Page 17

Eight
Henley
Ryan’s right. If my mother knew about my suspension, she would’ve flipped out.
That’s why I didn’t tell her.
I got dressed and gathered my books like I was leaving for school, but once I got to there, I just kept walking. I went to the library and hid. Not in the Teen Reading Center, where I’d be easily seen. I went upstairs to the third-floor reference section and found a corner. Dug in and camped out until I heard Margo make her the library is closing in fifteen minutes announcement. Then I packed up and went home.
It was the best and worst three days of my life.
The best because for three whole days, no one knew where I was. No one bothered me. Made me feel bad for being me. Tried to make me something I’m not.
The worst because for three whole days, I didn’t see Conner. Not once.
I kept expecting him to look for me. Find me. He knows me better than anyone. He’d know where I was. He could’ve found me if he wanted to.
He didn’t.
It’s Wednesday it’s my first day back at school since what happened with Jessica in the library. I got dressed as usual, lagging a bit to make sure my mother left the apartment before I did. As soon as she was gone, I roused my dad.
“Dad…” I reach out and give his shoulder a tentative shake. He lashes out sometimes, has hit me more than once. Not like my mom—when she hits me it’s intentional and well-aimed—but rather like he’s drowning. Flailing around. Panicked. Coming up for air.
This time, he’s still, his bleary eyes opening slowly. Dull but sober. “What’s up, sweetpea?”
Sweetpea. He calls me that sometimes, when he’s sober. When he’s not soaked in cheap booze, drowning in the bitterness of his existence.
“I got in trouble at school.” I decide to tell him the truth. “I need a parent to sign this.” I thrust the paper at him, leaving out the part that if he doesn’t sign it, I can’t return to school.
He sits up, and instead of just taking the pen I’m offering and scrawling his name like I hoped, he lifts the paper close to his face and begins to read, his lips moving silently over the words. Assaulted a fellow student on school grounds. Refused to discuss incident with school staff. Your daughter received a three-day suspension for her part in the incident.
When he’s finished, he drops the paper and looks at me. “Who’d you hit?”
“Jessica Renfro.” I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he expects more. This is the part where I’m supposed to say I’m sorry. Make excuses. Promise it won’t happen again. I can’t do any of that, so I don’t. I just sit quietly.
“Okay…” He laughs a little at my silence, the sound of it scratchy and rough in his throat. “She get in trouble too?”
I feel my jaw clench. Even if I’d told the principal what happened, Jessica wouldn’t have gotten in trouble. Because she’s who she is and I’m who I am and that’s how the world works. “No.”
He looks at me, something close to regret skimming over his haggard features. I’ve seen pictures. Like Ryan, my father was handsome once. He was handsome and happy and had his whole life ahead of him.
And then he didn’t.
Finally he nods. “Did she deserve it?”
I look him in the eye. “Yes.”
“I believe it.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a quick quirk. “Her dad’s a total prick.” He takes the pen and signs the paper before handing both back to me. “Your mom know?”
I shake my head. He doesn’t say anything. I know I don’t have to worry about him telling her.
I fold it and stuff it into my back pocket. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You bet.” He reaches between the couch cushions and pulls out a pint of Canadian Mist. As soon as he spins off the cap, the sweet, cloying smell of cheap whiskey shoves itself up my nose, making me instantly nauseous. “have a good day, sweetpea,” he says, tipping the bottle toward his mouth, open and waiting.
If you loved me, you’d stop drinking. Ryan and I need you, Dad. We need you…
“I love you, Dad.” I barely get it out, my throat choked with anxiety and sadness and the sort of responsibility that can crush you flat beneath its weight if you let it. “I’ll see you later.” I give him a quick smile and an awkward wave around the stack of books in my arms to the man sitting on the couch, but I shouldn’t have bothered.