The Devil You Know by Trish Doller

nods.
    â€œJess is off today, so she can go pick up the rug rat.” Duane sighs, and inside it I hear everything he’s not saying.
    â€œI know this is asking a lot—” I say.
    â€œJust be careful, Cadie. And if you get in a jam—I mean anything at all—you call me right away. Got it?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œHave fun, crazy girl.” “Thanks, Duane. Love you.”
    He tells me to shut up, and then he’s gone. It’s just me and Noah and Matt, and they’re both looking at me.
    â€œWe’re not going to Disney World,” I say.
    A matched set of grins is what I get in return as I shovel a fork filled with yolky toast into my mouth, but it’s Matt who speaks first. “So what’s next? Devil’s Chair?”
    I nod. “Let’s go hear what the devil has to say.”

Chapter 9
    Mom used to keep a little box of cards printed with questions and quotes. Conversation starters, she’d call them, and she’d take them out at the dinner table whenever I was having a one-word-answer day or if Dad carried on too long with work-related gripes. It wasn’t as much a family bonding exercise as it was a way for her to force us to talk to her about something after she’d spent most of her day alone. Usually I didn’t mind, even the times I rolled my eyes. But when she was pregnant and riddled with cancer, she was the one who didn’t want to talk sometimes. Dad and I never pulled out the box for her, and after she was gone … well, I don’t even know where the cards are. We don’t talk like that anymore, my dad and me. More often than not our conversations are night ships.
    Did you do your homework?
    Yeah.
    There’s a plate in the oven for you.
    Thanks.
    The grass is looking long.
    I’ll mow it after school.
    I appreciate that my dad’s life sucks sometimes, too. There are nights I lean against the wall outside his door, wanting to knock. Touching the pencil mark on the frame from the last time he measured me there. Wanting him to invite me in. Pressing my ear against the wood grain as if I might hear his thoughts. Wanting to share in the bit of Mom that’s still left in that room. But I’m afraid I’ll break him more than he’s already been broken.
    All of this is why, when I finally hear from Dad, I’m not surprised that his reply is a text message telling me I’ve had my fun, but now it’s time to come home, preferably in time to make dinner. Keeping the confrontation as short and impersonal as possible. Like father, like daughter. Only we’re halfway to Cassadaga and I’m not asking Noah to turn the car around now.
    I’m typing a response when I’m interrupted by an incoming text from Lindsey.
    Everything’s okay. Just a family thing I forgot about.
    Before I can find out what was more important to her than Disney World, my phone powers off. Dead.
    Perfect.
    I lean forward between the seats to tell Noah and Matt about Lindsey’s response.
    â€œBummer,” Matt says, but he doesn’t sound especially upset. Noah doesn’t say anything and I wonder if Lindsey even matters to them. If I matter. Maybe I’m just another Florida tourist attraction. Then again, how could I be anything more?
    â€œMy phone died,” I say. “Do either of you have a charger?”
    But they have expensive, gadgety phones that talk to them and play hours of music. Not compatible with my old model that only makes calls and texts. I’m not complaining about it. Just that of all the things I remembered to bring, my charger wasn’t one of them.
    â€œDo you need to make a call?” Noah offers me his phone, but I decide I’ll wait until we reach Cassadaga. A few more miles isn’t going to keep my dad from being upset when I tell him I’m not coming home.
    The backseat of the Cougar is comfortable, but the one thing I’ve learned about convertibles