“Sorry,” Stephen said, smiling sheepishly and turning the volume down.
I simply smiled in return. I could offer no commentary on his musical selection. That was yet another item that made my father’s “silly” list and was, therefore, deemed a waste of my time. For the millionth time, I mourned the death of my youth. I felt like I’d barely lived at all. Oh, how I longed for some excitement, some meaning, some importance to life.
On the short ride home, I absorbed as much detail as I could about the scene inside the Honda. Knowing I’d likely not have the chance again, I memorized the smell of Stephen’s cologne, the competent way his hands gripped the steering wheel, the tenor of his voice as he talked about his upcoming football game. For just a few minutes, I was a regular girl, enjoying the company of the most popular guy in school, a world of endless possibilities outside my window.
And then I saw my house come into view.
Stephen pulled up to the curb in front of my mailbox and put the car in park. He turned toward me. “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
I nodded and smiled, though it wobbled with emotion. My moment was over. “I’m fine. Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening my door.
“No problem,” he assured me, smiling his handsome smile. “See you at school Monday.”
I closed the door, unable to respond for the questions swirling in my head. Was that a promise? It sure sounded like one. Of course, I wanted it to be a promise more than life itself. Did I dare dwell on such an extraordinary thing? Had my stunning acrobatics impressed him? Was I suddenly interesting, now that he’d nearly killed me? How did he know where I lived? Did Dad see him drop me off?
Unfortunately, only one of my questions was to be answered this night. And the answer was yes, Dad did see Stephen drop me off.
I marched up the driveway, suddenly aware of a throbbing inside my skull. I decided to avoid the garage and go through the front door instead, only to find Dad standing behind the glass, arms crossed over his chest.
“Who was that?” I knew that disapproving look. Dad’s shaggy dark brown hair was mussed from frustrated fingers. The deep groove between his hazel eyes was even more pronounced and his mouth was set in a grim, straight line.
I thought about lying, but quickly realized there was no point. There was nothing I could say that would smooth things over; he’d see that I had supposedly been going on a run and ended up with a boy instead. Of course, there was the small possibility he’d believe the truth.
“Stephen Fitchco.”
“And what were you doing with him?”
“There was a, uh, an accident and he gave me a ride home.”
At first he looked puzzled. “What kind of accident?” Then I saw his eyes drift to my cheek then down to my arm. They both stung so I could only assume they showed telltale signs of my encounter with the pavement.
I watched as Dad slowly dropped his arms, his big hands curling into tight fists. He was ready to pass judgment and then execute somebody, even though he had no idea what had happened. “Are you alright? Who did this to you?”
See what I have to deal with? Since my mother and sister had died in “the accident” all those years ago, Dad had been obsessed with keeping me close and safe. Obsessed! It had devastated him, so much so that he couldn’t even keep pictures of them around. Consequently, all his crazy was sharply focused on me.
“It was nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Look at your face. And your hair.” He continued his assessment of me. “And your arm and your knee. And—”
“Alright, Dad!” I cut him off before he worked himself up into a real twirl. “It was my fault. I was running, not paying attention, when I heard a horn. I noticed it too late and then…” I trailed off, partly because my memory of the rest was second hand and partly because details made him even crazier.
“Were you hurt?”
“Just scraped up a little. No biggee, Dad.” He wasn’t buying it.
“The boy that brought you home, is he the one that hit you?”
“Uh,um,” I stammered, not wanting to incriminate Stephen just in case he did suddenly find me interesting.
“Carson Marie,” Dad said, the warning clear in his use of my first and middle name.
“I don’t remember exactly what happened. He was the one helping me when I woke up and—”
“When you woke up?”
“Well, yeah. And—”
“So you were knocked unconscious?”
This was getting worse by the second. I didn’t really think it was that big a deal, but Dad was quickly reaching Def Con Five and I didn’t know how to reverse the process.
“I guess, but—”
“We need to get you to the hospital,” he said, turning on his heel and snatching his truck keys off the table by the door.
Grabbing my elbow, Dad herded me out the door and to his truck and we made our way to the hospital. I knew there was no talking him down, so I went with silence as my next best option. The least I could do was not make things worse.
Three and a half excruciatingly boring and embarrassing hours later, we were pulling back into the driveway. I’d been given a clean bill of health and a list of concussion precautions. Barring any complications from the knock to the head, the ER doctor assured me I’d be fine.
The one positive was that Dad was on his best behavior. At some point on the quiet drive to the hospital, he’d realized that his anger was misplaced and that what I needed was some TLC. And, believe it or not, when TLC was needed, Dad was actually a pretty good source. It’s just that he rarely ever thought it was needed. On the odd occasion when it was called for, though, I basked in it, just as I was doing now.
We’d already stopped for take-out on the way home. Dad had also run into the store for my favorite ice cream. While he was in there, he’d picked up a movie that I’d wanted to see. Movies were another “silly” thing that I seldom got to enjoy, but since the opportunity had presented itself, I wasn’t going to squander it.
After seeing me safely inside, Dad went back out to the truck for the food while I went to the bathroom to clean up. I had gotten a glimpse of my reflection in a sink mirror at the hospital and I’d taken quite a tumble, leaving dirt and gravel and dried blood in several highly visible places.
One thing I’d always been grateful for was Dad’s insistence that wherever we moved, we find a home that had two full baths. He always gave me the master suite and he took another room and used the spare bathroom. It was his one concession to my gender.