For the Best Read Free

the one from my dad. The principal had
called. He was on the warpath. I deafened my ear but still caught
mention of military school. Then I laughed. Who sends a daughter
they had written off to military school when she is three months
shy of graduation? The strangest part of the conversation was the
end.
    My father asked, “Are you okay?”
    After the funeral, after I had the breakdown
at the wake and told my dad I hated him and wished he had been the
one to die, my father asked me the same thing. I hadn’t answered
his question that day either.
    I tried to remember the insanity of that
moment. I had been through so much. My dad hadn’t spoken to me for
almost a year before the day of the funeral. He had brought my
stepmom and stepsister to his ex-wife’s funeral. Two women who
looked the same, pale almost white hair, ivory skin, translucent
blue eyes, they reminded me of porcelain dolls. They were strangers
and enemies who battled me for the attention of my father, a person
not worth the war.
    My dad’s abrupt leaving without paying child
support, my Mom’s catastrophic medical bills, a mortgage on a house
we didn’t need, utilities, private school tuition, and little
things like food and gas had depleted the paltry amount of money in
my Mom’s savings account about a year ago. Without any parental
consent I used up what was in my college fund to keep us going.
When that disappeared, I just stopped paying the mortgage. The
whole country had been in a recession. I thought I had time. The
bank had sent a foreclosure notice last month.
     
    Dozing on the couch I heard a car door slam
in my driveway. Not wanting to be in a horizontal position, I
rolled myself upright before Tanner came inside.
    “I heard you got called in the principal’s
office today. Have you been a bad girl?”
    The lame connotation irked me though he had
no idea of what I’d experienced. “I’ve been something. Currently,
I’ve been hungry. You want a sandwich?”
    “Sure.”
    He followed me into the kitchen and sat at
our island counter. My mom had remodeled our kitchen a few years
ago and put in this beautiful orangey red granite that set off the
black cabinets. After her remission ended, my dad read an article
about some granite exports emitting radon gases. We kept the
countertop. Dad dismissed the chances of any lasting effects by
saying that the emission levels were so low that they didn’t even
register.
    Tanner looked at me as I pulled slices of
white bread from the loaf. I wondered if he wanted the oat cluster
kind his mom bought.
    I held up mayo slathered on one slice of
bread. “Condiment advisory needed?” I pointed to a jar of banana
peppers, a head of lettuce, mayo, and cheese - the last of my food
supplies.
    He laughed. “Give me the works.” I slapped
it on thick and piled a bunch of turkey on top. “So what did he
want?”
    “No worries. Tune in and see.”
    He took a big bite. My stomach twisted and
cramped diminishing my hunger. I tore off a slice of bread hoping
to calm my belly. A doughy glob stuck to the roof of my overly dry
mouth. I grabbed a paper towel, turned from Tanner and spat the
food into it.
    He sighed. “Does your stomach hurt
again?”
    I nodded gulping water from the tap.
    “What is it now?”
    “I’m pretty sure I’m going to hell.”
    He laughed. Satan’s lair was what we
referred to as the house of my dad and stepmom. “You want me to
come with?”
    “Not this time.”
    He studied me tilting his head as if I was
perplexing. Finishing his sandwich in three bites, he opened the
fridge, made no comments about the lack of contents and took the
one drink remaining, swigging down a Diet Coke without asking if he
could have it.
    He hand dusted the crumbs into his palm and
shook them into the trash. “Sooo?”
    My stomach clenched. “I’ve got a lot of
stuff to do tomorrow. Is it okay if you don’t spend the night?”
    “Sure.” He smiled.
    Walking him to the door, he opened it. Then
he turned