Come Back To Me (13 page)

are these words coming from? Usually I just think them.

I’m never stupid enough to voice them.

‘Go to your room,’ my dad orders in a voice made of

steel.

I stare at him, trying to muster some defiance, my

jaw clenching and unclenching as words form and then

dissolve on my tongue. I want to stand up to him, to

demand he give me an answer, explain why he hates Kit

so much, but Riley gives a small but firm shake of his

head warning me not to push my luck. I look at my

mother, who’s staring down at her hands clasped in her

lap, and feel an overwhelming sense of rage at her as

much as at my father.

Not letting it show, I stand up and put my napkin

down on the table before leaving the room, my legs still

shaking.

*

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Half an hour later Riley finds me sitting on the edge of

my bed. I haven’t moved in all that time. I’ve only just

stopped shaking and my ears are still pricked, waiting for

the fallout. The rage I was feeling vanished before I was

even halfway up the stairs, replaced by anxiety.

Maybe my mom was able to calm my dad down,

because it’s been silent ever since – I’ve heard only the

sounds of the table being cleared, followed by my dad’s

study door opening then closing and the blurry noise of

the game coming on the TV.

‘You OK?’ Riley asks.

I nod at him as he comes to sit beside me.

‘What got into you?’ he asks. I lift my head at his tone.

There’s a flare of admiration in his eyes that I’ve never

seen before, as though he never expected I had it in me.

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug, looking away. Is he going to

wonder why I flew to Kit’s defence?

‘You know what Dad’s like,’ Riley says. ‘There’s no

point in trying to argue anything with him.’

I nod. ‘I know.’

I feel Riley’s eyes on me. ‘How’s he been while I’ve

been away?’ he asks.

‘Better,’ I admit. ‘This is the first time in ages he’s . . . ’ I

stop, as usual unsure what words to use to describe my

dad’s episodes.

‘Must be ’cos I’m around,’ Riley says, trying for a

humorous tone that comes out as bitter.

‘No,’ I say quickly, not wanting him to feel responsible,

though there is some truth in what he says. ‘Who knows

what triggers it,’ I say, keeping my voice light.

‘I wish he’d get some help,’ Riley says, sighing. He gets

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up and crosses to my window where my bookshelf is

and starts running his hand absently over the books.

After a moment he glances up at me. ‘He’s never . . . ’

He breaks off, frowning, and clears his throat before con-

tinuing. ‘ . . . hit you or Mom, has he?’

I shake my head. ‘No. Of course not. He wouldn’t. I

don’t think he would ever hit us,’ I say.

Riley raises an eyebrow at me as if to say we both

know that’s not a certainty. I frown some more. I don’t

want what he’s implying to be true. I want to believe

there’s a line my father wouldn’t cross.

‘If he did ever lay a finger on you or Mom, you’d tell

me, right?’ Riley asks.

I nod.

‘Promise me. Because if he ever did . . . ’

I struggle to find my voice. ‘I promise,’ I say finally,

though it’s a lie. I couldn’t tell him, not given how I know

he’d react. Riley’s over six foot two. He’s taller than my

dad now. Stronger too. I don’t want to see the two of

them get into any kind of confrontation.

Riley comes and sits down beside me again. ‘He’s such

a bastard.’

I flinch at the word. ‘He wasn’t always this way, Riley.’

He used to be the kind of dad you see in sit-coms. Or

maybe that’s just how my memory has chosen to recreate

the past. ‘He used to laugh all the time. Don’t you

remember?’

Riley doesn’t say anything.

‘He used to play sharks with us on the bed, and tell us

pirate stories and do magic tricks.’ I remember all my

friends being jealous of me because my dad was the dad

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who could make chocolate eggs appear from behind their

ears. Now they all just pity me. Those that know, that is,

which is only Didi and a handful of others. ‘He used to be

like other dads,’ I say quietly.

Riley’s jaw tightens. ‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘I remember.’

He exhales loudly. ‘So why’d he have to change? Why’d

he have to become such an asshole?’

I glance sideways at him. We both know what made

him this way: Iraq.

Riley catches my look. ‘No, I mean, what exactly

happened to him over there. He led tours in Serbia,

Afghanistan and Sierra Leone before Iraq and they didn’t

turn him into this. Iraq did.’

We sit for a moment in silence. I’m trying to picture the

kinds of atrocities he might have witnessed, things I’ve

only read about in the paper. Riley’s got much more of an

idea, but I don’t want to ask him.

I try to avoid reading war reports because I always

superimpose Kit or Riley into the story. I wish I could

turn to Riley right now and beg him to quit. I wish I could

tell him how much I miss him when he’s gone, how

scared I am that he’ll die or witness something so bad he

becomes like Dad. I wish I could tell him how hard Mom

takes it whenever he leaves and how she has to swallow

pills to get through the day. But I can’t, because what

good would it do to tell him all these things? He has to

go. Just like Kit, he’s contracted to the marines. He

couldn’t get out even if he wanted to. So instead I just rest

my head on his shoulder and wish there was a way to

make him understand without having to find the words

for it.

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Riley rests his head on top of mine and for a moment I

feel like maybe he does get it, that he does understand,

and is trying to let me know he’ll be OK, that he won’t

become like Dad.

Just then my phone rings on my desk. Without even

looking I know it’s Kit. I spring to my feet and dart to the

desk, grabbing it in case Riley sees his name flashing on

the screen.

Riley gets up. ‘Who is it?’ he asks as the phone contin-

ues to ring in my hand.

‘Um, Didi,’ I say.

‘OK,’ Riley says, making for the door. ‘I’ll see you later.

I’m going around to Jo’s.’

For the first time ever I don’t feel a wave of sadness at

watching him go. Instead I happily wave him off and kick

the door shut.

‘Hey,’ I say breathlessly into the phone.

‘Hi,’ Kit answers in that husky drawl of his which

makes something inside me unfurl like a sail.

I drop down onto my bed and curl onto my side, wish-

ing he was lying behind me, whispering into my ear.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Lying on my bed.’

‘Want me to come over?’ he asks.

My eyes fly open. ‘No,’ I say, thinking of my dad and

the precarious ledge we’re balanced on. There’s still time

for him to flip. ‘I mean, yes, I’d love to see you.’ He has

no idea how much. ‘But no. You can’t come over.’

‘We could rendezvous at twenty-two hundred hours

outside the back door.’

My stomach flips. The thought of letting Kit kiss away

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all the stress of the last hour, of feeling his arms around

my waist holding me up, is almost enough to make me

say yes, but then I remember my dad. ‘I can’t. Not

tonight.’

There’s a loud silence on the end of the phone. ‘Is it

your dad?’ Kit asks.

‘Yeah,’ I admit, blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘It’s not a

good time,’ I explain, hoping he doesn’t press for details.

Another heavily weighted silence. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But

tomorrow. Can I see you then? That is, unless you’re

seeing Peter.’

I smile. I’ve already explained to Kit that Peter was a

figment of Didi’s imagination. Then I groan, remember-

ing what tomorrow is. ‘I have school.’

‘It’s your last week,’ Kit says, ‘Take a day off.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . . ’ I say, then stop. I don’t feel like telling Kit

that I’ve never ditched school. I have a near perfect

attendance record, with only one sick day to mar it since

middle school.

‘Wait,’ Kit says, his voice low in my ear. ‘Have you
ever

ditched school before?’

I hesitate long enough for him to pounce. ‘Oh my God.

You haven’t, have you?’

‘No,’ I admit. He’s going to think I’m so square.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘you have five days of school left.

You are skipping one of those days. You choose which.

I’m going to take you on an adventure that would make

Ferris Bueller jealous.’

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘If my dad finds out . . . ’

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‘He’ll what?’ Kit asks.

Go mad. Ground me. Take away my phone. Any or all of the

above.

‘Come on,’ Kit taunts. ‘Live a little, Jessa.’

Maybe it’s those last four words or maybe it’s the way

he lingers on my name, but suddenly I feel a little light of

rebellion switch on inside me. Riley gets to live. Most of

the girls at my school get to live – they’re always taking

days off, going to parties, passing around their fake IDs,

boasting about what club they got into and how many

guys they’ve slept with. I’ve never so much as stayed

out past my curfew. I don’t even own a fake ID. Why

shouldn’t I rebel just this once?

‘OK,’ I say and am hit immediately by a wave of

butterflies and second thoughts.

‘When?’ Kit asks. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know. No, not tomorrow, I have choir practice.’

‘Choir practice?’

‘Thursday,’ I say.

‘I’m not sure I can wait that long to see you.’

I bite my lip. I don’t want to wait that long either. I’m

conscious of the clock ticking by, of the days slipping past

towards when he has to leave.

‘I might have to pick you up from school tomorrow.’

‘I ride with Didi,’ I say.

‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘But not on your bike.’

‘Deal,’ Kit says with a smile in his voice.

‘And you have to bring me straight home.’ I feel like

an idiot for insisting on all these things. I’m pretty sure

the girls he’s been with before didn’t give him lists of

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rules and regulations. Will he figure I’m not worth the

trouble?

‘Fine,’ he says, then, after a pause, ‘Listen, are you OK

with the whole prom thing?’

I sit up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You sure you want to go with me?’

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s worried I

don’t want him to be my date and I almost laugh out

loud. ‘Yes,’ I say. Then I pause. ‘Are you OK being Didi’s

date?’

‘Yeah, so long as she is.’

‘She’s fine with it,’ I say, then add, ‘Are you sure you

want to come? I mean, it’s a high school prom. It’s prob-

ably going to suck.’

‘Are you kidding me?’ he asks. ‘Yes. I want to come.’

He breaks off. ‘To the prom that is.’

I burst into a grin. ‘I knew what you meant.’ But now I

can’t get the image out of my head of the other thing. I

scrunch my eyes shut. No. Still won’t go anywhere.

‘On that note, I’m going to say goodnight,’ Kit says,

laughing to himself.

‘Goodnight,’ I whisper, not wanting him to go, wishing

he could stay on the line all night.

‘Sweet dreams,’ he murmurs in my ear.

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Kit

I’m not sure of the protocol for waiting outside a Catholic

high school. I’m scared I’m about to be arrested for loiter-

ing or trying to solicit. It looks more like a prison than a

school − red brick walls block the view, and the only

thing visible beyond is the steeple. I can’t believe Jessa’s

been going to school here for five years. No wonder she’s

never skipped out for a day. I’d imagine they’d come

looking for you. They probably stick spiked heads on the

walls to warn students off even trying.

I went to public school with over three thousand kids,

so no one really gave a damn on the days I didn’t show

up. And the days I did play truant tended to coincide

with the days my dad was on a bender, so he didn’t care

much either. Leaning back against the hood of the truck

and staring up at the wrought iron gates in front of me,

inscribed with some words that I’m guessing are Latin, I

can’t help but feel like I’m breaking Jessa out of jail.

At five to four the gates open as though visiting time is

over and a gaggle of girls comes racing out. My eyes go