When I brush my teeth for bed, I see a big pink lipstick smudge on my cheek in the bathroom mirror. I don’t wash it off.
— Chapter 3 —
I sleep in till eleven a.m. and then work the antenna on the TV until I get a soap in clear enough to watch. There’s static and I can’t always tell who’s who, but the chatter lets me pretend I’m not alone. The mean lady, the one my mom always loved, just had brain surgery and it made her remember she has a twin sister named Sandra. Everyone’s shocked, forming a search party. Her ex-husband just said, “Searching for Sandra is asking for double trouble.” I can’t understand how my mom used to watch this stuff. Like really watch it, not just have it on for noise.
I set out a pencil, my math notebook, a can of diet pop, and grab my guitar. I need to write at least three more songs by Friday. At least.
Strumming through the chords I know, I flip-flop the order until it starts to sound like a song—E, C, D, G, back to E—before I move on to lyrics. I’m trying to come up with rhymes for lies—surmise, prize, tries, french fries—when I hear a twig snap outside. I want to pass it off as TV static, but then I’m sure I hear footsteps.
I grab my dad’s buck knife and inch toward the door, trying to keep the motorhome from shifting. If whoever it is didn’t hear my guitar, maybe they don’t know I’m here, and that has to give me a better chance.
Those footsteps get closer. The blinds are closed and I don’t know if I can peek out without being seen. The door is locked, but the handle moves a little as someone tries to turn it. I hear the scrape of metal on metal, maybe a lock pick. I use the point of the knife to part the blinds and see bright blue eyes shaded by brows like fat fuzzy caterpillars. It’s my father.
“You’re supposed to be at school,” he says as I open the door.
“You’re supposed to be at work,” I say, stepping aside to let him in.
He eyes the knife. “What the hell you doing with that thing?”
“What the hell you doing leaving your kid to fend for herself in the wild?”
He laughs. “Ape, it’s not even close to wild. And I told you, Irene will let you crash on her couch if you babysit for her kid.” He wriggles out of his jacket, sits at the kitchen booth and pulls my notebook over. “Skies,” he says studying it. “That would be my vote.” He scribbles skies on my list and pushes the notebook back to where it was. “See you’ve got the old guitar out.”
“Yeah, I’ve got my guitar out,” I say, picking it up by the neck with my free hand. “I got a gig.”
“A gig?”
“Yeah. Friday night at Gary’s. You should come.” Then I add, “If you can get away from Irene and the boy,” so he knows Irene isn’t welcome, although I’m guessing he figures anyway at this point.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yeah, well it’s probably going to be a regular thing and all.”
“I think you can put the knife down, Ape,” he says, and I realize I must look crazy, standing there, guitar in one hand, dirty buck knife in the other. I set the knife back under the kitchen sink but don’t let go of the guitar.
“Coffee?” my dad asks.
“We’re out.” I sit down without offering him anything else.
“I’ll bring some by next time.” He pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and slides to the end of the booth to light it on the stove.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Why aren’t you at school?” He takes a long drag and looks around for an ashtray. I down the last swig from my pop can and slide it across the table. “Thanks,” he says, dropping ash in the can. A wisp of smoke curls from the hole.
“Why aren’t you on a job?”
“You first.”
“I quit,” I say, staring him down. I’m not apologizing.
“Me too,” he says, staring back. He takes another drag and blows smoke out his nose. When I was a kid, he’d do that and tell me he was a dragon. I thought it was hysterical. “Laid off. Faust doesn’t need as many men in winter. Decided to keep the young guys. Says he don’t want a heart attack on his hands.” He holds his cigarette in his mouth, leans back and cracks his knuckles. He looks thinner than he used to. His cheeks are hollow. I thought a good woman was supposed to fatten a man up, but I’m pretty sure the only thing Irene is good at is convincing my dad she’s a good woman. “Sucks to get old, you know what?”