Christmas one year.
What had I been thinking?
“I’m too old for a singing-songwriting career,” I tell him. “I mean, have you seen those girls on MTV? I can’t wear short skirts anymore. Too much cellulite.”
“Don’t be silly,” Dad says dismissively. “You look fine. Besides, if you’re self-conscious, you can just wear slacks.”
Slacks. Dad kills me sometimes. He really does.
“It would be a shame,” Dad says. “No, not just a shame—a sin—to let God-given talent like yours go to Page 51
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waste.”
“Well,” I say, “I don’t think I have. I did the singing thing already. I think maybe now it’s time to try a different talent.”
“Criminal justice?” Dad looks confused. “That’s a talent?”
“Well, at least one where no one’s going to boo me off a stage,” I point out.
“No one would dare!” Dad cries, laying down his spoon. “You sing like an angel! And those songs of yours—they’re much better than some of that garbage I hear on the radio. That girl, going on about her lumps, or her humps, or whatever she’s talking about. And that other one—that Tracy Trace, the one that old boyfriend of yours is marrying this weekend. Why, she’s half naked in that video!”
I have to repress a smile. “Tania Trace,” I correct him. “And that’s the number one video onTRL right now.”
“Well,” Dad says firmly, “regardless. It’s trash.”
“What about you, Dad?” I ask, thinking I’d better change the subject before he gets too overexcited. “I mean, you were at Camp Eglin for…gosh. Almost twenty years. What are you going to do now that you’re out?”
“I have a few irons in the fire,” Dad says. “Some of which look quite promising.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, that sounds good. Here in New York?”
“Yes,” Dad says. But I notice he’s gotten more hesitant in his replies. And he’s not making eye contact with me anymore.
Uh-oh.
“Dad,” I say. Because suddenly I have a new feeling in my stomach. And it isn’t horror or pity. It’s dread. “Did you really call me because you wanted to see me and catch up on old times? Or was there something else?”
“Of course I wanted to see you,” Dad says, with some asperity. “You’re my old daughter, for goodness’ sake.”
“Right,” I say. “But…”
“What makes you think there’s abut ?” Dad wants to know.
“Because,” I say, “I’m not nine anymore. I know there’s always abut. ”
He lays down his spoon. Then he takes a deep breath.
“All right,” he says. “There’s a but.”
Then he tells me what it is.
Page 52
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8
Tick-tock
Alarm clock
Doesn’t ring
Funny thing
I wake
No break
Somebody please
Shoot me.
“Morning Song”
Written by Heather Wells
I’m fifteen minutes late to work the next day. Personally, I don’t think fifteen minutes is all that long.
Fifteen minutes shouldn’t even count as tardy…especially when you take into account what happened to me the night before—you know, the whole return of the prodigal dad thing.
But fifteen minutes can be quite a long time in the life cycle of a residence hall. Fifteen minutes is long enough, in fact, for a representative from Counseling Services to find my desk and station herself at it.
And when I run breathlessly into the office and see her there, and go, “May I help you?” those fifteen minutes she’s been at my desk are apparently long enough to make her feel enough at home at it to go,
“Oh, no, thank you. Unless you’re going for coffee, in which case I could use one, light, no sugar.”
I blink at her. She’s wearing a tasteful gray cashmere sweater set—with pearls, no less—and is making me feel quite underdressed in my professional wear of jeans and chunky cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t even have hat hair. Her
What had I been thinking?
“I’m too old for a singing-songwriting career,” I tell him. “I mean, have you seen those girls on MTV? I can’t wear short skirts anymore. Too much cellulite.”
“Don’t be silly,” Dad says dismissively. “You look fine. Besides, if you’re self-conscious, you can just wear slacks.”
Slacks. Dad kills me sometimes. He really does.
“It would be a shame,” Dad says. “No, not just a shame—a sin—to let God-given talent like yours go to Page 51
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
waste.”
“Well,” I say, “I don’t think I have. I did the singing thing already. I think maybe now it’s time to try a different talent.”
“Criminal justice?” Dad looks confused. “That’s a talent?”
“Well, at least one where no one’s going to boo me off a stage,” I point out.
“No one would dare!” Dad cries, laying down his spoon. “You sing like an angel! And those songs of yours—they’re much better than some of that garbage I hear on the radio. That girl, going on about her lumps, or her humps, or whatever she’s talking about. And that other one—that Tracy Trace, the one that old boyfriend of yours is marrying this weekend. Why, she’s half naked in that video!”
I have to repress a smile. “Tania Trace,” I correct him. “And that’s the number one video onTRL right now.”
“Well,” Dad says firmly, “regardless. It’s trash.”
“What about you, Dad?” I ask, thinking I’d better change the subject before he gets too overexcited. “I mean, you were at Camp Eglin for…gosh. Almost twenty years. What are you going to do now that you’re out?”
“I have a few irons in the fire,” Dad says. “Some of which look quite promising.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, that sounds good. Here in New York?”
“Yes,” Dad says. But I notice he’s gotten more hesitant in his replies. And he’s not making eye contact with me anymore.
Uh-oh.
“Dad,” I say. Because suddenly I have a new feeling in my stomach. And it isn’t horror or pity. It’s dread. “Did you really call me because you wanted to see me and catch up on old times? Or was there something else?”
“Of course I wanted to see you,” Dad says, with some asperity. “You’re my old daughter, for goodness’ sake.”
“Right,” I say. “But…”
“What makes you think there’s abut ?” Dad wants to know.
“Because,” I say, “I’m not nine anymore. I know there’s always abut. ”
He lays down his spoon. Then he takes a deep breath.
“All right,” he says. “There’s a but.”
Then he tells me what it is.
Page 52
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
8
Tick-tock
Alarm clock
Doesn’t ring
Funny thing
I wake
No break
Somebody please
Shoot me.
“Morning Song”
Written by Heather Wells
I’m fifteen minutes late to work the next day. Personally, I don’t think fifteen minutes is all that long.
Fifteen minutes shouldn’t even count as tardy…especially when you take into account what happened to me the night before—you know, the whole return of the prodigal dad thing.
But fifteen minutes can be quite a long time in the life cycle of a residence hall. Fifteen minutes is long enough, in fact, for a representative from Counseling Services to find my desk and station herself at it.
And when I run breathlessly into the office and see her there, and go, “May I help you?” those fifteen minutes she’s been at my desk are apparently long enough to make her feel enough at home at it to go,
“Oh, no, thank you. Unless you’re going for coffee, in which case I could use one, light, no sugar.”
I blink at her. She’s wearing a tasteful gray cashmere sweater set—with pearls, no less—and is making me feel quite underdressed in my professional wear of jeans and chunky cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t even have hat hair. Her
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