The Girls by Amy Goldman Koss Page B

new boy’s, eye.

Renée
    M Y DAD ALWAYS WANTED to do something special on our Sundays together, but I didn’t much want something special. I just wanted to go home and curl up in a ball. But he looked worried and asked me if I was feeling all right, so I said, “I’m just tired. We stayed up really late at the sleep-over.”
    â€œHad a late night myself,” Dad said.
    For a split second I wondered if he could have had a date. But then he continued, “Apparently there was an all-out cowboy brawl at Nickless Betty’s.”
    I remembered that it used to be called Nick and Betty’s Lounge, but then Nick died and my dad jokingly told my mom and me that it was Nickless Betty’s now. I’d thought that was funny but my mom got annoyed. “That’s exactly the kind of insensitivity I mean!” she’d said and huffed out of the room. I hated memories like that, memories that started out fun but ended in a cringe.
    â€œGot the call about eleven,” Dad was saying. “I got there, and nine cue sticks were broken in half, and some joker had slashed the felt off the pool table. The boys were all in a lather because the jukebox was dead. But no one thought it might be because they’d knocked it over.” My dad laughed and shook his head. “Cowboys,” he said.
    I didn’t know what to say. I was glad my dad thought I was old enough to hear about his work, but I hated to picture him walking into a bar full of angry drunks late at night, all alone.
    â€œWant to go to a movie, maybe?” I asked.
    â€œAbsolutely!” he said. “As long as it’s not about cowboys.”
    The only movie that was at the right time and close by was one I’d seen last week with my mom. I didn’t say so, though, because I was afraid it would make him feel bad. I really didn’t mind seeing it twice. And it wasn’t my dad’s fault that he wanted our Sundays to be special. It was his only chance, I guess, to be Dad.
    I wished he could relax, though. In the old days, between service calls and his daily jukebox route, he used to just pick up the newspaper and disappear behind it. I missed that. I missed everyone acting normal. I wished I could just be.
    After the film was over, we picked up Thai food because my dad knew it was my favorite. Actually, I was tired of Thai food, but there we go again, everyone trying to guess what will make the other one happy and no one guessing right. Maybe after the divorce was over and done with, we could all just go back to being ourselves. In the meantime, Dad and I went back to his apartment so I could eat my 900th dish of pad Thai and chicken satay with spicy peanut sauce.
    I looked at Dad’s telephone, and Maya’s number ran through my mind, ruining my appetite. But I didn’t call. I was ashamed of being such a wimp, but I didn’t know what to say to her. And wasn’t life hard enough without having to worry about Maya?
    I reminded myself that I really didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. Mom was right, it wasn’t my squirm. It wasn’t me who didn’t invite Maya to Darcy’s party, and it wasn’t me who made those nasty calls or said that stuff about her breath or her mom’s teeth. I fought down a wave of guilt, telling myself that as long as I acted nice tomorrow at school, I had nothing to feel bad about.
    My dad had fallen asleep in his chair. His mouth was open; he looked dead. Well, not dead exactly, but old. It made me sad to picture him here, alone all the time. No one to listen for his key in the lock. No one to know if he got home safely from late-night service calls.
    I knew he was going to be embarrassed that he’d conked out while I was visiting. I rustled my homework papers, then thumped my book, and saw him lurch awake out of the corner of my eye.
    I looked at the clock. It was too late to call Maya tonight. I felt like a creep, remembering last