by Sophie Davis
Despite my father’s warning, I immediately texted Kaydon. I needed to put the past couple of days behind me and move on to what was really important. Until I talked to Kaydon, that wasn’t going to happen.
Me: How did you get this #?
Kaydon: Can we talk in person?
Me: Answer my question and I’ll consider it.
Ten minutes passed more slowly than a snow mound melting in January. I tapped the desk impatiently with my nails, the click click click loud in my otherwise silent bedroom. Finally, my phone dinged, signaling his two-word response: Jamieson Wentworth.
I stared at the cell, mouth agape. I blinked several times to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. No, I’d read the text correctly the first time. A hot flush of anger made my cheeks burn. What the hell was going on?
My phone dinged again.
Kaydon: You two are friends, right?
I laughed bitterly. In another life, yes, Jamieson and I had been friends, best friends. Now? Not so much.
The damned phone dinged a third time.
Kaydon: So, when can we meet ?
Quarter till never, I thought. Any friend of Jamieson’s was not someone I wanted to associate with. Sure, the animosity between Jamieson and me had cooled over the past several years ― nothing like it had been right after I’d moved away and left St. Mary’s, which Jamieson took personally. But we still couldn’t be near one another without her making some snippy remark. I usually ignored her; there was no reason to poke the beast. Sometimes, though, she made me so mad that I couldn’t help but take the bait. Those encounters never ended well.
To Kaydon, I replied simply: We can’t.
To my surprise, he didn’t push the issue. Initially, I was thankful he left me alone so easily; but by bedtime I was more intrigued than ever, and it took a great deal of willpower not to rescind my earlier refusal.
Chapter Five
Monday morning was cool for spring in Maryland. The Bug’s heater took nearly the entire ten-minute drive to Westwood High to warm the interior. Instead of dwelling on the weekend, I made a mental list of all the things that I needed to focus on for the upcoming week. While I had made progress on my history paper, it was nowhere near finished. I had a calculus quiz on Tuesday that I hadn’t started studying for yet. And I had practice every day after school.
The mundane details of everyday life were a welcome distraction from my bizarre weekend. The excitement over the visit with my father hadn’t worn off, but I was trying not to let it distract me from what needed to be taken care of in the interim. Unfortunately, between that and my continued curiosity over Kaydon and the lake creature, nothing else seemed important.
The school day was blissfully uneventful. My new cell phone didn’t buzz once in my pocket. I didn’t foresee any potentially deadly accidents. Devon was rude to Mandy at lunch, Elizabeth flirted with the boys’ soccer coach during study hall, and Coach Peters made me run suicides on the hill because she thought I was too slow during practice. All was right with the world.
The stress to write a better-than-average paper for history made me go straight home after practice and get to work. Mr. Randell had informed us that it would count for one-third of our grade, and I couldn’t afford to risk writing it poorly at the last minute. Throughout the evening, my mother called my new cell phone once an hour to check in.
The following forty-eight hours sped by in a blur. The mild curiosity about the boy who’d saved my life was now verging on obsession. I thought about him constantly. Sometimes I’d daydream about him in a tuxedo with his hair artfully mussed and a smile stretching his lips. The image was so clear in my mind, even though the one time I had seen him in person he more closely resembled a drowned rat than a GQ cover model. The thoughts weren’t always pleasant, though; other times, I’d picture his face on the lake creature. His bright green eyes were staring into mine, instead of her black orbs. His strong hands were wrapped around my throat, not her delicate pale ones. The thought made it feel like a boulder was sitting on my chest, and each breath was shallower than the previous. More than one of my teachers had called me out in class to ask if I was okay.
Somehow, I managed to finish my history paper and earn a B on my calculus quiz. Both Monday and Tuesday nights, I awoke in my bed covered in sweat and panting, with tears streaming down my face. Only three details from the dreams remained once I was awake: fire, water, and Kaydon.
On Wednesday morning, I woke up well before my alarm clock, my anxiety too powerful to let me sleep any longer. Despite my early rising, my mother’s car was gone from the garage when I made my way downstairs to scrounge up some breakfast. She had, however, left me a note, saying that there may, or may not, be some unexpired yogurt in the fridge.
When I opened the state-of-the-art refrigerator to search for the yogurt, I found one carton of Blueberry Yoplait that had expired two days prior. I peeled back the top back and sniffed. Artificial fruit filled my nostrils, and I dipped my pinkie in the purple cream and tentatively touched it to my tongue. Tastes okay to me, I thought as I searched for a spoon and began to eat the contents.
The entire day I was a bundle of nerves. For some reason, I hadn’t told anyone about the planned meeting with my father. Not even Devon. Of course, I wouldn’t tell my mother. She would forbid me to go. But I didn’t tell Devon or Elizabeth or anyone else because part of me worried the meeting might not happen. I knew it was stupid, but whenever I wanted something really badly, I kept it to myself. And I’d never wanted anything as badly as I wanted to see Dad.
I barely touched my chicken nuggets at lunch― a fact that Devon noticed immediately. “Chicken” was what the cafeteria sign said they were, but the greyish color of the meat made me skeptical.
“Still haven’t heard from your father?” she asked, her tone barely above a whisper.
Our lunch table was crowded; everyone was preoccupied gossiping about the upcoming weekend and the fast-approaching prom, or doing homework for their afternoon classes. I glanced around to be sure no one was paying attention to us.
“Just the opposite, actually,” I mumbled, aimlessly swirling a fry in a pile of ketchup and mayonnaise.
Devon arched an eyebrow in response as she sipped her soda through a straw.
I sighed. Not telling Devon was a lot different than lying to her. And I never lied to my best friend.
“I’m meeting him tonight,” I admitted. “We’re having dinner.”
“What?” Devon exclaimed loudly, drawing curious looks from Elizabeth and Cooper, who were copying Mandy’s Latin homework for the class that all three of them had the following period. Mandy had ear buds in, and kept mumbling French phrases under her breath.
Devon hurriedly shoved a nugget in her mouth, while I nibbled the end of my fry. Once Elizabeth and Cooper had lost interest in our conversation, Devon continued in a much lower tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just, what if he doesn’t show? No point in both of us getting our hopes up for nothing.”
“He’ll show,” she replied, nodding confidently to drive home the promise. “He loves you, Eel. Have some faith.”
I had faith alright. Faith that the meeting was too good to be true. I’d been waiting five years for this. Until I saw my father and looked at him with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t truly believe that this was really happening.
“Do me a favor?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“If my mom calls you, will you cover for me?” I hated asking Devon to lie for me, but I wanted to cover all of my bases. I had already planned on calling Mom on the way to the Moonlight and telling her that I was having dinner with Devon. And now that I’d told Devon the truth about meeting my father, enlisting her help with my alibi seemed like a good idea.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled broadly, “I’ve got you covered.”
****
The drive to the Moonlight only took twenty minutes. I arrived there
early, a full thirty minutes before six o’clock. I passed the time by scripting how the meeting would play out. Dad would tell me how much I had grown. I would tell him he hadn’t aged a day. He would say he loved me and that there wasn’t a moment that went by he didn’t think about me. I would tell him that now that I was eighteen, Mom couldn’t keep him from seeing me. We would laugh and cry and it would be the stuff of Seventh Heaven reruns.
The parking lot was empty, except for a beat-up Dodge Ram parked by the dumpsters. It wasn’t surprising since the Moonlight closed after breakfast and didn’t reopen until dinnertime. Time dragged. I repeatedly glanced at the clock on my dash and my cell phone. One minute passed, followed by two. Nothing on the radio held my attention. Not even the Rush Hour Renegades and their nightly top five, most-overplayed, over-requested, songs in the nation. At five before six, I turned off the Bug’s engine and made my way up the wooden steps that led to the Moonlight’s front door. The sign on the door was still flipped to “closed.” An elderly man was sweeping stray peanut shells into a dustpan inside. He looked up when I knocked and slowly made his way to greet me.
“I don’t usually have pretty girls beating down my door so early in the evening,” he said when he opened the door.
“Sorry,” I apologized. “I’m supposed to meet someone here at six. Guess I’m a little eager.”
“Not a problem. Come on in.” He held the door open. “Sit wherever you like. I’ll get you a menu.”
The diner was small. Ten booths ringed the perimeter, while six tables were organized in the center of the space. A row of five wooden bar stools sat in front of a waist-high counter, with placemats and neatly rolled silverware waiting for the day’s patrons. Behind the counter was a six-by-six foot griddle on top of an industrial-sized oven.
I selected a booth with a window so that I could see the parking lot. Not that I had any idea what type of car my father drove these days, but at least I would see him as soon as he arrived. The old man retreated behind the counter and then limped back over to me, wiping a rag across the plastic menu.
“Something to drink?” he asked, handing me the menu.
“Coffee, please,” I replied.
The man chuckled. “A little young to crave caffeine,” he teased.
“Long day,” I told him even though I’d been drinking coffee since I was thirteen. When I was little, I was always cold and my father would give me his coffee mug to warm my hands. Sometimes I’d take a sip, pretending like it was some great treat that I wasn’t supposed to have. Once he was gone, I kept up the tradition. Only now, I actually drank the coffee.
The man laughed again. “You’re too young to have long days.”
I laughed too. “You’re telling me.”
While the man, who I assumed was the owner, left to fix my coffee, I perused the menu. I had no appetite. Anticipation twisted my stomach into knots, and I doubted there was room left for food. When he returned with a steaming mug, brimming with dark liquid and smelling like heaven, I ordered the first thing that came to mind: Pancakes. I never ate pancakes, not since I had become too old for the server to add a whip cream smiley face.
“Mind if I turn on some music?” the man called from behind the counter. “I like to cook to music.”
“Not a bit,” I told him.
I absentmindedly hummed along with a tune that sounded vaguely familiar but wasn’t sure I actually knew. I folded my napkin into a small square, then unfolded the paper and smoothed the creases. By the time my food arrived, the napkin was nothing more than white confetti piled neatly next to my coffee cup. I kept shooting furtive glances out the window, but no new cars joined the Bug in the parking lot. The cell phone sitting on the Formica table didn’t buzz once.
The man slid a plate with three fluffy pancakes onto the placemat. A whip cream grin smiled up at me. Two brown M&M’s served as eyes and a maraschino cherry provided the nose. I stared at the creation, then up at the man.
“My granddaughter is about your age. She still likes her hotcakes this way,” he told me with a wink of one crinkly eye. Then, to my surprise, he eased himself into the booth across from me. “Hot date with your beau?” he asked.
“No. My dad,” I said. “He was supposed to be here at six.” I looked at the time on my cell again, even though I had checked it just before the pancakes arrived. 6:12 p.m.
“I’m sure he’ll be here. Only something very important keeps a man from his daughter.”
Or an overzealous bitch of a mother, I thought.
“Is this your place?” I asked him, not sure what else to say since he apparently wasn’t going anywhere.
“Sure is. Owned it for thirty years,” he said proudly.
I picked up my knife and fork and started cutting the pancakes. While I wasn’t hungry, I also didn’t want to offend the man after he’d gone through all of the trouble of making me a smiley dinner.
A bell tinkled and my head shot around to face the door, heart in my throat. Disappointment washed over when I saw a couple in leather chaps holding motorcycle helmets standing there.
“Duty calls,” the Moonlight’s owner told me and left to greet the newcomers.
I checked my phone again. 6:21 p.m. Where was he? I’d inherited my punctuality from my mother, not my father. So I shouldn’t have been all that surprised that he was late. But he had been so insistent on this meeting, and it had been so long since we’d seen each other, that I’d hoped he was as eager to see me as I was to see him. Worry and agitation warred in my mind. Where was he?
Seven o’clock came and went with no sign of my father. He hadn’t called to say he was running late or that something had come up. Every time my phone buzzed I jumped. Texts from my mother, Devon, Mandy, and Elizabeth went unanswered as my worry gave way to panic.
Had something happened to him? Had he been in a car accident on his way to the diner? Or worse, had my mother found out about the rendezvous and intercepted him? Devon might be a good liar, but my mother was an excellent interrogator. After shaking images of Devon sweating out chicken nugget fumes under a too-bright bulb while my mother fired questions faster than an automatic rifle, I decided to call home.
“Endora, I was just about to call you,” my mother said when she answered our house phone. “Devon told me you guys were going to church for Lent this evening.”
Church? That was Devon’s great lie? Her parents weren’t staunch agnostics like my mom, but they only exercised their Catholic faith on Christmas Eve.
“Um, yeah. The service just ended. We’re grabbing dinner now. I’ll be home in a little,” I told her, glad I wasn’t actually sitting in a church lying to my mother and earning a check mark in the hell-bound column.
“That sounds good. I will be here when you arrive,” Mom said.
Great, I thought. Now I’m going to have to lie to her face. I’d been banking on her working late.
“Cool. See you soon,” I replied, then quickly hung up before she had a chance to ask me a question I didn’t know the answer to, like whether I’d taken communion. I could never remember if I was supposed to take it to be nice or decline since I wasn’t Catholic.
“Still waiting?” the old man asked, rejoining me at the table. He set a check, facedown, next to my half-eaten breakfast.
“Guess I got stood up,” I said, trying to smile despite the hollow feeling overtaking my insides. I took my debit card from my wallet and handed it to him without looking at the check.
The man took my card but didn’t leave. His eyes were glued to the card’s face.
“Andrews? You aren’t Mark Andrews’ daughter, are you?” he asked, searching my face for some common denominator between me and my father. “You don’t take after him. Lucky girl.”
People always told me I looked like my mom. Besides being athletic, my father and I didn’t seem to share any genes. If Mom had any sense of humor, there would definitely be a family joke about the milkman being my biological father.
“You know my da
d?” I asked with disbelief.
“He’s one of my regulars,” the man informed me.
Regulars? As in he came to the Moonlight on a regular basis? My mind was reeling. That wasn’t possible. If my father came to this diner on a regular basis, that meant he was regularly within twenty miles of my house, just twenty miles from me. And he’d never tried to see me. Sure, Mom made it next to impossible for him to come to the house, but what about school? Or a lacrosse game? If he had bothered to move out to Westwood, why didn’t he at least take a chance and come see me?
“Mark comes in a couple times a week. Sits in that booth over there,” the man pointed at a corner table, “sets up his laptop and spreads out all his paperwork. Actually, he left a couple pages here last week. I’ve been waiting for him to show up again so I can give them to him.”
I barely heard the words over the roaring of blood filling my ears. How could Dad have done this to me? If nothing else, I’d been eighteen for nearly a week. He could have shown up on my doorstep and all my mother could have done was ask him to leave. All her connections and court orders no longer mattered. A part of me hated both of them at that moment.
“Why don’t I give you the folder? That way you can give it to him when you two finally catch up?” the man was saying.
“Sure,” I replied numbly, not really sure what I had just agreed to.
The Moonlight’s owner was gone and back in what felt like the blink of an eye. He handed me a manila folder. I didn’t open it. I had no interest in my father’s latest obsession.
“Meal is on the house, dear,” the old man told me. “Any child of Mark’s is always welcome here.”
I knew I should thank him. Say something, anything. But I couldn’t formulate coherent thoughts, much less words. Instead, I just blinked up at him from the booth.
The man’s expression grew soft, grandfatherly. He twisted a battered gold ring around one gnarled finger on his left hand. “Endora, is it? He calls you Eel when he talks about you. I know your dad loves you very much. Talks about you all the time. Whatever kept him from being here today must have been real important.”
