2006-09-18
running late
Dad is running late. I'm hunched in the backseat, listening to the radio.
"What's this guy’s name again?" Dad asks.
I scrunch my shoulders. "Like you care."
We're off to school, late as usual. I refuse to ride up front. I make him wheel the truck 30 feet away from school--a slab of rain-stained concrete that brings parking garages to mind.
"Don’t worry," Dad says. "I'll wait 'til they see the whites of my eyes."
"Daaaad," I whine, as if this sums up everything.
He parks up front anyway.
"So how’s life?" he says.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I take that as a negative response. What's the problem? You don’t like your teachers?"
"Dad."
The word "Dad" floats disembodied before me like a banner exploding in a breeze. It's worse when he keeps quiet. Dad checks the backseat every so often, making sure I'm still breathing.
On the rare occasion that Dad drops me at school, I get the feeling he's abandoned me in some way. I will shoulder my bookbag like a doomed soldier. I don't usually wave goodbye. But this morning, I walk a little slower, loping along the sidewalk.
He probably thinks I have a boyfriend.
Maybe I should’ve gone away to boarding school--somewhere in the great white north with lots of brick-sided buildings and murky-smelling coffee bars where all the local kids pretend to study.
I get out and walk as fast as possible.
He calls my name.
I give him a four-letter look.
"You forgot your lunch."
I troop back to the truck. He tosses the paper bag (grilled cheese smothered with sprouts). I take it and turn to leave.
"Have a stupendous day," he says.
I stare. There's something in his inverted-triangle smile that seems fake.
When he waves goodbye, I don't wave back.
f-i-n at 12:02 p.m.