Chapter Seventeen December 27
Chapter Seventeen
It’s surprisingly easy shutting someone out of your life in the winter.
Even when you go to the same school. You learn people’s patterns, and I know which routes John takes to get to his classes.
I used to use this knowledge to my advantage, to orchestrate “chance” encounters with him.
We’d brush shoulders, exchange secretive glances and smiles.
John would sometimes grab my hand in his and squeeze it before gently letting it go as we passed one another.
Now, I take the routes less traveled. The ones that get me to class on time and come with fewer risks.
I’ve spent most of December trying to be the best sister, aunt, and daughter I can.
I help Georgie with Paulie, do my homework, and spend time with Dad in the evenings, mending the fractures our relationship has suffered since I started high school, most of them invisible but still painfully felt.
To other fathers and teenage daughters, these would just be growing pains, but for us, it feels like we’re growing apart.
“Where’s Georgie?” I ask Dad. I’ve just woken up from a couch nap—a perk of being on holidays for two weeks. But even in sleep I can’t seem to escape thoughts of John.
“She’s shopping with Mommy. And Paulie. I think Zach and his mom were meeting them there too. They want to see if there are any good after-Christmas sales. I think Georgie is looking for a bed for Paulie.”
“So soon?” I sit up and turn my head to look at Dad, who is seated on the other sofa watching TV.
“It’s good to be prepared. Paulie won’t be a baby forever.”
“But she’s literally still a baby.” Paulie is months away from turning one and already they’re out looking for a bed? “Why didn’t they invite me?” I ask, suddenly annoyed at being left out. Again.
“You were sleeping. They only left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Whatever,” I say, reaching for my book on the coffee table and flopping back onto the cushions.
“You’re better off at home. It’s warm, and you get to spend uninterrupted time with me,” he says. I can almost hear the smile on his face. “I spoke to your friend, Theodore, at church after Christmas service.”
The change in subject is so jarring that I sit up and turn to look at him.
“I forgot to ask,” he goes on. “How did you do on that Algebra test? The one you took before break.”
“Midterm,” I correct him. “I got a 79.”
He sighs impatiently. “Did you study?”
“Yes. I always do. I’m just not good at math. I keep telling you this.”
Dad changes the channel and I stare at the pages of my open book, not reading, just anticipating his next words.
“This is a myth,” he says. “Being good or not good at math. Math is practical. With proper training, anyone can be good at math. All those books you read are making your brain soft.”
“How are my books any different from you watching TV every night after dinner? At least with books, I’m forced to think critically.”
He glances at the young adult romance novel in my hands and chuckles. “Our Last Summer. This is garbage. All of it is.”
I slam the open book down on my lap, bending its spine.
“Reading romance books doesn’t put food on the table,” Dad says, tossing me a dismissive sideways glance.
“But writing them does.”
“My cousin Rania is an author. She says if it weren’t for her husband’s job in tech, they wouldn’t survive. It’s a hobby for her.”
“I have a hard time believing she works that hard for something she sees as a hobby.”
“How is it hard work to write? You sit at a desk, click-clacking on a keyboard, writing down the images you see in your head.”
“You sit at a desk all day,” I remind him.
He laughs at my argument as if it has no bearing. What he does, in his mind, is so much more elevated than what artists do. “Habibti, if you want to be a writer, go ahead. Just make sure you marry a very rich man.”
“I would never depend on a man,” I say, squinting at my father.
“I know.” He nods. “I raised you right.”
I roll my eyes as I bring my book back up to my disgruntled face.
“You know who’s good at math? Your friend, Theodore.”
I see we’re circling back to Theo again since I didn’t take the bait the first time.
“He’s not my friend,” I say.
“Maybe he can tutor you. It’s just him and his mom, so he could use the money. He can come here and help you a couple of times a week. Stay for dinner. It will be good for both of you.”
I lower the book. “Dad, you don’t need to pay some guy twenty dollars an hour to teach me formulas.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five dollars an hour?” I say, incredulous. “Wait. Did you already…please tell me you didn’t.”
“He’s starting after winter break. You’re welcome.”
“I guess I forgot to thank you,” I say.
“We need to bring your average up to at least an 85 to get into the Civil Engineering program at University of Toronto.”
“I already told you, I want to be a writer. Besides, I’m only in tenth grade.”
Dad clicks his tongue. “You’ll need a strong foundation in all maths, especially algebra, before studying calculus.
I’m not saying no to writing. You can minor in English if you want.
I understand what it’s like to enjoy creative endeavors.
It’s healthy even. Universities appreciate a well-rounded student.
But it’s important in this climate to graduate with a degree that will result in building a career. Not a job.”
I sink into my seat. I suppose a minor in English isn’t the worst compromise. It’s something to fall back on when I eventually flunk out of Civil Engineering. Whatever the hell that even is.
“Do you have any plans for New Year’s Eve?
” Dad’s question feels like a test. Before I can answer, he goes on.
“Theodore is having a New Year’s Eve gathering at his house.
He asked me if it would be okay for you to attend.
With your silly friend, Andie.” His tone is so casual, it’s completely throwing me.
I can’t read him. At all. And then, a horrendous thought pops in.
“Oh my god, Dad. Did you make him invite me?”
“Why would you think that?” he asks, wide-eyed.
“Because it’s something you would do.”
“It was his idea,” Dad says, raising his shoulders ever so slightly, his eyes still on the TV screen. “I like him. He’s a good boy. You should go.”
I put the book down and grab my phone without responding to Dad. I text Andie.
Me: What are we doing for new year’s?
Andie: We? Are you allowed out of your cage?
Me: Theo Petropolis is having a “gathering” and he’s invited both of us. My father says I can go. Can you believe it? Theo asked my father to invite me. And I have my dad’s blessing. Weird, right?
Andie: Theo invited me too?
Me: Apparently. You in?
Andie: Definitely
“I’ll go to Theo’s party if I can stay out until one,” I say to Dad after putting my phone down.
“Twelve-thirty,” he replies. “And you need to arrange your own ride home. I’m taking your mom out. But it has to be someone I approve of. Not just anyone gets to drive my baby around.”
“What’s Georgie doing?” I ask. Maybe she can come get me during one of her midnight rides with Paulie.
“Zach is coming over. They’re going to spend New Year’s Eve together.”
Unchaperoned, I want to point out, but, well, seems a bit silly to worry about that now.
I’m fairly certain Georgie wouldn’t have minded if I hung out with her and Zach, but the fact that she didn’t invite me makes Theo’s party an even more alluring option.
I never want to be anywhere someone doesn’t want me.
Whether they admit it or not. I know how to read silence. Most of the time.
“I’m sure Andie’s mom will drive us.”
“Don’t be sure. Be positive,” he says, nodding to my phone.
I pick it up to check with Andie but end up texting someone else instead.
Me: I hear you and my dad are bros now.
Theo: I didn’t hear a thank you.
Me: For what?
Theo: It’s an intimate affair. I’m not just inviting anyone.
He’s so full of himself.
Me: what’s the dress code
Theo: Why? Worried you’ll show up under or over dressed again?
Me: Yes. So what is it?
Theo: Casual.
I effing hate that word.
Me: Ok.
Theo: does that mean you’re coming?
Me: Yeah. Andie too.
Me: Will John be there?
Theo: probably
Me: Does he know I’ll be there?
Theo: don’t know.
Me: Do you think I should tell him?
Theo: if you want to.
Me: this has been a super helpful conversation. thx.
Theo: