Precise by Rebecca Berto, Lauren McKellar Page A

anything I can say so Dad doesn’t pick up my shift. “Well I’m glad you enjoy chasing both of them.”
    “I s’pose you won’t be buying a Spoodle?”
    “Not a Spoodle, a Moodle or any other dog breed. I’m not good with looking after them.”
    “Who?”
    “Roxy. God, Dad. I can still look after my child.” I laugh lightly, showing that I’m not having a go at him. At least, that’s what it should sound like. But Dad is too perceptive. He knows how to turn down the sound and listen to what’s really going on underneath all of the sugar coating.
    He clears his throat. “Paul always had the patience for a terror like Roxy.”
    He doesn’t continue at first. Then he resumes in a whisper, as if it’s blasphemy if anyone else can hear him. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Dad huffs as if he’s given up hope. “I’m sure you know I loved Paul like he was my own son. I’ve never expected you to do this or do that after what happened to him. I don’t want to be the one telling you how you should feel because I wouldn’t want to feel forced myself.”
    Has Mom mouthed off about me? And what did I do last night? Is she the reason why my mind has blocked out an entire night? Party plus Mom equals some of the top things on my I-Do-Not-Want-To-Do list.
    I ponder the thought. Not possible.
    I’d imagined, briefly, that Liam might have had something to do with me leaving—our last encounter that I remember is that text message. So meeting him in person? War.
    I choose two strands of grass, tie the ends together and layer them. I twist them over and over. Soon, my grass weaving looks like the inside of a piano accordion.
    I mock up a pop tune in my mind, the beat strong.
    Dad’s words blur like steam in a hot tub. I dig my palm into the grainy concrete, grazing my skin. The pounding in my head has to be counteracted somehow. Each time Paul’s curls or his emerald eyes, or even his voice try to squeeze into my conscious process, I add lyrics, a piano, and backup singers.
    By the time Dad’s voice registers, I’ve run out of grass to weave and feel uninspired to invent any more crap songs.
    “ . . . don’t tell your mother, though. It’s nothing. I just keep thinking he’s coming back. Four months feels like last week. I’m not getting Alzheimer’s. Promise. I just need to stop buying those outback magazines for him. And sending emails. It’s the shock that does it. I think to myself,” he waits a few beats, “how can that be it? He donated to Diabetes Australia. He worked hard and spent every weeknight and weekend with his family. It’s not fair but we’ll work out the reason for it later. You’ll work it out when the time’s right. Give it time, darling,” he says.
    Is he talking about Paul or me? Where did Dad make the transition? I’ve already forgotten why we came out here.
    “I know,” I say, trying out the words.
    You don’t know. But, of course, you’re a super great liar. Molten Man is back. That’s quick.
    The sky darkens. Someone steals the sun and drags the light away with it. Molten Man sucks my reasoning and answers. The rush is a constant on, off, on, off, like a skipping record, on my nervous system.
    “So really, Kates, I wanted to make sure you didn’t leave in a huff again.”
    He has his head cocked to one side. So still.
    I hunch my shoulders against the cold. At two-and-a-half times my age, Dad still sits there in his thin sweater, legs and arms uncrossed. Just looking. So strong and unaffected by the chill.
    “Did you know that when you were little you’d just shut down when you refused to talk about something? Drove your mother crazy.” He rubs my shoulder in circles.
    “Do you think maybe it’s all catching up to you?” he adds.
    “What is?”
    “You know, what you’re going through and . . . ”
    “Oh.” I expect him to go on once more, but he waits for me. Dad is the opposite of Mom. I wonder how they get along sometimes. I label him the silent but