carefully everywhere descending by L.B. Bedford

him on the cheek.
    And immediately I’ve blown it: I rarely call him Daddy instead of Dad. Affecting a careless air, I shuck my coat and head toward the closet to hang it up.
    â€œWhy are you home so early?” I ask cheerfully. “I thought you had to work late tonight.”
    My dad isn’t buying my act.
    â€œI traded days with O’Connor so he could go to his kid’s school play. Who was that?” he asks, turning his back to the window and crossing his arms across his huge chest.
    â€œHm? Who was who? Oh, you must mean Scarlett,” I say, hearing how falsely bright my voice sounds and cringing.
    â€œYeah, Scarlett . You both looked pretty intense in there. What’s going on with her? How do you know her, and why was she giving you a ride?”
    I close the closet door. Sam is poking his head out from the kitchen and watching, adding to my desire to have the earth eat me up so this conversation ends. My dad’s naturally suspicious of anything out of character: instincts built up by security detail. Me being dropped off by a stranger in a fancy car would definitely qualify.
    â€œIt’s nothing, Daddy”— Why do I keep saying that? —“I’m tutoring her in English, and she offered a ride when I missed the bus.”
    My dad scowls, tugging down the cap bearing the logo of the company where he works. He’s well built for his job: broad shouldered, with a beer belly and hands that can span halfway around a basketball. He’s a big guy. He’s not terribly tall, but his overall appearance still gives off an aura of power that has few people daring to argue with him.
    â€œYou ‘missed the bus’?” he repeats suspiciously. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
    â€œCalling what?” I don’t have to fake the confusion in my voice for that question.
    â€œIf you’re fooling around with her—”
    â€œ Dad !” I shriek, scandalized.
    He eyes me and then says, “I think it’s time we had a father-to-daughter talk.”
    â€œNo,” I say loudly. “It is not the time for that. It is never the time for that. Please, Dad, I’m not lying! She’s flunking English, and she begged me for help! I didn’t want to, but Amber encouraged me to give her some advice.” I feel a twinge of guilt for throwing Amber under the bus like this, but desperate times…. “I’m not fooling around with anyone.”
    He looks dubious. “It’s almost six. You spent the whole time studying?”
    I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing the existence of gelato. “Almost. We studied at school, in the library until almost 4:30. We have witnesses!” I say on a burst of inspiration. “Seriously, you can check. Then she offered to buy me ice cream to thank me, and then we came straight here. I swear.”
    â€œShe gay or whatever too?”
    â€œYeeeaahh?” This fact had been included in a long, rambling speech on the UN she’d given freshmen year that had been as useless at conveying helpful information as it had been hysterical.
    â€œAnd ice cream, huh? Sounds a little romantic for a study buddy.”
    â€œPeople eat ice cream all the time, Dad.”
    â€œWho suggested it?”
    â€œShe did.”
    â€œHa,” he snorted. “People don’t offer ice cream to girls they don’t like.”
    â€œWell, this one did,” I say shortly, thoroughly done with the conversation. I pick my bag back up, intending to go to my room. “I can basically guarantee you won’t see her around after next Wednesday.”
    â€œWhat happens next Wednesday?” he asks sharply. “Is it some sordid prom thing?”
    â€œProm thing?” I repeat, nonplussed. “Why prom?”
    â€œI know it’s coming up, and don’t think I haven’t noticed you have yet to say who you’re going with,” he says.
    â€œOh,