Before We Go Extinct by Karen Rivers Page B

seem to move or wave. Instead, I let the time stretch and yawn between us, between me and Dad and his purple behemoth. Finally, he struggles out of the car through the window in a ridiculous painful-to-watch way, butt first.
    Seriously.
    I am incredulous , I type to The King. Incredulity rules the day.
    â€œYo, JC!” Dad shouts, half-in, half-out. Then he’s out. “I mean, Shark Dude! Or Sharkboy! Yeah, Shark boy , right? Right,” he answers himself, crossing those twelve feet between us in about three leaping, loping strides. His face has new wrinkles, spraying out from his eyes like his eyeballs were dropped into his head from such a great distance that they made splash marks in his flesh. His stubbly beard is gray.
    When did he get so old?
    He’s bouncing on his feet like a runner waiting for a light to change. The grin flashes on and off his face like one of the neon signs advertising GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS near Times Square.
    â€œHey,” he says. “Heyyyy.” He holds out his hand. There’s a tattoo on his wrist that says, Writers write . It looks itchy. He smells weird, if by “weird,” I mean, “like someone who badly needs a shower,” which I guess is how I’m going to spend the summer smelling, myself. Smelling good is sort of important to me. Or it was. Maybe it isn’t anymore. Maybe I don’t care.
    â€œHow was your flight? Was it good? Was there food? There’s never food. I wondered … I mean, I worried…” He trails off, squints at me like he can barely make me out. “I’ve been at Costco. Stocking up. I hope you like … cereal. And chips.”
    I shrug. Everyone in the world likes cereal.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite? I didn’t know so I bought…”
    I know that Mom told him that I’ve stopped talking. I can tell he thought he’d be the miracle that would make me utter words again. Like now I’m going to say, “Cornflakes,” or whatever, just to make him the winner. Well, screw that. Also, all cereal is the same. It’s fine. It’s good. Whatever. Seriously.
    â€œIt will pass,” I’d heard Mom tell him. “Don’t push him, John, okay? Leave him to sort it out.”
    When they were together, she used to get so mad at him. She’d start out nice, trying hard not to lose her temper, but you could see it crackling there, right behind her eyes. He’d be goofy and dumb and she’d be trying to say or do something important, and by the end, she’d be throwing things: glasses, shoes, a paperweight.
    And he’d stand there grinning like a simpleton. Wagging.
    Like now.
    I put my sunglasses on.
    The dads of the kids in my class do important stuff, like surgically repair cleft lips on orphans in Africa. Or they are philanthropists, pouring millions into finding a cure for breast cancer or tapeworm or whatever, or they at least own boutiques or grocery chains or star in crappy action films while running around with starlets. McFatty’s dad is dead but everyone else has one, usually on wife number two or three or four. Rich guys, man. They’d make you sick, if you knew. But poor guys are equally bad, just in different ways. They aren’t nobler or inherently better people, they are the same stupid idiots, but with less money. I wonder if it’s necessarily true that all boys grow up to be disappointing men. I can’t actually think of a single adult man I know who is a decent person.
    Not one.
    â€œSo,” says Dad. “So, so, so … hey.” He cocks his head. “Think you’ll start talking again soon? ’Cause I’ve gotta be honest, this is tough. Talking to you and having you not answer. I feel weird about it. Man.”
    I shrug.
    â€œI really want you to talk to me,” he says. “About everything. Anything. I want to be here for you. It’s going to be tough if you won’t tell me