A GOOD DAY #3
“Can we stop at the bookstore for a while?” I ask.
“You know we can’t.” Gabe doesn’t add an explanation. He doesn’t need to.
Raising my arms in frustration, I try anyway. “Come on, it’s the bookstore. What’s the problem? If someone sees me there, I appear smart. Good publicity, remember?”
“Get his permission, and I’ll take you.”
Ugh. My knee bounces, making the car quiver as I figure out what to say to him, how to spin it so Richard thinks it’s his idea. My fingers brush an empty pocket when I reach for my phone. Cold panic shoots through me.
It’s gone.
Shit! Shit, shit, shit.
I tear through my stuff, my jacket, every pocket. It’s not there.
“Missing something?” Gabe asks, a little too watchful for my liking.
“None of your business,” I snap, heat rising in my throat.
I try hard to retrace the day. I checked the time at the grave, then shoved my phone in my pocket and ran. Haven’t touched it since. Did I lose it on the way to the bus? On the bus? On the bleachers? Did someone take it? The shadow?
Fuck.
All I know is hell will break loose if Richard finds out. That’s what I get for trying to reduce screen time.
He’s not at home.
Figures.
Thankfully, we have a landline and an actual phone book, relics from the Stone Age. I flip through and start dialing: Lost and Found, Parks and Rec, Public Works, the school office. Basically anyone who might’ve tripped over my phone.
No success. Half the people don’t pick up, the other half sound seconds away from laughing in my face. Forget about it, sweetheart. We get reports like this every day. Click.
Great.
I try to come up with an excuse for when he gets home. Or I won’t tell him at all, stay in my room and ignore him like he ignores my calls. He won’t pick up on it immediately, and I dodge another fight.
However, the cordless has to go back on its charger if I don’t want to raise suspicion. I go downstairs and stop cold.
Voices.
He’s home. Arguing with someone.
I creep closer, catching only fragments through the dining room door: board... under control... too late... daughter.
Shit. Is Gabe getting in trouble for my tardiness this morning? Guilt claws its way in. What if he gets fired?
He doesn’t deserve that. Not for trying to keep me safe. I may not like the rules, but this part’s on me.
I slip inside, ready to take the hit myself, only to stop cold.
Gabe leans over the table, fists planted, looming above my father, who sits there with sagging shoulders and a hanging head.
The scene unfolding before me makes me question who’s firing who.
The second they spot me, both straighten, clearing my view of the table. There it is. My phone. Shit.
“You’re dismissed for the night. See you tomorrow.” Whatever this is, Richard’s ending it.
Gabe’s face melts back into his driver’s mask. As he passes me, his eyes flicker with annoyance. Or concern? Or is it anger? I can’t tell.
“Sit.”
Richard’s voice cracks like a whip. When I sit, his eyes sweep over me with coldness laced with disappointment and a hint of disdain. No surprise there.
“Do you have something to tell me?”
“Nope.” I push up from the chair. Gabe is not fired. That’s all I care about.
In a flash his hand clamps around my wrist, slamming it down on the table. Pain shoots through me.
“We are not done!”
His face twists with fury, on the edge of breaking loose. His grip tightens until I give in and lower myself into the chair again.
“One more stunt,” he snarls, “one more attempt to step out of line and I will send you to a school overseas. One with iron gates, no Wi-Fi, and enough surveillance to make the CIA jealous. Maybe then you’ll learn some respect and actually get a high school diploma.”
I huff. “You wouldn’t. I’m practically eighteen!”
He pulls me closer, “Try me.”
You could cut the tension with a knife. So far, he’s never hit me, but I also wouldn’t put it past him.
My fist curls at my side, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
“On Saturday, you’ll be at the rally. You’ll smile. You’ll deliver. One complaint, one wrong word, and you’re gone.”
Without waiting for permission, I tug myself free of his grip, grab my phone and flee to my room, taking the stairs two at a time.
I slam my door shut behind me, throw myself onto the bed face-first, and yell into the pillow.
It’s muffled, but it still rattles through my chest, releasing some of that pent-up anger.
He wants me smiling for the voters, playing the perfect puppet, but I’m done being his prop.
I grit my teeth, fighting the lump in my throat.
I won’t cry. The last time I cried I was twelve and a TV reporter shoved a mic in my face, asking what I missed most about my mom.
I broke down in tears, weeping bitterly as more people with cameras and smartphones crowded around me, their stares full of that awful, useless pity.
Never again.
Sitting up, I press my fingers to my temples, trying to mute the noise in my head. But one thought won’t let go:
Why did he give me back my phone?