Stuck With The Four Hotties

Dad’s waiting for me in the visitor parking lot, standing next to his rusted- out Ford with his hands in his jeans pockets. He smiles at me, but I’m having a hard time smiling back. Climbing out of the air-conditioned leather palace of the academy car, my pleated skirt billowing gently in the wind, I feel like I’m straddling two realities.

“Hey,” I whisper as his eyes take in my hair. I hadn’t thought to mention it. I was too pissed about Parents’ Week, and honestly, it didn’t seem like he had the emotional capacity to handle any of my crap. He’s struggling enough on his own. The driver gets out and shuts the car door behind me before taking off.

Then it’s just me and Dad, standing alone in an empty parking lot.

“Your hair looks nice,” he says, and at least I think he actually means it. He’s dressed in a plaid button-down and new jeans, and it seems like he’s actually trying. Charlie seems sober, too, which is a relief. Last night was fun, if a little confusing, and I’m a bit too tired to drive us both the whole way home. “When did you decide to cut it?”

“I … my friend Miranda cut it for me,” I decide to say instead. “Remember the girl you met? Kathleen Cabot’s daughter?” Dad nods as he opens my door for me and takes my bag. He chucks it into the bed of the truck, next to his toolboxes, and gets in the driver’s side. The urge to add but maybe you were too drunk to remember flickers in my mind, but I keep my mouth shut.

We drive in silence for a little while, and I try not to get my feelings hurt that he’s not asking me any questions. We barely talk when I’m at school, and now that I’m going home, I thought he’d want to know everything. We’ve always had a good relationship.

“Your mother wants to see you for Christmas,” he blurts, and that’s when it all starts to make sense. Great. He’s never fallen out of love with that woman, even after all the crap she’s put us through. Sometimes, I just wish she’d go away and leave us completely alone. Popping in and out of our lives only makes things harder.

“Why?” I ask, my heart pounding. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Zack, replying to a pic of me in my dress last night. You’re a fuFking vision. I run my tongue along my lower lip, my heart pounding as he continues to type. On my way home. You?

“She’s your mother, Marnye,” Dad says, but he doesn’t sound anymore excited about this than I am. “She wants to have a relationship with you.” I tap out a response to Zack. Yep. For the whole two weeks.

“Maybe she should’ve thought about that before she left me at a rest stop and drove off?” I ask, lifting my face up to study Dad’s. He’s staring at the road with unwarranted intensity. His brown hair is tousled and flecked with hints of gray. The man’s only forty years old, and he’s already got gray. That worries me.

“People make mistakes, Marnye,” he says, and I roll my eyes, slumping against the door of the truck.

“You’re always making excuses for her, even now. She left me at a rest stop because her boyfriend was bothered by my crying. I was three, Dad. I could’ve been kidnapped or …” There’s no point putting to words all the horrible things that might’ve happened. He knows. He drove over to her fancy new house in Grenadine Heights, and punched her new boyfriend- now husband-in the face. Dad ended up in jail for two weeks, and I stayed with Mrs. Fleming.

Hang out with me sometime? Zack sends, and then a minute later. Please.

We haven’t gotten to the house yet, and I’m desperate to esFape already.

“I know it’s been tough, Marnye, but wouldn’t you rather have your mother in your life some than not at all?” I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that, so I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I just lean back in the torn old seat and text Zack again.

Same. When Fan you meet?

There’s a brief pause and then I can see him typing.

Tonight.

I smile tightly, turn my phone screen off, and lie back, closing my eyes against the curving country road.

At least now I have something to look forward to … although I’m already wondering if trusting Zack again is a mistake.

The Train Car is, quite literally, a pair of passenger cars from an old steam train that have been converted into a trailer of sorts. Each is shorter and narrower than some of the other trailers in the park, but at least they’ve got some character. When I was little, I loved living here.

Standing on the sagging front porch, I’m not so sure how I feel.

“What? A few months at that prep school and you’ve got champagne tastes?” Dad asks, smiling at me as he unlocks the door and lets us in. I’m nervous at first, but as I step inside, I see that it’s clean, and there aren’t any alcohol bottles anywhere.

“Definitely not.” I carry my bags into my room, tossing the ratty old duffel onto my floral bedspread. It’s a nice one, too, a present from Dad for my middle school graduation. He thought I could take it with me to Burberry Prep, but the packing list expressly asked students not to bring linens from home.

My room is in the second train car, right next to Dad’s, with nothing but a narrow hallway between them. The two train cars are connected by a makeshift hall of their own, metal welded together to keep out the elements, insulated, and covered in dry wall. It’s pretty cool, actually.

As I sit there, I get this surreal sense of belonging but not belonging, like maybe Dad’s right. Maybe my time at the academy has changed me a little. The person who lived here last summer isn’t quite the same person who’s sitting on this bed now. Putting both hands over my face, I lie back and just sit for a minute, taking it all in.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” Dad asks as I drop my hands and prop up on my elbows to look at him. His brown eyes are crinkled withCopyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

kindness at the edges, and his smile is clear and genuine. “We could barbeque? Or just order in pizza or Chinese?”