The Anti-Prom (19 page)

He’ll have to see me now.

I reach the other side of the fairway too soon, skirting those white picket fences and peaceful backyards until I reach the end of that familiar cul-de-sac and veer off into the road. Lights from every house are bright here, spilling out onto the tree-lined street. So warm and safe, so far away from the rest of my life.

I reach his front yard — neat, flower-trimmed — and stop. My feet won’t carry me a single step farther. The hollow ache in my chest is suddenly unbearable.

I breathe in, quick, but it doesn’t ease. The rage that’s carried me through tonight, through the last few weeks, is twisting back into that same wordless grief that always wells around him when it matters. Ever since I was a kid, he’s been my weak spot, and as much as I hate myself for being so pathetic, that bone-deep instinct is betraying me all over again. Sure, I can tell the entirety of East Midlands High exactly what I think of them, but when it comes to my own father? The right words won’t make it through my lips. All the reason and logic and heartfelt pleas in the world stay lodged in my throat. Instead, I’m stuck with nothing but the same old screaming and sharp curse-words that let him retreat back into that shell of denial and self-righteousness, as if I’m the one at fault.

I sit down cross-legged on the edge of the damp lawn, staring at the house. It’s a pretty lie he’s got built for himself in there, and not just the matching dining-room set. I don’t think he’s once acknowledged — even to himself — that anything he’s ever done has caused me pain. No, it was all, “Jolene is acting out. She needs guidance.” Guidance. As in, my mom should have just told me to shut the hell up and act nice for those all-too-rare weekend visits where we sat silently in movie theaters and fast-food restaurants, until the allocated hours were up and he left me again. I tried to write him a letter once, when I was sixteen. He slipped a hundred-dollar bill into my birthday card that year and then turned around and threw a huge party for the twins with specially printed invitations on thick card-stock and tiny clowns embossed on every corner. Mom had been laid off as part of the downsizing at her office and was working night shifts at the drugstore to cover the gap; the birthday money went to paying utilities and buying groceries that month.

My RSVP was no.

So I wrote the letter. I didn’t ask for more outright — I couldn’t bring myself to do that back then. No, I just tried to explain how when he threw money around for them on vacations and a fancy new car, and then didn’t even think about how I was getting by, it said he didn’t care as much. Care enough. I spent hours getting the words right, trying to show that it wasn’t about whatever legal loopholes he’d managed to fix, it was about the fact he was hurting me. They woke up with him every morning, and had dinner with him every night, and if all he could offer me as a parent anymore was money, then he should manage that much, at least.

He called up after and swore at me on the phone, furious as all hell. It wasn’t his money — it was hers, too, and he was doing what he could. Stand-up guy, I know. His kid pours her heart out, telling him how much he’s hurting her, and all he can do is rant about how I had no right to say those things and be so ungrateful, when he was working so hard to scrape together my college fund. . . .

Oh yeah, the famous college fund.

But I didn’t know how all of that would play out, so I bit back the hurt and carried on; tolerated the occasional phone calls and awkward lunch dates. What else was I going to do? For every bright neon sign screaming that he would never give me what I need, I couldn’t shake that stupid, tragic ache of hope that he would come through for me. Just once. Finally. It’s a fairy tale worse than any of that Disney crap, but it was mine — that one day, he’d own up to what a weak, selfish man he’d been, and try to do better by me.

But here I am. Still waiting.

I’ve been sitting here five, maybe ten minutes, when the porch light flips on. I stiffen, bracing myself to get this started, but he’s not the one to come out. Instead, it’s the Blonde who pulls a pretty blue robe tighter and walks down the front steps toward me.

“Jolene,” she says, her expression surprisingly calm for someone who’s got their hellcat stepdaughter camped out in the front yard at two in the morning. “Is everything OK?”

I set my jaw. “Is he in there?”

She pauses, a few paces away from me. “It’s late. Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I’m here now.” I sit, determined. She looks older than I remember, or maybe that’s just the bare face and tired eyes. Usually, there’s makeup and lipstick and perfect newscaster hair, all polished and dripping money and false enthusiasm. Tonight, she looks like a regular woman, worn out.

But I don’t care about her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

The Blonde gives me a faint kind of smile. “You should get home, honey. Your mom will be worried.”

“And he isn’t?”

There’s silence. She glances back at the house. “We can talk about this another time, I promise. Come for dinner tomorrow,” she suggests. “You can see Stephan and Camilla, and he’ll be . . . he’ll be there. I’ll make sure of it.”

I watch her. She doesn’t seem angry or impatient, or anything else I’d expect. Instead, she looks almost sad, her arms wrapped around herself, looking everywhere except at me.

“I came to see him.” I hold my ground, that last piece of anger. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She’s quiet for a minute, then she exhales in a low whoosh. “He won’t come out.”

The words are simple, but there’s a strange note to her voice. I stare at her, confused, until she looks me in the eye and I see it there.

She’s ashamed of him.

The truth hits me with a painful twist. This isn’t about her — lurking in the background, sniping about his time and money.

This is all on him.

I can’t speak for a second. “He knows I’m here?” I manage at last.

She nods, sad.

“And he’s up there, hiding from me.” I give a flat laugh. My father, the hero.

“I’ll talk to him,” she promises me, awkward. “We’ll figure something out, about college . . .”

But for once, the money isn’t the point. He’s never going to be the man I need him to be.

I feel everything drain away. So many years, hoping, and this is how it ends. Out in the front yard of a home he doesn’t want me to be a part of.

“OK,” I murmur, exhausted. “I . . . whatever.”

It’s not my usual snipe of a word, full of sarcasm, but the truth. Whatever. I can’t find it in me to even muster a thought, a plan. “I . . . should go.”

I pull myself to my feet, staring blankly around. I don’t belong here; I always knew that, but instead of being a vengeful invader, I feel detached. Foreign. There’s a language here, I don’t understand. He’s playing out his life by some code I can’t grasp, and there’s no turning it back.

“Thanks,” I tell her, still dazed. “I’m sorry, I got you up —”

“It’s fine.” She hugs me swiftly, moving back straight after as if that was a step too far. As if it wasn’t allowed. “So I’ll call? About dinner?”

I shrug uselessly. “I don’t know. I’m . . . not sure if I can see him.” I swallow, already feeling the sting of tears. Something is dead here on the lawn, some last hope, and all I can do is feel the ache of it ringing through me.

“Then maybe lunch, next week. Just us,” she adds, hopeful. “I could bring the twins. You should spend some time with them.”

“I . . . maybe.” I give her a helpless look. I can’t make decisions now; I can barely keep breathing. “I have to go.”

I turn, but she stops me. “Wait — your things.”

The painting is still rolled up on the ground beside my bag. I grab them both, stumble backward. She gives me another weak smile, and then I go, racing faster back down that perfect street and onto the next, not slowing up for a second until the suburban blocks blur together, and my legs ache, and my chest burns almost enough to make me forget how much my heart is hurting right now.

I collapse on the empty sidewalk and start to cry.

My body shakes with sobs so harsh they leave me gasping, but it doesn’t take long for the tears to be done. People think I act so tough because I can’t bear to break down, but the truth is, it’s not the collapse that scares me so much as what comes after. Like now. My eyes sting red, and my head aches with a dull throb, and there’s nothing but a numb emptiness where all my fury used to be.

It’s over.

I sag back, the cold concrete biting into my palms. Dante was right, about this at least. I can’t keep holding on. In an awful flash, I see the next years spinning out ahead of me. The same old story, the same damn routine. Every time I think I drag my expectations down to meet him, he finds a way to fall short and break my heart just a little bit more.

I can’t do this anymore.

I take a breath, feeling the air slip through my system in a slow wash of calm. I can just let him go.

That’s what Dante said, didn’t he? Like I have that power. Like I can choose it for myself. I’m not naive enough to think it could ever be that easy, but when has anything in my life come that way? This is how it starts: you make the decision, and the rest comes after.

So I decide. No more.

From now on, he doesn’t owe me a single thing. I’ll work my way through college, like I would without him. I’ll go to State, try for a transfer next year, take on more loans if that’s what it takes. I’ll get by because I want to; I’ll make it out of this damn town on my own — no more fooling around, no more trying to make him care.

But if he doesn’t owe me anything, then I don’t owe him a damn thing either.

He’s not my father anymore. He hasn’t earned the right.

I struggle to my feet and stretch, feeling the stiff ache in every limb. I’m so tired I could curl up and sleep right here on the ground, but instead, I take my things and start to walk. Steady, this time.

A car turns onto the block behind me. It slows, drawing level. I tense.

“Jolene!” It’s barely stopped before Bliss leaps out and limps over. “Thank God, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I blink. “I thought . . . you were going home. Or to that party . . .” I shake my head, still foggy from tears and tiredness.

“We were, until I figured out what you were going to do.” Bliss’s eyes are wide with concern. She looks around quickly. “You haven’t been there already, have you? ’Cause we swung by your dad’s house, but everything looked fine, so . . .” She pauses, reaching a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. Are you OK?”

I give another awkward shrug, but I don’t shake her off. I don’t know why people ask that. What do they expect — for you to spill your soul out right there for them to see? I look past her instead, to where Meg is looking anxiously out from the driver’s side, like she actually cares.

They came back for me.

The thought is strangely comforting. I manage a weak smile. “What is this, an intervention?”

“More like a rescue,” Bliss answers, taking my bag and pushing me gently toward the car. I don’t argue. This time, I’m the one to collapse in the backseat, grateful for the soft seats and warm air. Bliss climbs in up front and twists around. “So you didn’t do anything crazy? I was expecting to find, like, every window smashed in, or the pool house burned down or something.”

I shake my head.

“But you went there, right?” She frowns.

I nod.

“And you’ve still got the painting?”

I don’t even realize until she says it, but the roll is still clutched in my hand. How stupid. As if a scrap of canvas could ever make a difference, or the smallest dent in his denial.

“I . . . I need to get rid of it,” I say at last. We’re driving slowly, Meg taking us back through the development and up along the dirt road at the edge of the golf course. “It won’t make a difference.” I try to think clearly. “She’s seen me with it, and there’s all that mess back at the office. But if they can’t find it on me . . .”

Bliss bites her lip. “Is there anywhere we can stash it for now?”

I shake my head, harder this time. “No, I don’t want it back. I need it gone.”

There’s silence.

“We could burn it,” Bliss says cheerfully. “Except we don’t have fuel or anything.”

“Check my bag,” I tell her, slumping back in the corner of the backseat. A moment later, she comes up with the small bottle of lighter fluid I keep stashed in the side pocket. She gives me a careful look.

“Sure, because you should always throw some butane in with your sweater and tampons.”

There’s a pause, and then all three of us crack a grin at the same time. Mine is weak, sure, but it’s something.

“How would you explain that?” Meg asks, laughing. “Oh, no, officer, it’s just in case I need to do some spontaneous barbecuing?”

“It’s nail-polish remover, honest!”

I don’t laugh along, but their giggles soften the harsh ache around my chest. Make me feel less alone.

“Right. Burning it is, then.” Bliss still sounds way too breezy, as if this is a trip to the mall we’re talking about here. I wait for Meg’s objections, but instead, she pulls up on the side of the road. We’re on the ridge I trekked up earlier, above the dark valley of the fairway and woods.

“I have matches in my trunk,” Meg says, to my surprise. She seems more relaxed somehow, as if the thought of committing felonies doesn’t fill her with terror anymore. But just when I’m wondering what happened to make her so reckless, she can’t help adding, “And a fire extinguisher in my emergency pack. Just in case.”

That’s our girl.

We walk down the hill with our supplies and a blanket Bliss insisted on taking from Meg’s trunk. “You’ll get it dirty,” Meg points out, scooping her sandals up in one hand to walk barefoot like me.

“That’s the whole point,” Bliss replies, unsteady on her bandaged ankle. “It’s machine washable, but my dress isn’t.”

“And that’s the most important thing?”

I let them bicker, walking silently alongside. Soon, the ground levels out and we reach the nearest hole; the flag ripped from the ground and discarded from my first trip through. I carefully pick it up and ease it back into place.