Rules of the Road Read Free Page A

Johnston and Murphy display like it held the secret to life. Maybe I could tiptoe around her into the—
    “Your father,” said Mrs. Gladstone in her soft Texas drawl, “is quite a—”
    My body clenched. “I’m sorry about him, ma’am. If you don’t want me to work here anymore, I’ll understand.”
    Mrs. Gladstone folded her skinny arms across her chest. I was toast.
    I would not fall apart if I got fired.
    I’d just take my stuff and go.
    “What manure,” she spat.
    I guess I wasn’t fired.
    “Why would I penalize you for something that is clearly your father’s problem?” She stood there waiting.
    “Well . . .”
    What could I say to her?
    What could I say to anyone?
    My father has had this problem all my life and if I had one wish in this world it would be that he could beat it.
    But you know how it is with wishes. Some you catch, and others are like trying to grab Jello.

    Mom’s note on the dining room table to me and Faith read:
    Daughters of mine,
    In case you haven’t noticed, no one has seen the top of our dining room table in months. I seem to recall it is oak, but as the days dwindle by, I’m less and less sure. Perhaps this is because your school books, files, papers, magazines, letters, underwear, etc., are shielding it from normal use. My goal for you, dear offspring, to be accomplished in twenty-four hours (no excuses), is the clearing/exhuming of this space so that we may gather around it once again and spend quality time. Even though I am working the night shift, I will still be watching. Do it or die.
    Your loving mother
    My younger sister Faith padded in, holding a box of extra-heavy garbage bags. At fourteen, Faith was beautiful beyondknowing—blonde, green-eyed, finely cut cheekbones—an example of what God could do if he was paying attention. It used to bug me that she got all the gorgeous genes, but like my grandmother always said, there’s a downside to everything. I can walk into a room looking like I’ve slept in a torture chamber with poisonous snakes, and people mostly ignore it. But when Faith looks bad, she’s got a crowd around her telling her about it.
    “You want the front half or the back?” she asked, turning up her perfect nose at the table. Faith always seemed put together—her head matched her neck; her long legs matched the rest of her body. I felt like I’d been glued together with surplus parts—my shoulders were big and boxy, my legs were long and skinny. I had a swan-thin neck that held my round head in place.
    I studied the table to figure out which half had the least work. “If we split it lengthwise down the middle,” I said, “you take the one closest to you—”
    “That’s got more stuff, Jenna!”
    Precisely.
    “I saw Dad.”
    Faith sat down. “You did?”
    I told her.
    “Oh, Jenna, you must have been mortified!”
    “It hasn’t hit me yet.”
    Faith fidgeted on the chair. She tugged at her long ponytail. “Did he mention me?”
    “Yeah. Of course.” He hadn’t.
    “Well . . .what did he say?”
    “He misses you and wishes he could have come around more and wonders how you’re doing.”
    I always told her this. There’s a responsibility that comes with being a big sister. I guess she believed me, although you can’t always tell with Faith. Last Father’s Day she was storming around the house, slamming doors, telling everyone to buzz off, she was
fine
. Father’s Day is my least favorite holiday. I can never find the right card. I can’t send the “Dad, I can always count on you” ones; I nix “Thanks for everything” and “You’re the greatest.” What the world needs is an alternative card: “Dad, I love you, even though you haven’t been there for me.”
    Faith lifted a stack of fashion magazines from the table like they weighed six tons. She is probably going to become a model someday even though I warned her that smiling and twirling under hot lights has been medically proven to cause shallowness. I think