Who's Your Daddy?

Who's Your Daddy? by Lynda Sandoval

Book: Who's Your Daddy? by Lynda Sandoval Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lynda Sandoval
through being totally involved with the boosters, which was sorta pathetic and made me feelsad for her. But, hey, at least she was involved. You sure couldn’t say that about a lot of parents.
    I don’t know where the team was, but the band was on the field practicing our fight song. It’s funny—I don’t even know the real words to it, because we always change it up like this:
    Cheer, cheer for White Peaks High.
You bring the whiskey, I’ll bring the rye,
Send those freshman out for gin,
Don’t let a sober sophomore in.
We never stumble, we never fall
We sober up on wood alcohol,
Loyal peeps of WPHS,
Step up to the bar for more!
    My dad, the principal, and the superintendent—überscary Dr. Judith Cannon—all despise the fact that the entire student body practically screams those words instead of the real ones whenever we’re supposed to sing along. We’ve even had assemblies about it, believe it or not, during which they get together, all seriousfaced, and issue one big group smackdown to us.
    It doesn’t change anything.
    Frankly, I think they ought to lighten up. The stupid song has been sung that way practically since
were high school age. It’s not like we REALLY sober up on wood alcohol, for God’s sake. I don’t even know what wood alcohol is. But, the made-up lyrics are amusing, whereas the real words are so booo-o-oring.
    I was standing at the table, sullenly fiddling with the fuzz inside the pockets of my parka, when Meryl and Caressa be-bopped up and sort of grabbed me.
    “Thank God you guys are here.” I leaned in for a group hug, then turned my butt toward them and looked back over my shoulder. “How hideous are these pants?” I whispered.
    “You look really cute!” Meryl said.
    I gave her a sick smile. Nice fashion sense. “Right.”
    “How’s it going?” Caressa asked, not commenting on my garb whatsoever, which said a lot, coming from Caressa.
    “It’s going.”
    “Hi, Dylan,” Meryl said, looking past me.
    “Hey.” He grinned. “Hi, Caressa.”
    “Hello.” Caressa sort of jostled me from the side. “How’s our little prisoner treating you?”
    Dylan just laughed. “She
it so far. Don’t you, Moreno.”
    “Bite me, Sebring.”
    He wagged his finger and looked at me all playful-like. “Now see, you
haven’t asked me nicely, or I just might.”
    I averted my gaze. “Do you mind if I talk to my friends for a few minutes? I haven’t seen them at all since I’ve been on house arrest.” It irked the hell out of me that I had to ask permission, but he
have to give progress reports to my dad.
    “Of course I don’t care. Go on.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice and pierced me with a knowing expression. “Keep in mind your dad will probably show up in a half hour or so. You might want to be over here before then.”
    “Oh.” It felt good that he sort of had my back. It was the first glimpse I’d had of him not being a total yes man with my dad, and I liked it. “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out.”
    Meryl, Caressa, and I walked over to the refreshment kiosk and bought ourselves hot cocoa. We stood in a little huddle off to the side, talking to each other through the wisps of steam rising from our paper cups. There were too many people around, so we didn’t bring up the dumb supper at all. It was one thing to be desperate enough for dates to conduct a metaphysical ritual like a dumb supper … another thing entirely to openly talk about it in front of schoolmates. So, we chatted about classes, parents, my grounding, the junior nares. Caressa told us a little about play rehearsals (she hated them). Meryl told us all about how she’d been doing some self-study about Bosnian culture, Ramadan, and the Bosnian dialect of Serbo-Croatian that Ismet’s family spoke, so she could be more respectful of his life. (That Meryl!)
    After a few minutes of chatter, though, my best buddies veered off in a new direction with zero

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