s version of reality, he met Beth because of me, and a flicker of fear must dance across my face before I can wipe it away. Dad’s eyes get all soft and concerned. “Are you okay, Ellabee? Because if you’re not—”
“No, I’m totally okay,” I say. “That’s great that you met someone! I’m really happy for you. But I didn’t introduce you to anybody.”
“Well, you did, in a way,” he says, and then he rubs his bald spot. “Remember Beth? The woman who helped you when you fell off your bike?”
“Oh, her!” I pray my surprise looks genuine. “She was so nice. You’re dating her? That’s awesome, Dad!”
“Really?” He lets a little smile creep onto his face, which is super cute.
“Really! How many times have you been out?”
“Just twice,” he says. “Tuesday and again on Friday. I was going to wait to tell you until it wasn’t so new.”
“But you had fun with her?”
“Yeah, I did.” Dad peers into my face like he’s trying to squint through my pupils and read the thoughts scrolling across my brain. “How do you feel about all this? Are you freaked out? Because if there’s even a tiny part of you that feels like you don’t want me to date after all, I’ll call the whole thing off. No questions asked. You’re entitled to your feelings, and it’s up to me to respect them.” He sounds a lot like Dr. Obasanjo, and I wonder if he asked her how to break this news to me.
“I’m not freaked out at all,” I say. “I’m happy. Beth is really cool.”
“She likes you a lot too. She keeps telling me what a great kid I have.”
“We should have her over for dinner,” I say. “Next Sunday! Can we? So I can get to know her?” By then, it’ll only be two weeks till the National Dog Show; if I want them to go to it together, I need to plant the seeds right away.
“This seems kind of soon,” he says. “We should probably wait and see if this is really going to become anything before—”
“Please, Dad?” I say. “She can have Italian food with us and see what an amazing cook you are. It’ll be so great.”
“Are you sure? Italian Food Sunday is kind our thing, isn’t it? Maybe I should cook something else and we can have Italian food on Monday instead.”
“You can make whatever you want,” I say. “We can have Italian food twice. I just want to hang out with her.”
Dad shrugs. “Okay. You’re the boss. I’ll ask her and let you know what she says.” And then he crunches right over the broken plate and squishy globs of sauce and hugs me.
“Thank you for being so flexible and awesome, Ellabee,” he says. “I’m really, really glad you’re onboard with this. I want you to promise me that if you ever start to feel differently, you’ll let me know right away so we can talk it out, okay?”
“I promise,” I say into his chest. “But that’s not going to happen. It’s totally okay with me if things change a little bit.”
16
People always accuse kids of being unable to sit still, but as we wait for Beth to ring our doorbell a week later, it’s my dad who can’t stop moving for two seconds. He paces back and forth and back and forth across the living room, tugging on his shirt cuffs, rubbing his bald spot, and picking invisible lint off his pants, which have such sharp creases that I’m pretty sure he actually ironed them. The clothes make me hopeful; he never wears anything around the house but his grass-stained jeans, and the fact that he’s all dressed up when we’re not even going out shows that he really cares what Beth thinks. But his constant fidgeting is making me seriously twitchy.
“You know it’s not too late to change your mind about this,” he says for the millionth time as he “straightens” a perfectly straight picture over the fireplace. “If you want her to leave, tug your ear three times like we planned, and I’ll—”
“Dad,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m the one who suggested we have her over in the first place, remember?”
“Right,” he says. But he doesn’t look convinced. Is he regretting inviting her over? I’ll have to work extra hard to show him how much fun the three of us can have together.
The doorbell rings, and I spring off the couch to let Beth in. She’s wearing this awesome black-and-white-patterned wrap dress and giant colorful earrings that clink every time she turns her head. It makes me feel totally underdressed in my sweatshirt and purple corduroys, but she looks really pretty, and when I glance over my shoulder at Dad, I’m relieved to see that he clearl
y thinks so too. She’s carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a poster tube in the other, and she doesn’t seem nervous at all.
“Hi!” I say. “I’m so glad you could come!”
“Thank you for inviting me!” Beth pulls me in for a hug, and I’m enveloped in that same smell of incense and coconut that clung to the sweater I still need to return to her. “It’s great to see you again. And I’m so relieved you’re okay with your dad and me dating. I really wanted to tell you the other day when—”
“I’m so happy you’re dating!” I say loudly before she mentions our text conversation about the Dalmatian picture. I try to give her a look like You’re not supposed to bring that up that, remember? But she’s already gazing past me into the living room, so she doesn’t notice. “Come on in,” I say instead.
Beth steps inside, and my dad gives her an adorably shy smile. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi! I brought wine!” She hands him the bottle, and then the two of them do this awkward dance where Beth tries to give him a hug and he tries to give her a kiss on the cheek. When they separate, she holds out the poster tube and says, “Ella, I bought something for you too.”
“Wow, thanks.” I pop open the top, inch out the shiny paper inside, and unroll it on the living room rug. It’s one of those inspirational posters that shows a mountain climber on a steep summit, silhouetted against a red-and-gold sunset. PERSEVERANCE, it says in big white letters. KEEP CLIMBING, AND SOMEDAY YOU’LL TOUCH THE SKY.
My first thought is how much Jordan would hate this poster; there are similar ones hanging outside our principal’s office, and every time we walk by them, she makes noises that sound like a cat hacking up a hairball. My second thought is how concerned I am for the person in the picture—what is she planning to do after the sun sets? It’s not like she can sleep up there, and climbing down in the dark would be super dangerous.
But saying any of that would be rude, so I thank Beth, and she beams at me. “I’ll help you hang it up later,” she says, and I smile and nod. The picture itself is legitimately pretty—maybe I can cut off the text part after she leaves.
Beth turns in a complete circle and takes in our couches and overstuffed bookshelves and fireplace. I love this room; Mom didn’t take any of the living room furniture when she moved, so everything has looked basically the same since I was little. I think Beth’s going to compliment Dad on what a cozy space it is, but instead she says, “I think the flow of chi in this room is blocked.”
Ella Unleashed Page 11
