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“I got an email notice that you visited Michael,” she says.
That’s what her calls are about. My mom has always been supportive of me having a relationship with my dad. I think partly to piss off her parents who would rather he remain a story they could make up and shift into whatever they want. Anything but a convict who tried to lure their baby girl to the dark side.
“I’m eighteen now. You shouldn’t be getting those notices,” I grumble.
“Well, I’m still in the system as guardian, I guess. I’ll call later this week to see if they can remove that function.”She won’t call. If it’s not penciled in after lunch, it isn’t happening.
Several seconds pass without conversation, and I listen to my mom get into a cab and give the name of some restaurant I’d probably hate to the driver.
“Sorry, you still there?”
I sigh.
“I’m still here.”
Quieter, minus the regular thrum of cab tires rolling over spacers in the road. She must be going over the bridge.
“How was he? Your dad?” And this is where things always get weird. Her tone changes, and I’ve decided that it’s because she’s ashamed for caring about him so much. She does care about him, though. Otherwise, she wouldn’t ask about my visits. And she wouldn’t have made sure we had a connection.
“He’s good. I tried to bring him cupcakes for his birthday, but—”
“Shit.” She forgot.
“Yeah, it was Saturday. Don’t worry, he didn’t have a party or anything.” We both laugh faintly at my bad joke.
“But he’s good? How . . . how does he look?” My mom saw him six months ago when she went with me on my last underage visit. She’s seen him age over the years from across the room. All those visits, and she never once sat with us and talked to him. My dad never pushed, either.
“He had a fresh haircut. I mean, he still looks like he could lift a truck, and he seemed in good spirits. So yeah, he looks good.”
When I was younger, my dad put on a good face for me. I never questioned it until I was maybe sixteen, and that’s when we started to talk for real. I would ask him the hard questions and he would slice through the bullshit and give me real answers. He’s the only one who ever does. He told me he got his ass kicked at least twice a week for the first few years, but the older he got, the less people bothered him. Maybe he matured, or maybe the system did around him, but he’s been resolved to his situation and focused on the good parts for most of my teenage years.
“He’s thirty-six,” she says, her voice quiet now. She’s talking to herself.
I chew at the inside of my cheek and do the math on my own, my chest weighed down with the realization that I’m the same age he was when he fucked up his life. Doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel like my decisions right now are those of a well-formed adult. My friends would agree. Just last week I made a bet with two of the linemen on our football team that if I lay on the train tracks they would break first and tell me to move before I would. It was kind of a cheat, though, because I’ve lain on those tracks before and let the train roar over me. There’s a lot more clearance in that spot than people realize.
Dumb decisions are part of the Hass DNA when we’re young. I guess when the group you hang with fires a rifle inside a bank and kills someone, it doesn’t matter how newly minted your adulthood is. Unlike me, my dad picked the wrong friends. And he’s been paying for it for my entire life.
“I’ve got class soon. I still need to get dressed,” I say, sitting up and swinging my feet to the floor.
“Right, well, wish me luck. Love you, Cam.” She ends the call before I say ‘bye.’
I drop my phone to the bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. The only time my mom utters those words,love you,is at the abrupt end of a phone call. I can’t remember the last time she said them to me in person. It’s fine. I know she loves me, in her own way. She gives affection the same way it was shown to her as a kid.
Deciding I don’t have time to rush through a shower, I throw a white T-shirt over my head and grab the button-down I wore yesterday from the back of my desk chair. I never undo my ties if I can help it, so I’m able to tighten the knot against my throat and slip into my jacket in under a minute. I’m not as graceful as Theo at slipping shoes on without untying them, so I let the laces dangle around my ankles while I grab my backpack and rush out the door.
I slide around the corner—literally—a second before the first bell sounds. My economics teacher, Mr. Philips, eyes me over the black rims of his glasses and says my name the same way the agents talk to Keanu Reeves inThe Matrix.
“Present,” I say, assuming he’s taking roll.
I dip into my seat and drop my backpack between my feet, kicking it back so the straps don’t trip anyone. After a few seconds, I realize he’s not calling out any other names, and a quick glance around the room reveals everyone’s eyes on me.
“Mr. Hass, might you look down at your lap and tell me what you see?” He pulls his glasses a fraction lower on his nose, and at about that time I hear a muffled laugh break free behind me.
Yeah . . . my thighs are cold.
My chin drops and my eyes take in my hairy, pale thighs peeking out from my Grinch boxer shorts.How the fuck did I get out of my room without my pants? I put my shoes on for Christ’s sake! I guess I didn’t linger to tie them, so poof—no pants.
“Weirdest thing . . .” I start my mental rolodex of excuses and land on making this one of those epic stories that will live on in Welles infamy for years. “It’s why I was late, actually. See, I was taking the long route to class, by the main road—the public one, outside the gates.”
