“Yard sale,” he pants. “Down the street.” He backs up and rams the doorframe again. A sliver of wood flies free.
“Take it back,” I say. I'm scribbling out a new poem, one about asshole dads and their stupid-ass stupidness.
There's a loud thunk and a whole chunk of doorframe peels off.
“Damn it, Abby, get out here!”
“No!” I'm shouting now, even though I hate to sound like one of my sisters. “You will not bring that thing in here.” I get up, cross the room, and slam the door shut.
“Abigail Savage, open the door right now!”
I get behind Kait's bed and shove it in front of the door. “No!”
There's silence on the other side. No yelling, no desk sliding on the wood floor. Then I hear a tentative tap on my door.
“Abby?” It's Mom. She would take his side.
“Forget it. The desk's not coming in.”
“Abby, be reasonable. He needs a place to work.”
“What work?” I grumble. It's not like hardware salesmen have briefcases to take home, clients to call, campaigns to prepare.
Mom's sigh is loud enough to penetrate the door. Cody can probably hear the disappointment all the way at his house. “He's starting his own business, Abby.”
I respond with a sigh of my own. How many get-rich-quick schemes can one man have? This will end like all the othersâ in a fizzle of debt. Mom, though, never learns, and my silence catapults her into babble mode. “Imagine, a high-end store, selling kitchen and bathroom fixtures for all those new developments going up everywhere. Isn't that a great idea?”
She takes my continued silent treatment as agreement and continues. “There's a lot of research to do, things to organize. He needs some space.”
“How about his house? There's plenty of room to work there.” It's true, too. He and Shevon had a house bigger than ours. Why he has to mooch off us, I don't understand.
“Abby.”
“Mom.” Her heels click down the hallway. I press my ear to the door and hear Mom say, “Give her a little time, Carl. Maybe in a day or two, she'll be more reasonable.” The desk scratches away.
I watch from my window as Mom and Dad half-carry, half-shove the thing down the driveway. I've won, but I wonder at what price?
I have to say one thing for Dad. There's better quality beer when he's around. He's not shy about using it to buy forgiveness, either. He hasn't come out and said it, but I can tell from the fact that he bought imported beer instead of domestic that he realizes our earlier fight was his fault. I'm feeling mellow, like maybe I was slightly overreactive about the desk and maybe he wasn't as horrible as I recall. Lucky for him, writing non-rhyming poetry in erratic meter always makes it easier for the amnesia to set in.
“This Steve guy, he's all right?” Dad asks. We sit in the kitchen, each nursing a Heineken. Everyone else is in bed, so it's unnaturally quiet. The
tick-tock
of the clock over the archway punctuates each second as it passes. The fork and spoon hands point to the different vegetables. We started at broccoliâelevenâand now the spoon has passed carrotâtwelveâand is heading toward the green pea that is one o'clock.
I shrug because I don't like to talk about the Guitar Player. Not that anyone in this house has ever asked for my opinion about him before.
“I'm worried about your mother.” His hand clenches and unclenches the can so that his words are punctuated with an irritating crackle. “She's had some bad times, y'know? I want to be there for her.”
“You're divorced,” I remind him. “And still married to Shevon.”
“Your mom's a hard woman to get over.” His mouth droops, and I think he's trying to squeeze a tear out.
“Don't hurt yourself,” I say. “No need to cry in your beer for my benefit.”
“But he treats her right?” He gets that tear out and lets it run down to his chin.
“I don't know.” My beer is no longer cold, so I slug the rest back before it gets any warmer. “I guess so.”
What I really think is that the Guitar Player is a total schmuck and a loser, but if I say that, Dad might decide he has to do something about it, and frankly, just having him in my room is all the tension I can stand. I may have won the battle of the desk, but he's still living here.
“How'd they meet again?” Dad thoughtfully gets us both another beer while continuing the Guitar Player Quiz.
“He subbed at our school one day. Kait found out he played guitar and arranged to take lessons from him. They dated for about a month, until she brought him over and he met Shelby.”
“Shelby looks just like your mom,” Dad says. “Beautiful women are hard to resist. Used to getting whatever they want, too.”
I continue my story. “He dumps Kait for Shelby. Kait announces she's pregnant with his child. He takes off for a few weeks then comes back âto do the right thing.' But Mom was here that day, and he took one look at her and decided the âright thing' was for him to give Kait money for an abortion.”
“It can happen like that. One look's all it took for your mom and me.”
The fact that my mom flings herself from one love-at-first-sight relationship to another is no news flash. The fact that Dad is not outraged by the Guitar Player's callous treatment of his daughters is also unsurprising.
What is surprising is when Dad says, “Good for Kait for turning down the money.”
I laugh. “She took the money and used it to buy baby clothes. He was furious. I think that's why he was out of town the weekend Stephanie was born.” And also so he could screw around on my mom, but I don't say that part.
“This new guy Kait's with, this Gustavo. You like him?” Dad has a row of three finished beers in front of him. He pops open a fourth. I'm still on number two.
“Well enough. I don't think she would've moved in with him so soon, though, if you hadn't . . .” It's rude to tell your dad he pushed his child out of the house, but I see he gets my message.
“I thought they were in love,” he says.
“One of them is.” Gustavo had it bad, as far as I could tell. I wasn't as clear how Kait felt. Relieved to be out of here, probably. Shouldn't you move in with someone because you love them? Not just because your family drives you crazy and you think your baby needs a dad?
Dad leans forward and rests his head against his forearms. This is his resting-between-drinks pose. I toss my cans in the trash and head back to my room. Our room. And I can't help wishing Kait and Stephanie would move back in and Dad and the Guitar Player would move out.
Chapter
16
“Look, Abby, I really don't think you should ask Brian to homecoming.” Cody is too lazy to walk over. He's harassing me over the phone. Apparently, an entire day at school has worn him out. I'm tired, too. After only a few hours of sleep last night, classes seemed to drag on forever. And I'm not so sure the Heinekens with my dad helped too much with the weekly Tuesday quiz in Computers today, either.
“It's not like you're going to ask him.” I am trying to get the last bit of stubborn nail polish off my big toe. I'm so over purple nails.
Dad opens the door without knocking. Why should he? He lives here. He sighs loudly, kicks off his shoes, and sits on the edge of Kait's bed. His bed. I can tell he wants to talk.
“Cody, it's a done deal. I just got off the phone with him, like, three minutes ago.” I am lying. Cody probably knows it.
“You know what you are, Abby? A coward.”
“I'd be careful with words like that. Have you looked in the mirror lately?” I toss the used cotton ball toward the trash. It hits the rim and lands on the floor. Dad stares pointedly at it. I flop backwards on my bed and look at my ceiling. Right above me is a series of cracks that has always reminded me of a crushed skull. I find it comforting.
“Abby? Hello? Don't make me come over there.” Cody's voice is agitated.
“There's no room for any more people in this house.” This time I glare pointedly at my dad. A private moment to talk on the phone would be appreciated.
“Abby, we need to talk,” Dad says.
I hold up the one-minute finger. “Cody, leave it, okay? You picked Jenna and the universe chose Brian for me.”
“I'm not so sure it was the universe,” he says. “You must've been peeking. Twelve other male transfers on that board and you happen to pick him? I'm not buying it.”
“He fits the Rules,” I say, wondering if Cody will dare bring up that Brian is gay. Then I will point out that the Rules say absolutely nothing about being gay. I roll onto my side and switch the phone to my other ear.
“Oh, he's got baggage, all right,” Cody warns. “Face it, Abby. You only like him because you think he's safe.”
My eyes narrow, which is useless since he's not here to get the nonverbal message. “Brian's a nice guy.”
“A safe guy.”
“What's wrong with wanting to feel safe? To have someone in your life who isn't going to possibly impregnate one of your sisters? Is that too much to ask?” I squash a pillow under my head with such force that the other pillow, the one that usually ends up on the floor by the end of the night, bounces in place.
“He doesn't like you like that,” Cody says.
Interesting. “How would you know?”
Cody is silent. I hear his slow exhale of breath. “We've been talking.”
“Oh, really. Isn't that fascinating? What could the two of you possibly have to say to each other?” The crushed skull smiles down on me.
“We talk about speech class,” he answers too quickly. “What else?”
Dad points at his watch, like that is supposed to mean something to me. Still, it's not like I want to talk with him listening to every word so I say, “Gotta go. Maybe I'll come over later and we'll continue this intriguing conversation.”
We hang up. When I look over, Dad is standing.
“That was rude,” he says.
“Wasn't it? I mean, blatantly eavesdropping on someone's private phone calls? What are you? The government?”
He doesn't get ruffled. “I don't have much time and I needed to speak with you.”
I am slightly alarmed by his formal tone. “What's up?”
“Your mom and I have been talking.” He sits back down and loosens his salesman tie. “About you girls.”
Since they are our parents, this shouldn't be shocking news. “And?” I prompt.
“Shevon's getting her own place. I'll be moving back to my house in a few weeks and . . .”
“A few weeks? What happened to a few days?”
“Abby, focus here. What I'm saying is that we've decided when I go, you should move in with me. I've got another bedroom. You'll have it all to yourself.”
Flabbergasted. I am completely speechless.
“I've seen how tight it is here, how hard this situation is for your mom. I just want to do what's right.”
Since when? He takes over my room, rifles through my stuff, tries to bring in a desk like he's a permanent resident, and now he's taking off, back to his old house, old life, and the right thing is for me to go with him?
“No.” It's the only word I can think of. “No, no, no.”
“You'll like it,” he goes on like I haven't spoken. “You'd have your own bathroom.”
Now that is some bait. Imagine a bathroom where I don't have to worry that someone else has used my towel to wipe places on their body I don't want to think about. A bathroom where no one uses the last of my conditioner and then refills the bottle with water. I am so tempted by this vision of paradise.
“You'll still be able to go to Union and see Cody there every day.”
Not live next door to Cody? How shallow am I that I'm willing to desert him for unlimited hot water and hair accessories that stay where I leave them?
“I have a better idea,” I say. “Why don't you actually make your child-support payments so Mom doesn't have to worry about money so much? In fact, why don't you offer to pay a little more? I'm going to need some cash for a homecoming dress.”
“Abby!” he says in this shocked voice. “I have always paid your mother child support.”
Yeah, when the court ordered him to. When he didn't need it for something else, like his honeymoon to Hawaii with Shevon or the down payment on his house. When Mom paid extra money, which she didn't have, to get a lawyer to file complaints against him. Like I said, you can't count on this guy.
“Forget it,” I say. “I'm not moving out. Just pay Mom what you owe her.”
He rubs his forehead. “I can't believe you don't want to live with me. Think of it, Abby. Your own room. Maybe even a car?”
“A car?” I ask, because Cody would understand that kind of temptation. And with a car, I could always be at his place and it would be like I never moved out.
Dad clears his throat. “Well, eventually. We'd have to see how it goes.”
Even an eventual car is better than the no car I'm getting now. I'm not saying it isn't tempting, but who will take care of Hannah when everyone else is working? Who will make sure Shelby doesn't siphon gas out of Mom's car and sell it to her friends for cash? I have to live here. They need me.
A concept my dad clearly doesn't get. “Are you sure? You're always complaining about how crowded this place is.”
“That doesn't mean I want to move out.”
“Kait did.”
“Well, I didn't just possibly give birth to my stepfather's child, so I'm not in as big a hurry to relocate.” Kait sure had been, though. I hadn't heard a word from her since she took off with Gustavo. Mom says they talked on the phone and she and Stephanie were fine, but I guess I'll have to go to Blockbuster if I want to see my sister again. I wonder if she's checked in with her alterna-teacher yet and if she turned in that
Bell Jar
essay. It took me forever to type that thing into Cody's computer. It better have gotten an A.