Who's Your Daddy?

by Lynda Sandoval

  Hopefully, though, not for long.

  Nightmare or not, I wanted Ismet Hadziahmetovic to see me as more than a dorky little school pal, so I was doing what I needed to do to make it happen. If it meant I had to sneak around a little bit, compromise my convictions temporarily, well, it sucked but I hadn’t been able to think of a better way. I knew Lila and Caressa had become underwhelmed about my chances with him, but if it was just a matter of a little television …

  I parked sort of behind Sears near the Dumpsters, just in case one of my friends drove by and caught a glimpse of the car. My Volvo was totally recognizable and I’d be so busted. I’d hate that, because—truth told—I wasn’t 100 percent comfortable with, nor was 1100 percent proud of, these clandestine nights spent at Sears.

  I slipped into the store as I’d done so many nights before and, head down, I wound through the aisles I’d come to know by rote until I reached the TV section in the far corner. With a sigh, I pulled the program guide I’d smuggled along out of my backpack and gave it a quick scan. There was this show about winning a million bucks that sounded vaguely intriguing. I didn’t know what the show was, but I mean, who doesn’t want to win a bunch of money? Duh.

  I walked up to the TV in the farthest back corner and pushed buttons around until I happened upon the channel I needed, then I sat back and watched. My attention kept drifting, but the money show seemed to be some sort of televised testing process, where participants were awarded dollar amounts for answering the test questions correctly, and they lost money for giving the wrong answers. However, I couldn’t tell if the money they earned was symbolic, like Monopoly money, or real. No bills ever exchanged hands, let me put it that way.

  Huh.

  It wasn’t that I hated the show, or any of the shows I’d been exposed to since I’d begun sneaking into Sears to watch TV, but the underlying point of them was lost on me. I certainly couldn’t fathom how watching this or any of the shows would make a girl more dateworthy.

  Still, I kept watching, hoping I’d get the point.

  Operation: CIA, and all that.

  I answered all the questions correctly on the money show, which was at least fun, if not surprising. But aside from that, I just had to ponder the question of WHY I would want to watch some stranger being tested on their knowledge in order to win money. Why would anyone? Once, maybe. Or if you knew the person on the show. But, otherwise, it kind of annoyed me.

  Then again, maybe I just had to reframe it in my mind. I mean, it was kind of like debate, only glitzier and more cheesy. Maybe I could get used to it … but the thought of that made me feel bleak and grumpy. The whole bottom line was, I sort of wished Ismet would like me for ME, and not for my knowledge of television and stuff. Because I sure wouldn’t mind having my normal life back, only with Ismet as a part of it.

  I’d been disturbed to realize that my eyes had been more tired at night after I’d spent an hour or two staring at the Sears televisions, and I’d even started getting headaches. Not to mention, I had developed an almost constant nervous stomach, because I felt like I wasn’t being authentically me.

  Part of me felt like what I was doing was wrong.

  The other part of me just wanted Ismet to LIKE me.

  And there I was, stuck in the middle and feeling yanked by both sides. Tears stung my eyes, and I sat down cross-legged on the floor, leaning my back against a shiny chrome dishwasher. (The store was really small, so display space was at a premium.) I watched a bit more of the money-winning show, then crawled up to the television and hit channels until I got to this show where people who thought they were ugly got made over by experts and plastic surgeons and stuff. Again, explain to me why watching this would make me a catch?

  “You can use the remote, you know.”

  I scrambled to my feet and spun toward the voice, my heart pounding in my chest. The statement had come from a thin, late-twenties-looking guy wearing dress slacks, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a shiny electric blue tie that sort of didn’t go with the outfit. He had a Sears employee nametag pinned to his pocket, and he lounged against the chrome dishwasher with one ankle hooked over the other, just kind of studying me.

  My throat tightened. “I’m sorry?”

  “The remote.”

  I had no freakin’ clue what he was talking about, and it must’ve showed on my face.

  “To change the channels, you know? You can use the remote.” He waited for the big A-HA to register in my eyes, and when it didn’t, he picked up a little calculator-looking thing and showed it to me. “Instead of going up to the television, you just point this.” He demonstrated, taking us back to the money show.

  “Oh. You mean … from across the—oh yeah.” I touched my forehead. “That’s right. I forgot.”

  He laughed. “Where exactly do you come from? A little house on a prairie somewhere?”

  Embarrassment flushed through my body in a hot sweep, but I lifted my chin. “I just don’t have a television, is all. I didn’t remember the dumb”—I flicked a hand—“remote control.” Sheesh. How hard is it to get up and walk to the TV, anyway?

  He stopped teasing and cocked his head to one side. “You don’t own a TV at all?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about at friends’ houses?”

  I shook my head.

  “Wow, trippy.”

  “Look, I’ve seen remotes. I mean, I’m no idiot, but I just … never mind.” I wasn’t going to explain the lifestyle quirks of my family to the Sears appliance guy, for God’s sake.

  He pushed up off the dishwasher and walked a few steps closer. “Is that why you’re here several nights a week? Deciding on a television to buy for your folks, perhaps?”

  Man, I hadn’t thought about the possibility of someone noticing the weird redhead loitering in the home entertainment department on a regular basis. Was I in trouble? I mean, loitering was a crime, right? I stalled, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I’m just … checking them out. Sort of.”

  “Where do you live?”

  I had immediate flashes of the Sears Police driving me home, lights and sirens ablaze, and telling my parents what I’d been up to. It’s not like they’d kill me or anything, but I would hate to disappoint them or make them think I didn’t like our life the way it was. Then again, Sears didn’t have its own police force as far as I knew, so I was probably wigging for nothing. Still, I took a hesitant step back and flicked a glance around. “Why?”

  He held up both palms. “Relax, I’m just curious. I have a friend who subsistence farms at about ten thousand feet of elevation. He doesn’t have electricity, running water, or any ofthat. Hence, no television.” He shrugged. “I guess I just wondered if that was your deal.”

  Now I looked like a subsistence farmer?! God, no wonder no one wanted to date me. I started to feel irritated by the conversation, even though he seemed non-judgmental and basically harmless. Still. I stooped over and grabbed my backpack, then slung it over my shoulder. I tossed my hair and leveled a hard look at him. “No, I live in a regular house with flush toilets and everything,” I said sharply. “We just don’t have a TV. It’s not a required household item in America, you know.”

  He pulled his chin back with what looked like surprise. “Look, I didn’t mean to pry and I certainly wasn’t passing judgment. I don’t watch much TV myself.”

  I glanced away, shamefaced. Why was I so defensive?

  “Anyway, you seriously don’t have to leave.” He spread his arm toward the wall of blathering boxes. “Feel free to watch as long as you like. I won’t bother you.”

  “No. I—it’s okay,” I muttered. “I need to get home anyway.” I spun toward the front of the store and started walking swiftly down the polished, white linoleum floor. My arms were stiff at my sides, my hands in tight little fists. Suddenly, I started to feel like a jerk for my snotty behavior, and I turned back. The Sears guy didn’t deserve to be on the receiving e
nd of my Operation: CIA frustration. I met his gaze directly, even though it wasn’t easy to do. “Thank you. For talking.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Should I lie? Then again, wasn’t I doing enough of that these days? Without warning, I felt really tired. I just didn’t want to add another layer to my web of deception. “Meryl.”

  “Named after Ms. Streep, I assume?”

  “Who?”

  He chuckled. “Never mind. I’m Mike, and you’re welcome. For the talking, that is. I meant what I said.” He tilted his head toward the bank of televisions. “You can come in and catch a show whenever you want.”

  What if I don’t want to, but I feel like I have to if I ever want a date? I bit my bottom lip and seriously thought about asking him, but at the last minute I decided it wasn’t his problem. I gave Mike, the Sears guy, a closed-mouth smile instead. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Caressa

  Another New Year’s Eve had come and gone, and none of our rituals had succeeded in pointing us AWAY from Dylan, Ismet, and Bobby. After the apple seed rituals at the WP Christmas Market, we’d tried everything else we could think of. We’d had our tarot cards and runes read at Inner Power. We took a Saturday drive to the Metaphysical Fair in Denver and had our palms and tea leaves read. We tried scrying, Wiccan love spells—I even dropped a hundred bucks calling a 1-900-psychic, not that I’d admit it to my friends. But, anyway, NOTHING we tried gave us direction on how to fix our lives, and everything pointed to the three guys who hadn’t worked out whatsoever.

  Well … not yet. At least in my case.

  It was already the week of Valentine’s Day, and I’d convinced myself that Bobby Slade hadn’t written back to me because he’d been out on the road. But I happened to know that his twenty-second birthday was February 14. (Google is a beautiful thing.) Surely, he’d be home celebrating the big two-two with his family. Here’s what I figured: Bobby would take a birthday break from touring, and while spending time at his home in Louisiana, he’d take a few moments to catch up on all his correspondence, which included getting in touch with me.

  Voilà! Perfectly logical.

  That line of reasoning is why I found myself sitting by the front window watching for the mail carrier like a dog with a fondness for biting. Don’t ask me how, but I just knew there would be something from Bobby Slade. I don’t CARE about Lila’s and Meryl’s skepticism—fate was sending me a loud and clear message: Bobby Slade was my destiny.

  As I waited for the mail, I killed time by painting each of my toenails a different color from OPI’s Greek collection, looking up every few strokes to be sure I didn’t miss our rural carrier, Roland. Mail delivery was different up here in the mountains. There were a few of the standard red, white, and blue mail trucks people are used to seeing, but they usually made the rounds right in the center of town. For the outlying neighborhoods, most of the mountain post offices contracted carriers. In plain English that meant regular folks delivered mail to us right out of the windows of their personal vehicles. Cool, huh?

  Our mail carrier, Roland, is a nice old toothless guy who drives an orange Volkswagen Thing, which is this übercool ugly car from the olden days. He’s really friendly and carries milk bones for all the dogs who live on his route. I don’t think any of them have ever bitten him. He’s too nice! Plus, he wears regular clothes instead of that oh-so-recognizable uniform that makes dogs go, well, postal.

  Just then, I saw the Thing bounce up the dirt road and creak to a stop at our mailbox. I scrambled to my feet and waddled toward the front door as fast as my foam toe spacers allowed. I had bought a special pair of open-toed slippers, with thick rubber soles and felt uppers that closed over the top of my foot with Velcro but wouldn’t mess up my pedicure, and I hurriedly put them on. Dad must’ve heard the commotion, because he appeared at the door of his study, holding a music book and peering at me over the top of his half-glasses. He always looked ancient when he did that.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Where’s the fire, young lady?”

  “I’m just going out for the mail.”

  “Hmm.” He leaned one shoulder against the jamb and studied me with those creepily all-knowing paternal eyes. They made me feel transparent. “Expecting anything in particular?”

  Ummmmm … uh-oh. Hadn’t seen that one coming. I cleared my throat, searching my brain for an answer that would seem feasible. Birthday cards … nope. Not my birthday. Bills? Nah. I don’t have any. Presents—that’s it! Gifts to myself, that is. “Oh, just a shipment from Sephora.com.” I smiled blandly.

  Dad stared at me for a few moments, then shook his head and sighed. “What could you possibly need from them, child? Between you and your mother, we own every cosmetic known to man right here in this house.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Very funny, Daddy.”

  “Well, hurry on back in, chérie. It’s cold out there. I don’t want you to catch your death.”

  “Okay.” I reached for the door handle, but my dad stopped me before I could get outside.

  “Oh, Caressa. Tell me something.”

  I gave him a put-upon sigh. “What?”

  He tipped his head to the side and removed his glasses, tapping one earpiece against his bottom lip. “Doesn’t UPS usually bring those boxes from Sephora.com, rather than the U.S. Postal Service?”

  WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOPS. He was right. Who knew the old guy paid that much attention?

  I laughed nervously, but managed to cover pretty well, I thought. “Oh. You’re right. Huh. Oh well, I’ll just run and get the mail anyway.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Dad said, before raising his eyebrows in this certain disconcerting way, then slipping back into his study.

  Okay, he was giving me the willies. Did he know something I didn’t? Or did he suspect something that wasn’t true? Or something that was true, which would be infinitely worse. Or had he somehow intercepted a reply from Bobby Slade written to me?

  Waitonefreakinminute!

  I screeched to a halt right there in the portico, realizing the gravity of my mistake. My obvious, horrible, I-shoulda-known-it-from-the-beginning mistake. HOLY, HOLY, HOLY CRAP.

  BIG DUH—any reply from Bobby would’ve come addressed to my DAD, not to me. The forged letter looked, obviously, as if my dad had written it. It was SUPPOSED to look that way. WHY HADN’T I CONSIDERED THIS BEFORE? I WROTE the stupid thing, and yet, in my lovesick haze, this had never occurred to me.

  AUGH!

  There went any career aspirations as a spy.

  Then again, if my dad had already received a reply from Bobby Slade, wouldn’t he have mentioned it? I mean, it would’ve baffled him, since he’d never WRITTEN a letter, so he would have started poking around to get to the bottom of it … right? I was almost sure he would have, but I certainly couldn’t get all Nancy Drew about it now. If I started asking questions, odds are my whole forgery ploy would be exposed and I’d be grounded for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t be able to hang with LILA anymore, that’s for sure. My parents would start thinking she was this big criminal influence, which is SO undeserved. I probably wouldn’t be getting any more prize packages from Sephora.com, either. URK.

  God, I’d dug myself a Lila-esque hole with this one.

  I hurried to the mailbox and found, of course, nothing of interest inside it. Back in the house, I kicked off my pedicure slippers, tossed the mail on the entry table, peeled out my foam toe spacers, then took the stairs two at a time until I reached my room. Forget the pedicure. I’d fix it later.

  I signed online and checked for Meryl and Lila. Meryl wasn’t on (where WAS she these days?), but Lila was. That worked, because she was my partner in crime anyway. I IMed her.

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  Lila! Help!

  LawBreakR:

  What??

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  I royally screwed up!!!!!

  LawBreakR:

  How? What? What’s going on?

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  U know the
letter 2 Bobby?

  LawBreakR:

  Um … DUHHHU!! I signed the thing, remember?

  Lipstickgrrrl:

  I never considered the fact that, SHOULD Bobby reply, it would go 2 MY FATHER, not 2 me.

  LawBreakR:

  LawBreakR:

  Oh crap! R U telling me your dad got a letter from Bobby Slade? R U totally busted??

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  No, I don’t know if he got a letter at all. But, short of going through my dad’s mail, which I simply won’t do, how will I ever know?

  LawBreakR:

  [sigh] Settle down, Caressa, ya freakin’ crack smoker. Think about it logically. If your father got a letter or phone call back from Bobby Slade, he’d put 2 and 2 2gether and your a** would be grass. DON’T BORROW TROUBLE (as my father says). U haven’t heard anything because Bobby Slade hasn’t written back. CHILLLLLLLLLLLLL.

  Upstickgrrrrl:

  U really think so? [fret]

  LawBreakR:

  I know so. Come on, have I ever steered U wrong?

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  ROFLMAO!!!!!!!!!! Only like every freakin’ day of my life since 5th grade, U dork.

  LawBreakR:

  Ha ha, you’re so funny—NOT. Don’t worry. 4GET about Bobby, and I mean it. (Please, GOD, 4get about Bobby.)

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  I wish I could, [sigh]

  LawBreakR:

  That makes 2 of us. I gotta blaze, girl. I’ll TTYL, okay? Keep me posted. [SWAK]

  Upstickgrrrrl:

  Okay, thanks. Where R U headed?

  LawBreakR:

  Some stupid junior narc thing. What else?? Lila—unfairly persecuted and deprived of a life.

  Lipstickgrrrrl:

  LOL. TTYL, GF. Kiss Hutch 4 me.