Chloe
"You still planning on taking auto tech?" Dad asks, and almost sounds disapproving.
"Yes. Why?"
"I don't know. I mean, I wonder if there are even any other girls taking it."
"I don't care. I'm not scared of boys."
"You should be. All teenage boys are dogs. I know. I used to be one."
"I'm not afraid of dogs either." As sad as it is, I kind of agree with him. I mean, look how fast Carl moved on.
Dad frowns. "I don't want my little girl to grow up to be a mechanic. You're going to college."
I roll my eyes. "There's nothing wrong with being a mechanic. They make a killing. But for your information I'm not interested in being a grease monkey. And I am going to college." I say that with confidence, because I've already researched school loans.
The one time I brought up getting a school loan, he said no, that he could afford it. But I know after his time on the unemployment list, money is in short supply.
Which is part of my reason for taking auto tech. I don't want Dad to have to fork out money to fix all the little things that go wrong on an old car. The more I know about the Mustang, the more independent I am. And I kind of like my independence.
But eventually going out on my own means I'll be leaving Dad alone. Who'll watch out for him? My mom was dead, she has been for a long time now.
Pumpkin, my cat paws at my leg, wanting another taste of the bits of food that I had been feeding him. I ignore him.
"Besides, you probably already know everything the class covers," Dad says.
"Because I had a good teacher. But I could still learn a few things." I smile.
He's right. I spent a lot of time under that car—with Dad. He put himself through college working for a garage. Together we redid the Mustang's engine. It was my fifteenth birthday present. Our neighbor had put a for-sale sign on the car, and the moment I saw it, I wanted it.
Not because I'm a car freak, or a Mustang freak. But I'd seen a picture of one my mom used to own. Honestly, I didn't plan on getting my hands dirty working on that car. At first Dad insisted, and then he didn't have to insist. Not because I enjoyed working on the car, but because of how much I enjoyed spending time with him.
It was our first real bonding experience. Before that, I'd always gotten a feeling Dad didn't know how to parent a daughter. My first bra and the whole starting-my-period experience almost killed him. And not once has he said the word "sex."
Working on that Mustang gave us something in common.
"Speaking of cars," Dad says, smiling, "I'm about to make your day."
"Really."
"Yup. I got your insurance card in the mail."
"Yes!" I do a little victory dance in my chair. When Dad lost his last job, he had to cut the insurance on my car, so I haven't been able to drive it for almost two months.
"So I can drive it to school tomorrow?" I ask and squeal a little.
"Yeah." He chuckles. "You and that car."
Thrilled I don't have to walk to school anymore, I dish a big bite of stew into my mouth and taste it for the first time. It's good. "You sure you don't want a bowl?"
"No."
He sips his water. I eat. The almost empty echo in the house reminds me how big it is. All our houses in the past have been small, older. They seemed to fit us better.
"Have you made any friends at school?" Dad asks.
I almost lie, then decide against it. "Not really."
A sudden puff of steam rises from my bowl. A chill runs down my spine. I continue to eat and ignore it. Pumpkin hauls ass out from under the table and darts under the sofa.
Dad frowns. "You should put yourself out there more. Make some friends."
I point my spoon at him and force my eyes to stay on him. Just him. "Says the man who never puts himself out there."
"I'm around people all the time."
"Dead people don't count." I lift a brow and take another bite.
"Not just dead people." He turns the water bottle in his hand. "Did you get into the honors classes you wanted for next semester?"
"I think so," I say. Good grades mean a possible scholarship. I'm going to need one.
My next intake of air brings with it a hint of jasmine. I remember smelling it earlier.
Dad leans back in his chair. "There's an antique car show going on downtown this weekend. I thought we'd go. Hang out. Talk cars with people."
"Great idea." I finish my last bite of stew and go rinse out the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. Then I pull out containers to store the leftovers.
I hear his chair scrape across the floor. "I'll put the stew away."
"I can do it." I take a deep breath. The jasmine scent is stronger now.
"Don't you have homework?" he asks.
"Yeah, but it's not—"
"Then go. You do too much around here," he says. "You should be hanging out with girlfriends and not taking care of a household."
"I don't mind."
He steps closer and brushes my hair off my cheek. "I swear you look more and more like your mom every day."
I'm surprised at his words. He hardly ever mentions her. Right then I see a familiar sadness in his light brown eyes. I go in for another hug. A short one.
When I pull back, I look at him. "You still miss her, don't you?"
"A little." He turns back to the Crock-Pot, away from me. Maybe away from what he's feeling.
I fill Pumpkin's food bowl. The cat comes running. I stare at Dad's back. Even his posture seems extra sad.
"How was work today?" I ask, wondering if that's the problem. Hoping that's the only problem. He swears it doesn't affect him, but I know it does.
"The same." He moves to the counter and lifts the lid off the Crock-Pot. A big puff of steam rises. He looks back. "Go do your homework. I'll close up the downstairs. I think I'm going to retire early with a book."
I stand there and watch him pour the stew into two bowls. "Did you get a new client today?"
He frowns up at me. "I told you, a mortician should never bring his work home with him."
But Dad does bring his work home with him. Or maybe his clients just follow him. Like right now.
The young woman stares at Dad, looking as if she's walked out of the yellowed pages of an old photo album. She appears confused and lonely, wearing an orange sundress and jasmine perfume.
Dad can't see her, can't talk to her.
But I can.