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It’s a little sad that all my fantasies are rooted in eighties television shows.
“You should study music theory,” Dad says firmly. “To help with your songwriting.”
I flush. I forgot that I sent Dad a tape of myself singing some of my own stuff for Christmas one year. What had I been thinking?
“I’m too old for a singing-songwriting career,” I tell him. “I mean, have you seen those girls on MTV? I can’t wear short skirts anymore. Too much cellulite.”
“Don’t be silly,” Dad says dismissively. “You look fine. Besides, if you’re self-conscious, you can just wear slacks.”
Slacks. Dad kills me sometimes. He really does.
“It would be a shame,” Dad says. “No, not just a shame—a sin—to let God-given talent like yours go to waste.”
“Well,” I say, “I don’t think I have. I did the singing thing already. I think maybe now it’s time to try a different talent.”
“Criminal justice?” Dad looks confused. “That’s a talent?”
“Well, at least one where no one’s going to boo me off a stage,” I point out.
“No one would dare!” Dad cries, laying down his spoon. “You sing like an angel! And those songs of yours—they’re much better than some of that garbage I hear on the radio. That girl, going on about her lumps, or her humps, or whatever she’s talking about. And that other one—that Tracy Trace, the one that old boyfriend of yours is marrying this weekend. Why, she’s half naked in that video!”
I have to repress a smile. “Tania Trace,” I correct him. “And that’s the number one video on TRL right now.”
“Well,” Dad says firmly, “regardless. It’s trash.”
“What about you, Dad?” I ask, thinking I’d better change the subject before he gets too overexcited. “I mean, you were at Camp Eglin for… gosh. Almost twenty years. What are you going to do now that you’re out?”
“I have a few irons in the fire,” Dad says. “Some of which look quite promising.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Well, that sounds good. Here in New York?”
“Yes,” Dad says. But I notice he’s gotten more hesitant in his replies. And he’s not making eye contact with me anymore.
Uh-oh.
“Dad,” I say. Because suddenly I have a new feeling in my stomach. And it isn’t horror or pity. It’s dread. “Did you really call me because you wanted to see me and catch up on old times? Or was there something else?”
“Of course I wanted to see you,” Dad says, with some asperity. “You’re my old daughter, for goodness’ sake.”
“Right,” I say. “But… ”
“What makes you think there’s abut?” Dad wants to know.
“Because,” I say, “I’m not nine anymore. I know there’s always abut. ”
He lays down his spoon. Then he takes a deep breath.
“All right,” he says. “There’s a but.”
Then he tells me what it is.
8
Tick-tock
Alarm clock
Doesn’t ring
Fu
I wake
No break
Somebody please
Shoot me.
“Morning Song”
Written by Heather Wells
I’m fifteen minutes late to work the next day. Personally, I don’t think fifteen minutes is all that long. Fifteen minutes shouldn’t even count as tardy… especially when you take into account what happened to me the night before—you know, the whole return of the prodigal dad thing.
But fifteen minutes can be quite a long time in the life cycle of a residence hall. Fifteen minutes is long enough, in fact, for a representative from Counseling Services to find my desk and station herself at it.
And when I run breathlessly into the office and see her there, and go, “May I help you?” those fifteen minutes she’s been at my desk are apparently long enough to make her feel enough at home at it to go, “Oh, no, thank you. Unless you’re going for coffee, in which case I could use one, light, no sugar.”
I blink at her. She’s wearing a tasteful gray cashmere sweater set—with pearls, no less—and is making me feel quite under-dressed in my professional wear of jeans and chunky cable-knit sweater. She doesn’t even have hat hair. Her chestnut curls are swept into a perfect chignon. How the hell did she make it across the park—or, as I’ve been calling it lately, the Frozen Tundra—from Counseling Services without freezing her head off?
Then I spy them, sticking out of the black wool trench she’s hung on the coat rack—on my peg. Earmuffs. Of course.
Tricky fashionista.
“Oh, Heather, there you are,” Tom says, coming out of his office. He looks much better today than he did yesterday, now that he’s gotten some sleep and actually washed and styled his blond hair. He is even wearing a tie.
And okay, he’s wearing it with a bright pink oxford and jeans. But it’s an improvement.
“This is Dr. Gillian Kilgore from Counseling Services,” he goes on. “She’s here to offer grief counseling to any residents who feel they might need it, in light of yesterday’s events.”
I smile briefly at Dr. Kilgore. Well, what else am I supposed to do? Spit at her?
“Hi,” I say. “You’re in my seat.”
“Oh.” Tom seems to notice for the first time where Gillian Kilgore has stationed herself. “That’s right. That’s Heather’s desk, Dr. Kilgore. I meant for you to take the GA’s desk—”
“I like this desk better,” Dr. Kilgore stuns us both (I can tell Tom is stu
This is clearly news to Tom. He is standing there kind of bleating, like a lost sheep—Baaah… baaah… but—when Gillian Kilgore’s first victim, I mean appointment, comes loping into the office. Mark Shepelsky is the Pansies’ six-foot-seven power forward, and current resident of Room 212, one of the most sought-after doubles in the entire building due to its view of the park and the fact that, being on the second floor, its occupants can take the stairs instead of depending on the elevators, which are crowded at best, broken most of the rest of the time.
“Someone needed to see me?” Mark says. More like grunts, really. A ski
But he can’t hold a candle to Barista Boy, if you ask me.
Not that I like Barista Boy. Anymore.
“You must be… ” Dr. Kilgore glances down at the appointment book open on her desk. Excuse me, I mean,my desk. “Mark?”
Mark shuffles his size-fourteen feet. “Yeah. What’s this about?”
“Well, Mark,” Dr. Kilgore says, slipping a pair of reading glasses over her nose, I guess in an attempt to look empathetic (it doesn’t work), “I’m Dr. Kilgore. I’m here from Student Counseling Services. I understand that you were close with Lindsay. Lindsay Combs?”
Mark does not exactly break down in tears at the mention of his beloved’s name. In fact, he looks indignant.
“Do we gotta do this?” he demands. “I already talked to the cops all day yesterday. I got a game tonight. I gotta practice.”
Gillian Kilgore says soothingly, “I understand, Mark. But we’re concerned about you. We want to make sure you’re all right. Lindsay was, after all, important to you.”
“Well, I mean, she was hot and everything,” Mark says, looking confused. “But we weren’t even dating. We were just playing. You know what I mean?”
“You two weren’t exclusive?” I hear myself asking.
Both Tom and Gillian Kilgore turn to look at me, Dr. Kilgore with seeming a
Mark says, “Exclusive? No way. I mean, we fooled around a little. I already told that detective dude, lately the only time I’ve seen her is at games, and over break I hardly saw her at all… .”
“Well, let’s talk about that,” Dr. Kilgore says, taking hold of Mark’s arm and attempting to steer him toward Tom’s office for some privacy (which, good luck, with that grate between his office and the outer one where I sit).