I think I miss Dad.
If Dad walked through my bedroom door right now, I’d tell him how cute Charlie is, wanting to study trivia. I’d also tell him how stupid Tucker Thomas is because he doesn’t want to go to a baseball game with his dad, and I’d remind Dad how much fun he and I had at the World Series game together. And I wouldn’t, no matter what, mention how awful I did on my geography test. Dad already knows I’m lousy at geography. He doesn’t need to be reminded.
I look at my bedroom door, almost expecting Dad to stroll in and say, “Hey, Butter Bean. What’s kickin’, chicken?” Of course, the door doesn’t open, and that empty feeling inside my stomach expands and makes itself comfortable.
While I’m staring at the door, a soft plink, plink, plink sounds on my window air-conditioner. The plinks get faster and louder. Finally, rain splashes against my window in a deluge. “Perfect,” I say, using my most sarcastic tone. Although I usually like the sound of rain, today it makes me feel like crying. I wonder if Tucker’s baseball game will be rained out. That would make him happy.
I lie on my bed, staring at the obnoxiously bright yellow ceiling. Yellow like the sun … or a boot … or a banana. I grab Phil, hug him to me and listen to the rain—plink, plink, plink—like fierce teardrops splashing.
I sit up and hold Phil’s fuzzy green hands. “If I miss Dad, I should call him. Right?”
Phil doesn’t answer.
We have a calling schedule that Dad came up with. He calls once a week on Wednesdays … when he remembers. But I should be able to call my dad whenever I need him.
I roll off the bed and go into Mom’s room to get the phone.
On the foot of Mom and Dad’s bed is a sock. Neil’s ugly black sock, with a hole at the toe. I pick it up with my thumb and forefinger, hold it out in front of me as though it’s radioactive and drop it into the laundry hamper. That sock doesn’t belong on Mom’s bed. It doesn’t belong anywhere in this house.
And neither does Neil.
I sit on Mom and Dad’s bed, away from where Neil’s gross sock had been. I have the numbers to Dad’s house dialed when Mom yells, “Dinner in five.”
Pressing the phone to my ear, listening to it ring, I yell, “ ’Kay,” hoping Dad doesn’t pick up while I’m screaming.
“I’m reading,” Charlie shouts, and I can’t help but smile.
“Good for you,” Mom yells. “Be down in five minutes.”
“Hello?”
The voice coming through the phone catches me off guard. With the three-hour time difference, I didn’t think she’d be home from school yet. Maybe she was sick today and didn’t go in. Maybe her school gets out earlier than mine. Maybe … I bite my bottom lip. “Um, yeah, is my dad there?”
“Really?” Nikki says in a totally snotty way.
Yeah, really, I want to shout at Nikki. He is my dad.
Neither of us says anything, but I’m breathing hard. I hear Stella—Dad’s second wife—in the background saying, “Who’s on the phone, Nikki?”
There’s a muffled sound. I chew on the edge of my thumbnail and consider hanging up—I have to go down to dinner in a few minutes anyway.
“Yes?” Stella says. “Who is this? If you’re a telemarketer, we’re on the do-not-call list and you shouldn’t—”
“Hi, Stella,” I say.
“Olivia?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh, hi, sweetheart,” Stella says, fake cheer oozing through the phone. I picture her spiky heels, too-tight jeans, poofy blond hair and dangling earrings touching her shoulders. I feel like becoming an emetomaniac.
I imagine Nikki standing nearby, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She never was one for being fake fancy, like her mom. Nikki liked things plain, except pizza, on which she loved extra mushrooms, onions and olives. I hate olives but was willing to pick them off my slices.
During the last summer break that Nikki was still here, we made a lemonade stand in front of her house. She did cartwheels when cars drove by to draw attention to our stand. It worked! We used the profits to buy a pizza—extra mushrooms, onions and olives, of course—and soda and a new Monopoly game for our mega two-night sleepover.
Having my best friend live at the end of my block was great … until her mom (who’d already been divorced twice) and my dad (who wasn’t divorced yet) decided getting married to each other would be a great idea. Without even asking how I felt about it, they got married in Las Vegas, then moved to Los Angeles to get a “fresh start.”
And they took Nikki with them.
Nikki.
Not me.
“Hi, Stella,” I barely croak into the phone, but in my mind, I think Hi, stealer. Dad stealer. Best-friend stealer.
“Did you want to talk to your dad, sweet pea?”
When Dad calls me one of his cute nicknames, it’s affectionate and I like it. But when Stella does it, it makes me cringe.
“Is he there?” I ask, my voice small.
“Honey, I thought he was supposed to call you tomorrow night. Isn’t that what you all agreed on?”
“Yes, but …” I wish I hadn’t called. I should have gone downstairs and helped Mom set the table for dinner. Then I wouldn’t have been in her room getting the phone and wouldn’t have seen Neil’s ugly black sock. And I definitely wouldn’t be talking to Stella the Stealer right now.
“He’s in Vegas, sweetheart. Some tournament or other.” I picture her waving a hand dismissively, her perfectly polished red fingernails slicing through the air. “He’ll be home tomorrow. Want me to give him a message when he calls in?”
“No,” I say, my mind reeling. Why does he “call in” to his second family, but not to us, his first family, his real family? “I can talk to him tomorrow,” I say as though it doesn’t matter. But it does matter. I don’t want to talk to him tomorrow. I want to talk to him now.
“Sweet pea,” Stella says, grating on my nerves, “he might be smack in the middle of something, but if it’s real important, sugar, you go ahead and call on his cell.”
I almost say Dad told me not to call on his cell unless it was an emergency. In fact, he told me three times. The last time, he yelled it. What can Dad be doing that’s so important, anyway? Especially in Vegas?
“You still there, sweet pea?”
“Yes,” I say, biting my bottom lip to keep from crying.
“Well, I’ll be sure to tell your dad you called. You take care now, sweetie.”
I hang up without saying Thank you or Good-bye or I hate you.
Dad should want to talk with me. Any time. Not just during his once-a-week phone calls to me and Charlie. Wanting to talk to your kids is part of being a dad.
I punch in Dad’s cell number.
“Dinner!” Mom calls. “Livi, set the table. Charlie, put out cups.”
Heart thumping, I cover the mouthpiece and yell, “Be right there.”
“Now,” Mom calls back. “I have to leave for work soon.”
“Okay,” I yell just as Dad answers.
“Yes?” he says.
“Dad?”
“Olivia? What’s wrong? Is this an emergency? Is Charlie okay?” Dad doesn’t sound concerned, just irritated.
“He’s okay,” I say, tears welling because of the mean tone in Dad’s voice. “It’s just that …” Why did I call?
“What is it, Olivia? I’m about to walk into a tournament.”
“I—” I can’t believe Dad doesn’t want to talk to me because he’s playing cards in Las Vegas. Tears threaten to breach the dams of my lower lids.
“Olivia?”
I don’t say anything, afraid I’ll cry.
“I can’t talk now,” Dad whispers fiercely. “I can’t be late for this thing.”
“Sorry,” I say, even though I didn’t do anything wrong.
Click.
Not So long. Not I love you. Not Tell your mother and brother I said hi. Just click.
“Olivia, come down right now,” Mom barks. “I already set the table. Y
our dinner’s getting cold.”
In our bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare in the mirror. My nose is red and puffy, like a clown’s nose. Like an apple. Like a red umbrella.
I try to suppress thoughts of Dad, but they seep in and make my eyes leak. Why wouldn’t he want to talk to me, his only real daughter? I swipe at my stupid eyes with toilet paper, then stalk downstairs. In the living room, I hear Charlie talking to Mom in the kitchen.
“The human scalp contains a hundred thousand hairs,” he says.
“You don’t say.”
I picture Mom touching her own hair.
Charlie continues. “The average person uses the bathroom six times a day.”
“I guess I’m way above average,” Mom says.
“Huh?”
“Eat your vegetables, Charlie Bean.”
I hear the sound of forks scraping against plates, and I sniff hard.
“Olivia?” Mom calls.
“One sec,” I say, hoping to give my nose more time to return to its normal color.
In the front foyer, I stand on tiptoe and peek through the small window atop the door. Streetlights illuminate the rain-soaked sidewalk, making fat raindrops glimmer like diamonds on Mr. Thomas’s silver Honda Fit.
I startle when I hear a noise next door.
Mr. Thomas charges down the steps, holding a folded newspaper—probably the one Mom writes for—over his head. I guess he’s trying to keep his bald spot from getting wet. Mr. Thomas definitely does not have a hundred thousand hairs. His bald spot is nearly as large as the fifth ocean.
Beside his car, Mr. Thomas pivots and yells, “Hurry up, Tucker! It’s not like I’m taking you to the damn dentist!”
I duck below the window, my heart stampeding. That’s what I thought earlier, that Tucker acted like he was going to the dentist.
I hear plink, plink, plink as rain drums the aluminum awning over our front steps. I hear the clink of forks against plates in the kitchen. Then I hear another sound next door.
This time I stand to the side of our door’s small window, straining to peer out without being seen.
Tucker walks down the steps like Charlie did when he was little, planting each foot firmly on the step before moving down to the next one. Tucker’s acting like it isn’t pouring outside. He’s pretending his dad isn’t waiting for him. What is wrong with that boy?
Mr. Thomas gets into the driver’s side of his car and slams the door so hard the sound reverberates through our front door.
I duck to the side, my breathing quick and shallow, but I can still make out what’s going on.
Tucker stands on the bottom step, twirling his umbrella.
If that were my dad, he’d probably drive away. You snooze, you lose, he’d most likely say. Not Mr. Thomas, though. He doesn’t even start the engine. He simply waits. And Tucker keeps twirling his umbrella, like a total dork who doesn’t realize how lucky he is to have a dad who wants to take him to a baseball game.
Finally … finally … Tucker reaches the sidewalk, and Mr. Thomas starts the engine. Tucker stands directly under the streetlight. Something registers with me as Tucker slips into the passenger side of the car. Mr. Thomas guns the engine and they pull away.
Tucker was twirling a red umbrella.
In the kitchen, Charlie reads trivia cards at the table while absently pushing stir-fry around his plate.
“Eat up, mister,” Mom says, grabbing her napkin and standing.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Forget something, Olivia?”
“Sorry,” I say. And I am. I’m sorry I wasted my time calling Dad when I could have been down here eating.
“Well, the stir-fry’s cold.” Mom gestures to my lonely plate at the table, then takes her plate to the sink. “Don’t forget the dishes and make sure Charlie’s in bed by eight-thirty. Okay?”
“Dishes,” I say. “Eight-thirty.” I slide onto my seat and dig into the stir-fry, eating around the celery—too stringy. Something about Tucker niggles at me, something I’ve never considered before. Maybe Tucker feels like I do sometimes, like he doesn’t fit in. I mean, he walks to school with Matt Dresher sometimes and sits at lunch with a bunch of idiot boys who think it’s hilarious to spout chocolate milk from their mouths like fountains and fling pudding at each other. (No wonder Tucker’s shirt is always stained.) But when I see Tucker outside of school, he’s usually alone. Maybe he feels—
“Olivia! Are you listening to me?” Mom waves a hand in front of my face. Her bracelets jangle.
Charlie giggles.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ll take care of everything. Go enjoy your meeting.”
Mom slaps a palm on the table. “Olivia, no one enjoys municipal meetings. Not the people who have to be there. And certainly not the reporters who cover them. I just hope I’m not home too late.” Then Mom mutters, “Guess I’m lucky to have a job, with what’s happening at work.”
“Guess,” I say, still thinking about Tucker and wondering why I’m wasting precious gray matter on that boy when I could be doing something meaningful—like studying cool but useless trivia.
Mom kisses me and Charlie on the tops of our heads, grabs her bag and leaves.
I let Charlie ask me questions from the trivia cards while I eat, but I don’t pay much attention because I’m thinking about other things.
Besides Tucker Thomas and his red umbrella, I think about Neil’s ugly black sock on Mom and Dad’s bed. I stop chewing for a second and realize it’s not Mom and Dad’s bed anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. It’s just Mom’s bed. And … and … that’s all I want to think about.
I shove a forkful of stir-fry into my mouth and remember how mean Dad sounded on the phone, like I was bothering him. Like I, Olivia Bean, his one and only real daughter, was an annoyance who kept him from what he really wanted to do—gamble! The stir-fry goes down hard, and I’m pretty sure I swallow a gross chunk of stringy celery.
I never understood why Mom got so angry about Dad’s gambling. Sure, he was kind of quiet when he lost, but when he won, he’d dance around the living room and take us out to dinner, and once, when Dad won a lot of money on a 54–1 horse race, he took us to Disney World for four days. Nikki joined us, and we had the best time ever.
But today, after hearing Dad’s irritation because I called while he was at a tournament in Las Vegas, I understand why Dad’s gambling might have upset Mom. When Dad focuses on gambling, he ignores everything else. I recall the Phillies game Dad took me to and my stomach cramps, because when I think about it—really think about it—Dad was so focused on the game that he didn’t even notice when some drunk guy spilled his beer on my pants, and I had to walk to the bathroom by myself to clean it up. Mom would never have let me walk to the bathroom by myself at a stadium that big.
I shake my head, dislodging those unpleasant thoughts, because even with Dad’s gambling issue, things were easier when it was just me, Mom, Dad and Charlie.
Charlie holds a trivia card close to his nose, and I wonder if he’ll need glasses like I do. “Ben Franklin wanted the turkey to be our country’s symbol,” Charlie says, “but it’s the eagle. Did you know that, Livi?”
“Yup.”
“I wouldn’t want to be a turkey, Livi. On our class trip to Pennsbury Manor, the kids laughed at the turkeys, like they were stupid birds.” Charlie bites his lower lip. “They’re not stupid, Livi.”
“No, they’re not,” I say. “But I wouldn’t want to be a turkey either. Especially at Thanksgiving.”
Charlie giggles and plucks out a new trivia card. He seems so happy. He was so little when Dad left. Probably doesn’t even care that we don’t see him and that Neil has moved in. I bet Charlie doesn’t even mind that Neil tries to act like our dad. But. He. Isn’t!
The phone’s ringing jars me from my thoughts. I’m glad for the distraction.
“Don’t answer it,” Charlie says, a bean sprout dangling from his lips. “Mom says we don’t answer the phone while we’re e
ating unless it’s an emergency.”
I grab the phone. “It’s an emergency.”
“Okay,” Charlie says. “But the house isn’t on fire and I’m not bleeding to death, so I’m telling.”
I press the Talk button. “Hello?”
“Olivia?”
For one crazy second, I think it’s Dad calling back to apologize, to say that of course I’m more important to him than some stupid gambling tournament. But it’s not Dad. And I’m so disappointed my shoulders sag.
“What do you want, Tucker?” I ask, falling back into old habits, forgetting about his red umbrella and that maybe he feels like an outsider too. “I’m not supposed to answer the phone during dinner,” I say, looking at Charlie. But really, I’m surprised Tucker called. It’s something he hasn’t done since we were friends a couple years ago.
“Oh, sorry,” Tucker says. “But I—”
“Aren’t you at the game?”
“No!” Tucker sounds super-excited. “On the way there, Dad heard on the radio that it was canceled because of rain. Isn’t that great?”
I pay attention to the sounds of drumming rain and whooshing wind. “I guess.” I don’t say what I’m really thinking, which is that it’s not great at all because Tucker’s dad probably really wanted to go. Tucker is such a lucky butt and he doesn’t even realize it.
“So, I was wondering,” Tucker says. “If maybe you want to come over and watch Jeopardy! together.”
I reel back, as if Tucker has reached through the phone and poked me in the eyes. “Jeopardy!—you? Tonight?” Why am I talking like Cro-Magnon Man? Did Cro-Magnon Man even talk? His cranial capacity was larger than ours, so it’s—
“If you want to, I mean,” Tucker says. “Of course you don’t have to. If you want to watch it alone, to, you know, focus, I totally understand.”
“I … uh …” I look at Charlie, who is sticking his tongue out with a piece of carrot on it. “I can’t, Tucker. I have to watch Charlie tonight. My mom’s working.” I gulp. “And so is Neil.”
“Oh.”
Olivia Bean, Trivia Queen Page 4
