Ether Read Free Page A

start
to look away, and catch another flash, which again is gone as soon as I looked
for it. I rub my eyes; the headache is bad enough by now that I know I won’t
make it through lunch. Reluctantly, I stand and made my way over to the office.
                I’m entitled
to leave early, my mother has already spoken to Ms. Reins, but I’m loath to face
her round, jolly sympathy. I know from experience that I can’t escape without a
volley of ‘poor dears’ and cooing sounds better suited to pigeons than people. I
pause in front of the tinted windows of the administrative office, fighting the
urge to ditch class and go home on my own.
                As I stand
in front of the glass, he is suddenly there before me, reflected in the
dark surface of the window. He smiles widely when his eyes met mine. A ripple
of surprise passes over his face. He raises a hand and wiggles his fingers at
me, giving me a hesitant wave. I wave back to him, a little thrill racing
through me. It is him, the boy from my dream. His image begins to fade
from the edges like breath clearing from a window.
                I’m still
standing there with my hand up, watching the last twinkle of his eyes in the
glass, when the door flies open. “Rebecca Pierce, you poor dear, why are you
just standing there? Are you ill? Oooooooo, Oooooooo, it must be your head.
Come in, poor little thing, I’ll call your mom right away.” I’m whisked into
the office of polished wood and beige carpeting and gently placed in one of the
comfortable burgundy chairs reserved for welcomed guests.
                If only she
had called my mom! But Mrs. Evelyn Wade-Pierce is impossible to reach, even in
emergencies. She’s always with a client and almost never returns pages from the
school. Ms. Reins isn’t up to the task of tracking her down, especially not
when my ultra-laid back, charming, and handsome father can pick me up at a
moment’s notice.
                If the head
pain hadn’t already made me nauseous, the sight of my father dressed in a
leather jacket, skinny jeans and a button down shirt with very few buttons in
use, jaunting through the door with a motor cycle helmet in one hand, would
have done the job nicely.  Midlife crisis central.
                Still, he’s
all tender fatherly concern. He peers intently into my face.  “How are you
doing kiddo?” he asks gently. I breathe in a whiff of the cloying new cologne
he’s bathed in and my breakfast rockets up. I have just enough time to lean
into the plastic potted plant beside me. In the background there’s a flurry of ‘poor
dears.’
                The ride
home is the most miserable of my life. Between the cologne, pounding headache
and motor cycle vibrations I’ve never been so glad to see my driveway. Before
the accident, he would have dropped me at the curb and sped away. Now though,
he lingers anxiously while I pull out the keys, “You can come in if you want
Dad, Mom won’t be home for hours. It’s still your house.”
                I don’t
turn around to see his break-it-to-me-gently eyes. I know full well that their
separation is going a lot better than their marriage. I don’t even really want
him to come back if it means more fighting, but it really stings the way he
acts like our neighbourhood is a hot zone, even when there’s no chance at all
of them running into each other. It’s kind of hard not to take that personally.
    “I’ll
get your pills and make sure you’re settled in before I go, okay?”
                “Sure dad,
sure,” I say as I slump down on the sofa. It takes him all of three minutes to
‘settle’ me with a blanket, headache pills and a glass of water before he lets
himself out. I don’t ask him to stay. He doesn’t want to be here, the message is
clear enough. I try not to think about how much my mom will freak if she finds
out about the motorcycle pick up and child