“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I’m, like, the only senior who rides the school bus anyway.” Damn my parents for taking away my car again. “Those freshmen and sophs are too scared to get in my face.”
That seems to appease him. He nods briskly and says, “I’m biking home from work in a few hours, and then I’ll come by your place tonight.” My heart does a happy flip, then plummets when Chase adds, “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Yeah, we do. But we’re not talking about what I think he wants to talk about. We’re not breaking up. We’re not going to stop seeing each other. Today, I made my stand. I chose Chase Donnelly over everyone else in my life, and it can’t be for nothing.
I stand up on my tiptoes and smack a kiss on his cheek. It’s so surreal doing that with the autumn sun shining down on us and other students in plain sight. I think it freaks him out a little, too, because the moment my lips touch his cheek, his wary gaze instantly conducts a sweep of the area.
“Iowa,” I whisper to him.
“Iowa?”
“Whenever you’re feeling panicky about the kids in Darling, just remember that in September we’ll be in Iowa and nobody will care if we kiss in public.”
He sighs. “I still haven’t agreed to go to Iowa with you.”
“Sure, you have. You obviously just forgot.” I plant another kiss on his cheek. “See you later.”
He gives me that guarded half smile of his, hops on his bike and pedals off.
I shift my backpack to one shoulder and wait for the yellow bus to appear. It’s just pulling into the lot when Jeff stalks up to me. The tails of his untucked white button-down flap with each impatient stride, and he nearly mows down three freshman girls on his way to me.
“Leave me alone,” I say icily.
“No. We need to talk.” Jeff grabs my hand hard enough to leave a bruise. When I yelp, he hastily lets go. “Sorry,” he mutters.
He’s not sorry. He’s only saying it for the benefit of the onlookers whose attention we’ve captured. Jeff doesn’t want our peers thinking he’s an abusive ass. He’s good at hiding it, too.
But these days, I see right through him. I glower at him. “We have nothing to talk about, because I’ve got absolutely nothing to say to you.”
“Well, I have lots to say to you, yeah?”
Again with that fake British accent. “Well, I don’t, yeah?” I mock and take several steps toward the line of students waiting to get on the bus.
His dark eyes flare with annoyance. He presses his hands to his sides as if he’s trying to restrain himself from grabbing me again. Then he exhales in a long, steady rush. “I want to talk about Rachel.”
I pretend to be unfazed, but the sound of her name leaving his lips does affect me. It makes me sick that my sister dated this guy for nearly a year.
“Did you hear me?” he demands when I remain silent.
I coolly meet his aggravated eyes. “Yes, I heard you.”
His brow furrows. “I said I want to talk about Rachel.”
“I don’t care,” I answer with a big fake smile.
Fluttering my fingers in an equally fake, cheerful wave, I spin away from him and get on the bus.
* * *
Dad is waiting for me when I get home. It doesn’t come as a surprise, since he’d already informed me last night that, from now on, he’ll be leaving the hardware store at three o’clock every day so he’s home when I get back from school. His part-time workers must be thrilled for the extra hours. Me? Not so thrilled.
“You can do your homework in the dining room,” he tells me after I kick off my shoes in the mudroom. Rachel’s section of the bench, as always, is pristine.
“My laptop’s in my room,” I mutter.
“No, I already brought it downstairs for you. I’m getting an early start on dinner, so I’d like for you to work in the dining room.”
He says it graciously, as if he’s actually giving me the option. “Why, so you can watch me from the kitchen to make sure I don’t escape?”
“Yes,” he says flatly.
I gape at his stiff back as he disappears into the kitchen. Wow. I cannot believe my father. What’s happened to him?
“This is ridiculous,” I yell after him. “I’m going to be gone in less than a year!”
I’m leaving this house and this town and every hateful person in it even if it means not going to college. I can’t take another four years of this.
I drag my unhappy ass to the dining room table. The numbers and letters on the page swim in front of me. I can’t focus. The television is on in the kitchen. Dad’s clinking pans against the stove burners. Morgan barks. I look up to catch a flash of black as he streaks across the yard.
Uh-oh. He must’ve gotten loose. I throw my pencil onto the notebook and stand up.
Dad appears in the entryway, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Outside.” Morgan’s tail bumps against Rachel’s swing, sending the wooden seat swaying.
Dad follows my gaze. “That fool dog.” He snatches the towel off his shoulder and squeezes it between his big hands, likely imagining the fabric is Morgan’s neck.
“Wait!” I hold out a restraining hand. “Mrs. Rennick will catch him.”
“They shouldn’t have gotten that damn dog in the first place. He’s not around and she’s got no control over that animal.” He reaches for the latch.
I throw myself against the door. “Morgan’s a sweet dog. He’s not doing any harm.”
“He’s going to knock Rachel’s swing down.”
“So you can rehang it. What does it matter?” I dig my heels in. I’m not letting Dad out of this house if he’s going to hurt Morgan. We’ve really spiraled out of control over Rachel’s death if a dog knocking down her swing is going to cause this much trauma.
I’m no match for my dad, though. He shoves me out of the way with one sweep of his hand and heads for the garage. I’m torn between chasing after him and helping Mrs. Rennick catch Morgan. I choose Morgan and Mrs. R.
“This dog!” Mrs. Rennick cries as I race toward her. The big mutt runs around the tree, sending the swing careening in one direction and then the other.
I wince when the wooden seat strikes the tree trunk. “You go that way and I’ll go this way,” I tell Mrs. R, pointing to the opposite direction.
“Okay.”
We separate and try to corral Morgan between us. He, of course, thinks that we’re engaged in a wonderful game and darts just out of reach.
A piercing whistle fills the air. It startles Morgan into a momentary stillness and I leap on top of him. Mrs. Rennick throws me the leash. I quickly affix it to Morgan’s collar and hand him over to his frazzled owner.
“I’m so sorry, Dave,” our neighbor apologizes as Dad strides forward, a screwdriver sticking out of his front pocket and a ladder hoisted over his shoulder. Morgan strains under Mrs. Rennick’s grip. “Morgan got loose again.”
He gives her a terse nod at the obvious statement but doesn’t stop walking until he reaches Rachel’s swing.
“I, ah, better get home. I’m sorry again.”
Dad still doesn’t respond, instead focusing on setting up the ladder.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to cover for my father’s uncharacteristic rudeness. As a local small business owner, he’s usually super nice to everyone. “Bye-bye, Morgan.” I give the doggy a wave. He wags his tail happily, oblivious to the tension in the air.
“Call me if there’s a problem,” Mrs. Rennick says, although I’m not sure if she’s directing that to me or my dad.
I answer again, “Sure thing, Mrs. R.”
She gives me a finger wave before hauling Morgan away. Dad climbs down off the ladder only seconds later with the wooden seat in his hands, the rope over his shoulder.
“I should’ve taken this down years ago. It’s a miracle there isn’t more damage.” He inspects the planks that are worn from the years of exposure to the Midwestern weather.
“It’s just a swing, Dad.” Rachel’s not here. She only swings in our memories.
“It’s not just a swing, Lizzie. It’s her swing.”
I give in. From long experience, I know arguing with Dad about anything is a futile endeavor. Instead, I offer a hand. “I can carry that. Where do you want it? The garage?”
He shakes his head and tucks the seat under his arm, and still manages to fold the ladder closed. “I’ll put it in the den.”
That’s healthy.
I trail behind, frustrated and more than a little hurt that I’m not good enough to handle the swing. Back in the house, Dad disappears for a second to place the holy swing in his study. My parents are like dragons, hoarding Rachel’s things like they’re rare treasures.
They need therapy—that’s becoming more and more obvious to me. I stopped suggesting it a long time ago, but after everything that’s happened lately, I think I need to bring up the subject again. Maybe Ms. Tannenhauf can help me stage an intervention. Or I can see if my old grief counselor can stop by the house for an ambush therapy session.
Either way, my parents need help. They can’t keep doing this to us.
My stuff on the dining room table mocks me. There’s nowhere for me to go in this house.
“When am I getting my door back?” I ask as Dad reappears on his way to the kitchen.
“When you show yourself to be trustworthy.”
“I’m not doing anything bad. I’m not drinking. I’m not doing drugs. I’m not sleeping around. I’m just trying to enjoy my last year of school.”
“You were at parties. You were with drug dealers. You have repeatedly disobeyed us.” He picks up the knife and resumes his dinner preparations.
“Because your rules are ridiculous!” I have the urge to stomp my feet like I did when I was five.