Father Knows Best

by Lynda Sandoval

  “Yes,” I said in a rush. “I swear. I’ll tell you everything I’m feeling or thinking every single moment for the rest of my life.” I swallowed. “Like, for example, I really want to kiss you right now.”

  That was when we started making out.

  Really, you don’t need details about that aspect of our big talk, okay? Use your imagination.

  When we finally broke apart, our breathing seemed heavier, parts of me felt throbby and off-kilter, and I loved it. Hey, I’m only human. Dylan ran his hand through the side of my hair, and he seemed equally off-kilter. I didn’t detect any throb activity on his behalf, but I just assumed it was there.

  “So…” He touched the edge of my nose. “On the rare occasion that she actually eats, Jennifer likes German chocolate cake. Just a tip, in case that was part of the planned birthday festivities.”

  A cake. Oops. I hadn’t even thought of that. “Oh, she eats now. Trust me. Like for two or three.” Hadn’t he seen her expanding girth recently? I smiled. “You’re the best boyfriend ever, did you know that?”

  “Duh,” he deadpanned.

  I laughed. “Modest, too.”

  “You’re not half bad yourself, Lila Jane Moreno,” he said in that deep but soft tone of voice that always made me turn into one of those stupid girls I silently mocked, all sighs and eyelashes batting and googly. Lame.

  Proof positive of my transformation into the aforementioned stupid girl, I sighed. Couldn’t help it. I decided to turn the conversation to something that would render me less mockworthy. “So”—I smacked my palm on his thigh—“about the Monopoly tournament.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “What about it?”

  “I know you said couple-couple, but I think it should be girls versus guys.” I jostled my shoulder against his. “I want the opportunity to royally kick your testosterone-fueled asses, and believe me, we will.”

  He grinned. “You’re on, but you’re also dreaming. Prepare to die in the poor house, woman.”

  And then, with everything settled between us, we made out some more.

  I have to admit, those hideously over-the-top waffle cone thingies Dylan seemed so fond of taste pretty good on his lips.

  Chapter Thirteen

  T-minus forty-eight hours until the infamous birthday sleepover, and I still hadn’t come up with a single decent gift idea for ol’ Jennifer.

  Stretch mark ointment?

  First day of school maternity smock?

  A gift certificate to Humongous-Bras-R-Us?

  They all sucked. I was pondering this very issue as I tossed a green salad to go with Dad’s world-famous chicken enchiladas Wednesday evening while Chloe set the table.

  Hang on.

  Can you even grasp how huge it is that it no longer seems whack to me when Chloe joins us for dinner? It’s usually when Dylan has evening training sessions for the WPHS ski team, by the way, which is practically every night now that school is creeping up on us. It’s not like she abandons him at their house to eat Pop-Tarts in front of the TV while we dine on my dad’s meals, not that Dylan would mind. (Guys.) But still. The point is, he’s never excluded, he just seems to have ski team training around dinnertime. And the super-secret truth is, I’m okay with it, what with that whole stepbrother-stepsister-boyfriend-girlfriend freakishness always lurking around the corner.

  The scents of chicken and chile and melted cheese permeated the room. My dad let me pick the dinner music, so Bob Marley wailed softly in the background, making me wish—and not for the first time—that I was a Caribbean beach-dwelling Rastafarian. (Don’t ask—it’s just one of those inexplicable childhood fantasies that clung.)

  In short order, we sat down to the dinner I’d been looking forward to all day, and yet—I don’t know—call me paranoid, but it seemed like Dad and Chloe were hiding something. Don’t get me wrong—serving dishes were passed, water was poured, clink, clink of the silverware and whatnot, all that normal stuff. But I am my father’s daughter when it comes to trusting the gut feeling.

  Evidence: they both had smirky smiles on their faces that they were obviously trying (and failing) to hide, and the conversation hovered on the surfacey level. It was all way too chipper, too, like all the important things were left unsaid.

  It started to give me the creeps. It reminded me too much of the day Meryl and Caressa broke the news that Jennifer was preg—

  My hand spasmed, and I flicked a forkful of enchilada onto the table.

  Oh no! Was Chloe pregnant?!

  I shoved the thought away and stared down at my plate taking deep breaths. Dad’s chicken enchiladas, I told myself, in an effort to get back in the groove. My favorite meal.

  It didn’t work.

  The stress level was destroying my ability to groove with the food. That’s just wrong. I set down my fork with a clank that I hope conveyed my annoyance. “Okay. I can’t take this tension for the whole meal.”

  “Excuse me?” Dad asked.

  “Come on, Dad. You’re the one who taught me to trust my instincts.” I glared from him to Chloe and back. “Something’s wrong. Don’t bother denying it.”

  They exchanged a glance that had guilt written all over it.

  “Well? What is it?” I asked, looking from one to the other. All the stuff it could be swirled through my head…marriage, pregnancy, a breakup. I didn’t puke; point in my favor.

  “Dad?” I demanded.

  After an internal struggle that played out on his face like the Cirque du Soleil of expressions, he blurted, “Your eighteenth birthday is coming up,” in total non-sequitur fashion.

  Was he kidding? My gaze bopped around the room. “O-okay, yeah. I know. It’s been penciled in my mental calendar since kindergarten. Not really an answer to my question, though.”

  “Actually, it is,” Chloe said. “Sort of.”

  Now she had my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “First of all,” Dad said, having regained his composure, “nothing’s wrong. We were going to tell you after dinner, that’s all.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, you should have worked on the sly thing so I didn’t pick up on the ‘secret, secret, who has a secret?’ vibe.” I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms over my abdomen. “You have to tell me whatever it is now. This is torture. I can’t even eat.”

  Chloe touched my dad’s forearm as if to say it was okay, then focused on me. “You’ve done such an amazing job at the agency, Lila, that your dad and I have been racking our brains for the perfect, extra-special birthday present.” Her perfectly shaped brows raised. “Your eighteenth. That’s big.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “So this gift is part birthday and part bonus for all your hard work at the agency,” Dad said.

  “Wow. Thanks.” My throat tightened, my brain raced with expectation, and I could think of just one word.

  Phuket.

  Yeah, I know, it has nothing to do with anything. But it had become the theme word of my summer job, I’m afraid to say. I’m Just That Juvenile, ladies and gents. Deal with it. I stayed silent, waiting for them to spit it out.

  Chloe pulled a face. “One concession: you’re stuck with me as a chaperone. I hope you girls can handle that.”

  Chaperone? Girls? Heh? I was completely confused. I felt like they’d duct-taped me to the wall, and they were chucking random puzzle pieces of info at me, expecting me to somehow grasp the whole picture. Which I wasn’t. “Just tell me. Please!”

  Dad grinned. “Okay, okay.” He paused just long enough for me to get dizzy with anticipation. “In a couple of weeks, Chloe is taking you and Meryl to New York City for a girls’ weekend, and you’ll get to see Caressa’s show.”

  My entire DNA lurched, I was so stunned by his words. Can I just say, U-N-E-X-P-E-C-T-E-D. In a global way. Holy, holy, holy—I gripped onto the table edge, shaky with excitement, jaw hanging open. I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start. “Oh my God! D-
does Meryl—?”

  “It’s all been cleared with Meryl’s parents and her bosses, but she doesn’t know about it yet.” Dad winked. “We thought we’d tell you first, since it’s your birthday gift, and let you pass on the surprise.”

  “It has to be before your actual birthday, because Caressa will be home by then,” Chloe added, with a sympathetic twist to her lips. “Hope that’s okay.”

  Like what was I going to say? Stomp! “I will not go to New York City before I’m officially eighteen, and that’s final!”

  Adults, I swear.

  Like, who cared when? I almost passed out, I was so psyched. “Oh. My. God! Dad! Chloe! Really?”

  They nodded. “Happy birthday, m’ija,” Dad said.

  I widened my eyes at Chloe. “You guys did this all behind the scenes? Without slipping up?”

  “At the agency while you were there, in fact.” Chloe laughed. “We’re good, aren’t we?”

  I admit it—my cool flew straight out the window like a bird. I jumped up from my chair and danced around, squealing and laughing like a simpleton. When I’d regained a semblance of my composure, I gave both of them huge bear hugs, then demanded all the pertinent details, none of which I could actually retain. I mean, New York City! And Caressa’s show! And getting to meet her hottie dancer boyfriend! Could it get any better than that?

  When I finally sat back down, my tummy was so swirly I couldn’t eat. Well, except for dessert, because my dad’s homemade flan—a Mexican caramel custard—was To Die For, and there’s always room for dessert. But it was all good, because leftover chicken enchiladas make a great breakfast (really), so I’d get to enjoy them tomorrow with my coffee.

  I repeat: Oh. My. God.

  New York City!

  I kept blurt-giggling as my wannabe chef Dad plated the jiggly flan, topped it with caramel sauce, then set it before us. I couldn’t help it. Dad and Chloe continued blabbering about the details, but all I heard was, like, “Flight-blah blah blah-Hotel-blah blah blah—New York City!”

  I couldn’t think of a better eighteenth birthday gift!

  Honestly, it was utter perfection.

  And that’s when it hit me, right during my second bite of flan. The brainstorm. Actually, I don’t know if it was a brainstorm or a brain fart, but there you have it.

  I swallowed my flan, heart pounding, then looked across the table at Dad and Chloe. “Um…I just thought of something. It might not be possible, but…” Doubt crept in like a squatter. “No, never mind.”

  Dad glanced at Chloe, then back at me. A line of curiosity bisected his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I just…” Maybe I should just go ahead and ask. I’d already started. UGH!

  “What is it?” Dad urged.

  I had to take several breaths before I could get the question out without sounding shaky. “Do you think, maybe, Jennifer could come with us?”

  That rendered them both dead silent.

  I mean, they looked shell-shocked, truth be told, which made sense because they know Jennifer’s and my sketchy history. Or, wait—maybe it was a fiscal blow. Maybe I’d asked for too much.

  Maybe I seemed ungrateful!

  I cleared the panic from my throat and, you guessed it, rambled. “I mean, I only suggest it because she’s had a crappy summer. Like, the crappiest. And she’ll have to face the evil flying monkey posse on a daily basis come September. So her senior year will be even worse which, like Dylan told me, you can’t really relive. Unless you’re Bart Holyoke, who relived it twice, but it’s not the same thing—Dylan said that, too. What I mean is, Jennifer won’t be able to cheerlead—is that a word? I’ll ask Meryl. Or wear cute clothes, and oh—then Christmas will blow because of the whole going into labor thing and giving her baby away deal.” I flipped my hand. “I know it’s probably way too expensive, so just forget it. But I haven’t gotten her a present yet because I couldn’t think of anything good. New York—now that’s good. The sleepover is in two days, so I have to come up with something. Wait! I can pay for it out of my check—if you don’t mind me taking just a little bit longer to reimburse you for the car, Dad. I just think it would be nice—”

  “Lila,” Dad said.

  I snapped my mouth shut. Sometimes, during one of my infamous uncontrollable rambles, my dad could bark my name just so, and it worked like the perfect slap across the face that knocks a person out of hysteria.

  “I get travel benefits from work,” Chloe said softly, “so it wouldn’t cost much at all.”

  Gulp! “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’d be more than happy to include Jennifer. If that’s what you really want.”

  I blinked. Was it? “It is. I think.”

  Dad and Chloe beamed with so much pride, I almost needed sunglasses to look at them.

  “It’s so generous of you, m’ija.”

  “You raised an amazing daughter, Nathan,” Chloe said, all bright-eyed and sappy.

  Ew. I didn’t want all these accolades. In fact, the sap quotient in the room had reached a barf-worthy level. “Well, if she can even go.” Let’s not get ahead of ourselves with the whole Lila Is a Saint deal. “Her parents are jacka—”—oops—“um, jacking her around.”

  “I’ll talk to Jennifer’s parents,” Dad said, his tone confident. “Her father’s involved in the city council and I know him quite well. I’m sure I can make him understand how beneficial this trip would be for his daughter’s morale.”

  Wow, thug it out, Dad! The way he said it, I knew he’d handle the mean Mr. Hamilton, no problemo. “Can you find out before Friday? I’d like to tell her at the sleepover if I can.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Dad said.

  “Jen will be so thrilled,” Chloe said. “You’re such a sweet, thoughtful girl.”

  I smiled, closed mouthed and feeling just this side of nauseated. First the chicken enchiladas, and now I couldn’t even finish my flan. That sucked. Plus, the second-guessing had begun. I’d been given the best trip ev-er for my birthday, with my very bestest, truest-bluest friends in the universe, and who did I spontaneously invite to join us?

  Jennifer Hamilton. Of all people.

  Helping her with the pregnancy stuff was one thing. Welcoming her into the inner circle? Whole different issue. But what’s done is done. No turning back unless I wanted to look like a complete ass to Dad and Chloe.

  Plus, I must admit, the warm fuzzy factor was pretty dang high. Last year I’d been busted for forging parental signatures at school and had totally lost my dad’s trust. This year I was, miraculously enough, a “sweet, thoughtful girl.” If that’s not personal growth, folks, I don’t know what is.

  I just hoped all this growth was worth it.

  On that frightening note, I said a silent prayer that my impulsive let’s-include-my-former-enemy suggestion didn’t come back to bite me.

  *

  The instant we’d finished cleaning up dinner, I excused myself and dashed up to my computer to see if Meryl was signed on. She was—probably studying, knowing Mer. Summer, be damned! Ya gotta love her. I released a long, relieved breath.

  My fingers shook as I keyed in the IM:

  LawBreakR: Mer, I don’t care if UR studying Bosnian, even if UR about 2 have a breakthrough moment in UR learning. U have 2 come 2 my house right now. Not kidding. It’s urgent.

  I drummed my fingers on the edge of my desk like I’d had a Red Bull / espresso combo with an extra shot of ADD while I waited for her to reply. She was, admittedly, quick about it, but it seemed like it took about five years.

  MerylM: Are you okay?

  LawBreakR: I’m fine. No, I’m great.

  MerylM: I can’t come over. Something’s wrong with The Beast—it won’t start. Dad’s taking a look at it tomorrow. He thinks it’s something to do with the—never mind. Can you come here instead?

  LawBreakR: I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

  MerylM: Lila, it’s a 15 minu
te drive on winding roads. Don’t be reckless. And watch out for deer. I’ll be waiting.

  Reckless schmeckless. We’re talking New York City! I signed off and bounded down the stairs with all the grace of a stampeding rhino, startling my Dad and Chloe, who were watching TV. They both spun to face me.

  I pointed toward the front door. “Can I run to Meryl’s and tell her about the trip?”

  Dad relaxed. “Of course. Just calm down and remember your promise to always drive carefully.”

  “I will,” I said on the fly as I palmed my keys and yanked my purse off the table by the front door.

  “Lila Jane!” Dad said, snapping me to attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “Focus on your driving,” he said, in his police chief voice, leveling me with a deadly serious stare. “I’m not kidding.”

  “I will.” I sighed with a fair bit of drama, then smiled at my boss. “Bye, Chloe. See you tomorrow and thank you again. So much.”

  “Bye, honey,” she said.

  It didn’t even bother me that she called me honey. In fact, I kinda liked it.

  Seventeen thousand hours later (it seemed), I spun gravel as I parked in front of Meryl’s house. As promised, she was waiting for me on the front porch swing, pushing it in a lazy sway with the toes of one bare foot. When I cut the engine, she glanced at her watch face, then shook her head. Okay, so I’d actually shaved five minutes off the drive, but I didn’t tailgate, and no wild animals were injured or killed in the process. My tires didn’t squeal once. So there. My car door slammed.

  She stood up and spread her arms wide. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Sit down.” I walked toward her.

  “I just stood up.”

  “I know,” I said, taking the steps two at a time. “Reverse it. Trust me.”

  She sat. I plunked down next to her.

  I sucked in a deep breath and let my shoulders drop on the big exhale. “Dad gave me my birthday present tonight. Well, Dad and Chloe.”

  “Chloe, too? Cool!”

  “I know. It wasn’t even weird.” I shrugged.

  “But it’s not your birthday yet.”

  “I know that, too. It had to be early. You’ll understand in a minute.” I tucked one foot under the other leg as I faced her and clutched her hands in mine. “Here’s the thing. We’re going to New York City to see Caressa’s show.”