memorized back in elementary school, thanks to Arden’s Quidditch obsession. She probably read it to me a dozen times. Reading it now wasn’t too bad. I remembered all the character names and weird wizard terminology, so I could figure most of those words out just looking at the first letter or two, not needing to sound the whole thing out.
Just as the tabby cat sitting on the wall in front of number four, Privet Drive, transformed into Professor McGonagall, my printer started chirping. Nate abandoned my desk chair and came over to sit next to me on the bed. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
He looked at the open book in my hands. “You’re only on page ten?”
“It’s been less than an hour. What page did you expect me to be on?”
“Sorry, page ten is good. Do you like the story?”
“Yeah.”
He scooted closer to me and slid his hand behind my back. He was acting like himself again, or at least the version of himself that I knew and liked. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he squeezed me closer. “Do you want to keep reading?”
“What would you do?”
“You could read it out loud. I like this story too, and it’s been a while since I’ve read it.”
I spoke slowly. “Fl-flokes-flocks off-of ow-owl’s…sh-shoo-shooting st-stars…” I paused before each word, examined each letter. Nate sat behind me, his chin resting above my shoulder. Sometimes, when I got really stuck on a big word, he’d give me the answer. But mainly, he just listened, waiting for me to figure it out myself.
When I’d listened to Nate read, it had felt like we were sharing a secret. This just felt childish. I was practically sitting on his lap and struggling to read a children’s book. I felt like a seven year old with her babysitter.
It took me another hour to finish the first chapter. Nate didn’t say anything mean about my crappy reading skills, but when I put the book down, he didn’t take advantage of our close proximity on the bed either.
He got up and stood in front of the painting of me at the beach. Did Nate see the prodigy constructing an abacus from pebbles and shells, or did he only see a lost daughter, a baby girl?
“I Googled your dad,” he said. “He’s sort of famous.”
“He’s a good painter, and a crappy father.”
“Will you tell me about him?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’ll tell me.”
I had no idea where to begin when it came to my dad. I decided to start with the basics. “My parents met through work. My mom was the lead architect on a large public works project. My dad was commissioned to make a sculpture for the center of the building’s public square. My parents were creative in different ways, but they shared a vision of the space they were creating. They shared meals after work and then they decided to share the rest of their lives too.”
“A meeting of minds. That’s sweet.”
I crawled off my bed and moved to his side. “They got married, had me, and pretended they were happy for a while. But my mom was too rigid for him. She put harsh lines into all her buildings, and she put harsh lines into her home. She expected him to be and act a certain way, and he didn’t know how. He had a gnarly case of ADD. But he wouldn’t take Ritalin, because he thought it interrupted his art. He took vodka instead. His drinking spiraled out of control, and things started to get messy.”
Nate turned away from the girl in the painting to look at the real-life girl instead. I still felt small. “I started going to Arden’s house after school instead of home to my dad. Her world wasn’t as colorful. But it was a lot more stable and quiet. Having an audiographic memory isn’t all that great when everyone around you is fighting, and that’s all my parents seemed to do then.”
I swallowed back the threat of tears. “Everything blew up when I was seven. I was diagnosed with dyslexia and all of a sudden needed more support than my dad knew how to
Just as the tabby cat sitting on the wall in front of number four, Privet Drive, transformed into Professor McGonagall, my printer started chirping. Nate abandoned my desk chair and came over to sit next to me on the bed. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
He looked at the open book in my hands. “You’re only on page ten?”
“It’s been less than an hour. What page did you expect me to be on?”
“Sorry, page ten is good. Do you like the story?”
“Yeah.”
He scooted closer to me and slid his hand behind my back. He was acting like himself again, or at least the version of himself that I knew and liked. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he squeezed me closer. “Do you want to keep reading?”
“What would you do?”
“You could read it out loud. I like this story too, and it’s been a while since I’ve read it.”
I spoke slowly. “Fl-flokes-flocks off-of ow-owl’s…sh-shoo-shooting st-stars…” I paused before each word, examined each letter. Nate sat behind me, his chin resting above my shoulder. Sometimes, when I got really stuck on a big word, he’d give me the answer. But mainly, he just listened, waiting for me to figure it out myself.
When I’d listened to Nate read, it had felt like we were sharing a secret. This just felt childish. I was practically sitting on his lap and struggling to read a children’s book. I felt like a seven year old with her babysitter.
It took me another hour to finish the first chapter. Nate didn’t say anything mean about my crappy reading skills, but when I put the book down, he didn’t take advantage of our close proximity on the bed either.
He got up and stood in front of the painting of me at the beach. Did Nate see the prodigy constructing an abacus from pebbles and shells, or did he only see a lost daughter, a baby girl?
“I Googled your dad,” he said. “He’s sort of famous.”
“He’s a good painter, and a crappy father.”
“Will you tell me about him?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you’ll tell me.”
I had no idea where to begin when it came to my dad. I decided to start with the basics. “My parents met through work. My mom was the lead architect on a large public works project. My dad was commissioned to make a sculpture for the center of the building’s public square. My parents were creative in different ways, but they shared a vision of the space they were creating. They shared meals after work and then they decided to share the rest of their lives too.”
“A meeting of minds. That’s sweet.”
I crawled off my bed and moved to his side. “They got married, had me, and pretended they were happy for a while. But my mom was too rigid for him. She put harsh lines into all her buildings, and she put harsh lines into her home. She expected him to be and act a certain way, and he didn’t know how. He had a gnarly case of ADD. But he wouldn’t take Ritalin, because he thought it interrupted his art. He took vodka instead. His drinking spiraled out of control, and things started to get messy.”
Nate turned away from the girl in the painting to look at the real-life girl instead. I still felt small. “I started going to Arden’s house after school instead of home to my dad. Her world wasn’t as colorful. But it was a lot more stable and quiet. Having an audiographic memory isn’t all that great when everyone around you is fighting, and that’s all my parents seemed to do then.”
I swallowed back the threat of tears. “Everything blew up when I was seven. I was diagnosed with dyslexia and all of a sudden needed more support than my dad knew how to
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