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THIRTY-THREE

Below the Surface - Griffinilla

11 YEARS OLD

I pull the crumpled paper out of my backpack and immediately shove it back in. It makes my heart race, and I look around despite being the only one in my bedroom. I wonder if Dad knows. How could he know? He couldn't know, right?

I’m going to fail English, and not because I can’t read, but because my stupid teacher insists on making the presentation a third of your grade.

My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I press on them, but it doesn’t help.

That afternoon drags by like every afternoon does: quietly. I do my best to fill the silence by strumming my mom’s guitar. Mom works afternoons, and Dad often works late at the police department. I often think about him out there arresting bad guys. He always has the best stories to tell. He always seems the happiest when he’s talking about work. That, or when he’s working on projects in the garage. Or, at least, he’s not angry at me when he’s doing those things.

Dad doesn’t like me very much. I can’t really blame him either. He’s this brave cop who fights bad guys. He always knows what to do. He would never fail a presentation assignment. He would never be…all those things he claims I am. Late at night. When I wish he’d leave me alone.

I want to be more like my dad. Maybe if I was, he’d like me more.

I jump when I hear the garage door open. I’m in the kitchen getting a snack, and I hear Dad’s car pull into the garage with a hum before it shuts again.

Suddenly, I have an idea, and it makes my stomach feel all bunchy. What if he says no?

Dad bustles inside, throwing his keys on the table and checking his phone. He sighs, typing something out, then strides to the fridge in that confident way of his.

“Hey, Dad,” I say softly. I hate how soft it is. I clear my throat.

“Oh, hey.” He barely glances at me, instead grabbing a beer. Cracking it open, he looks at his phone again and sinks onto the couch.

I let him settle in, hovering around the kitchen, picking at the stubs on the bananas, pouring myself water, and then reading the back of a cereal box. I can’t decide if I’m going to ask or not. It’s a stupid idea, anyway.

Dad sighs loudly, making me jump. “What is it, son?”

“Huh?” He catches me off guard. I’m not ready yet. It’s not the right time.

“You’ve been moping around for ten minutes. Spit it out.”

I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. Now that he’s called me out on it, I have to say something. “I…I w–” I start to say want , but my mouth doesn’t catch up with my brain, and for an agonizing two seconds, I’m caught there, making the same sound over and over again.

“Breathe,” Dad barks sharply, still looking at his phone.

I try to. I want to . Why the hell can’t I say it? Instead, what comes out is, “w-w-w-”

Dad finally glances up, looking annoyed. “Spit it out.”

Only I can’t. I’m stuck.

Dad throws his phone down. “Do we need to start therapy again?”

Finally, my mouth allows me to finish, and I get the rest of the words out in a rush, “want to build a birdhouse together?”

The room gets silent, and Dad just stares at me. My cheeks are burning again. Dad doesn’t look excited at all. In fact, he just looks annoyed.

He sighs. “We’ll get you back into therapy. It’s expensive though. I need you to actually practice what they give you.”

I do practice. I practice all the time when they aren’t home. But nothing makes it better.

I hang my head. This whole thing was a bad idea.

Dad goes back to his beer, and I go back upstairs.

I didn’t want to build it anyway. It was a stupid idea. Maybe soon I’ll learn that being alone beats putting yourself out there any day.