All Lined Up

Chapter 28 Dallas

They say misery loves company, and I’m fairly certain I occupy all of her time the next few days. I’m so pathetic, even she is probably sick of me. I go to class, while people whisper behind my back. I eat lunch with Stella, while people whisper behind my back. I gradually descend into madness, while people whisper behind my back.

I go to work, and I complete my homework, and I crawl home, where I spend most of my time alone . . . continuing to be miserable. Because even despite all that, things must keep moving. I have a plan, after all. Work. Save up money. Audition to transfer to a real dance program. And do what I have to do . . . no matter what Dad says. And now . . . that plan is kind of all I have left.

I take Annaiss up on her offer to talk. She asks me about the picture, and I tell her the same thing that I tell everyone who asks.

It’s not what it looks like. Carson would never hurt me.

At least not intentionally . . . not like that.

But I don’t want to talk about any of that. It’s still too raw and close to the surface. So, instead, we talk about dance. I tell her about Dad and my frustrations with his inability to see dance as a career. We talk about school and programs and summer intensives, and I concentrate on the things I can control.

Thursday morning, Dad asks if I’ll go with him to some dinner that a board member is hosting for a few faculty members and important alumni who are in town for homecoming.

I tell him no.

I am maxed out on pretending, and I just don’t have the energy or inclination to perform for a group like that.

So instead, I spend my Thursday curled up with the most depressing book I can find, one that will give me an excuse to feel sad without feeling pitiful also. I feel plenty sad when it’s over, but plenty pitiful, too.

I’m curled up on my bed, swaddled in blankets when there’s a knock on my door and Dad steps inside.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I brought Tucker’s home.”

I sit up, still strangled by blankets. “I thought you had that dinner tonight.”

He’s wearing dress pants and a tie that he struggles to loosen as he looks at me.

“I did. I went there, made my appearances, and then I came home to have dinner with my daughter.”

God, even Dad thinks I’m pathetic. I must be in terrible shape.

“Yeah. Give me a second. I’ll be right out.”

He closes my door, and I hear him walk down the hallway. I throw off the covers, and look down at the pajamas I changed into as soon as I got home. Eh. They’ll do.

I pad down the hallway, pause, go back and grab the smaller blanket off the foot of my bed, wrap it around my shoulders, and then go to join Dad.

When he says he brought Tucker’s . . . he means he brought all of Tucker’s. I swear there’s enough food to feed the Weasley family for only the two of us.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I just got a few of your favorites. Figure we can warm up whatever we don’t eat later.”

“Thanks Dad.”

He nods, and starts piling various barbecued and fried meats onto his plate. I’m not all that hungry, but I do the same because I know he’s trying. He’s still Dad, though, so even with the thoughtful meal, we sit down on the couch in front of his giant television, and he turns on game film.

He’s nervous about Homecoming. We’re 3–1, and this game could set the tone for the rest of the season. It could decide whether the team bounces back from the drama with Levi (and the drama I caused with Carson), or whether it will crumble under the weight of it all. This one game could dictate the rest of Dad’s career in college football, or potentially ruin it. Rusk only signed him on a one-year contract, and even though nothing that’s happened has been his fault, they could easily refuse to renew his contract if they want to.

And then there’s no telling what would happen to us, to me. If he moved to some other university, would he make me go with him? Would he trust me enough to let me stay at Rusk? Not that I actually want to stay at Rusk, but it’s a better option than a lot of the universities he could end up at.

He needs the win. Carson needs the win.

Hell, I think I need it, too.

After dad has rewound one portion of the film three times to watch it again and again, I finally cut in and say, “It’s gonna be okay, Dad. The team is ready. Carson is ready. It will all work out.”

He finishes chewing the brisket he’d just scooped into his mouth and surveys me. “Isn’t it supposed to be my job to say everything’s gonna be okay?”

I shrug. “That’s one job with plenty of work to go around. Besides . . . you know what you’re doing. You’re wasting energy second-guessing yourself.”

“Some days I think I’d be better off sticking my head in the sand and rolling the dice. That’s how much I know what I’m doing.”

I shoot him a half smile. “Interesting visual. I’d like to see that.”

He shakes his head, shoveling another helping of brisket into his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you don’t like football. Never have.”

“Not never, Dad. There were moments when I really loved it, actually.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“It’s not easy coming second to a sport, Dad. You’ll have to forgive me if I handled it badly sometimes.”

He sets down the remote that he was holding in his left hand so he could stop and manipulate the film as needed.

“Is that what you think? That football was more important to me than you?”

I consider his question for a moment. Yes, a big part of me thought that, but that was the side of me that tended toward dramatics.

“It’s not that I think you saw football as more important, but more that you connected better to football than you ever did to me. You understood the game, and it understood you back. And I was left on the sideline, confused and on the outside of both.”

He whistles softly through his teeth. “I really screwed up this whole parenting thing, didn’t I? You go years thinking you did all right, never realizing just how much damage you caused.”

“You did the best you could, Dad. I had a roof and a bed and food and necessities . . . that’s more than a lot of people can say. Besides, I didn’t turn out that bad.”

“You turned out just fine, but I don’t know how much of it was my doing.” He considers me for a moment and adds, “You look so much like your mother. Just like her, except for the height. You’d tower over her.”

I could count on one hand the number of times he’d mentioned Mom in front of me.

Careful to keep my gaze directed down toward my food, I ask, “Do you miss her?”

He blows out a breath, his eyes similarly fixed on the game on the TV. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I gave myself the option of missing her. I’ve been wondering, though, if she would have handled this all better. If she would have known what to do.”

Good to know the whole clueless thing doesn’t go away with age.

“Don’t beat yourself up over stuff like that, Dad. She didn’t stick around. You did. It’s crazy to let yourself lose to a memory.”

“When did you get to be so smart?”

“Mistakes can be awfully good teachers.”

He hums, pondering that for a moment, and then goes back to his meal.

In the silence, I gather up the courage to say something that I’ve been thinking about for a few days.

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“In February, I’m going to Dallas to audition for a summer dance intensive with the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance.”

He sets down the remote again. “You are?”

“Yes,” I reply firmly. “I know you’re not comfortable with me going to college in another state. But I’m not comfortable doing nothing when I know positively that dancing is what I want to do with my life. As I see it, this is a compromise. If I’m accepted, it’s a six-week program with the added opportunity to do a choreography residency where I’d get to create a piece of my own to be danced by the workshop dancers. It can be a trial run. A stepping-stone. And if things go okay, maybe you’ll see that I can handle going to school out of state.”

He stares at me for several long moments, and I can tell he’s trying to be reasonable. We’ve just had possibly the longest, most civil conversation of our lives, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Is this about McClain?” he asks. “Are you doing this because you’re mad at me?”

I smile and choke down a sad laugh. “No, Dad. It’s not about that. It’s about me. I need to learn how not to walk away, how to fight for what I want, because if I don’t learn soon, I’ll have nothing left to fight for. This is about me learning how to take after the parent that stuck around instead of the one who gave up.”

He looks away from me, clears his throat, and when he looks back, the skin around his eyes has gone pink.

“You know, when your mom left I remember wondering how I was going to manage alone. Eighteen years seemed like such a long time to be responsible for another person, and now it feels like the clock ran out in no time. I guess I just thought I’d have more time before you grew up and stopped needing me.”

“I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever grow out of, Dad. Whether I live here or a thousand miles away.”

He swallows, nodding his head a few times, and says, “February, then?”

“Yeah. And then end of May is when I’ll go if I’m accepted.”

His head keeps bobbing, processing, and I wonder if he’s just humoring me because I’m sad. I think he surprises us both when he decides. “After the season is over, we’ll take a look together, then, maybe talk to your dance teachers. Make sure you’ve got the best possible chance of getting in.”

I can feel the tears welling again, always so close to the surface these days, and he must see them too, because he clears his throat and turns toward the safety of the television again.

I stay for another hour or two, watching the film with Dad. After he’s had his fill watching film of the other team, he switches and watches his own team, trying to pinpoint any weaknesses he might have missed standing on the sidelines. I watch for a little while, but when all my eyes do is follow Carson, I decide to leave him to it.

I’M FEELING A little better on Friday, which is why I’m still wearing normal clothes instead of pajamas when Stella knocks on the window that looks in my bedroom from the side of the house.

I pull back the curtains, and when I see her, I pull up the glass to let her in.

“What happened to knocking on the door like a normal person?”

She pops through the small opening with perfect agility and says, “When I spoke to your dad yesterday, he led me to believe that you’re barely leaving your bed. So I thought this would be easier.”

I open my arms wide and gesture around the room, specifically toward the desk in the corner, where I’d been camped out reading.

“I’m fine, as you can see.”

“Bullshit. You’ve done nothing but study and work and dance all week.”

“That’s a fairly accurate depiction of how I’ve spent the last several years of my life, so I’m not sure exactly what you’re worried about.”

“I’m worried about dragging you along to the homecoming bonfire and pep rally with me tonight, so I don’t have to go alone like a complete loser.”

“Really? That’s the last thing I want to do tonight.”

“Too bad. I’m calling in another stamp.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Stamp of approval. I know for a fact that you don’t have work or dance tonight, and it’s time you got out of this house and got back to being a normal college student.”

“Normal college students frequently take naps and eat junk food and watch movies and don’t leave their house all weekend. That was my plan. Don’t mess with my plan!”

“Too late. The stamp has already been issued, and you can’t say no.”

“You are the worst.” I throw myself onto my bed, wishing I’d changed into pajamas after all.

“You mean best.”

“No, I mean worst. You suck.”

“I don’t suck. I . . . I don’t know what the opposite of suck is, but I’m that.”

“Awesome?”

“Yes. Awesome. That’s what I am, and you will thank me for this.”

“Unlikely.” I crawl up my bed and bury my face in my pillow while Stella starts ransacking my closet and throwing clothes on top of me as if I’m not even there.