“How is school going?” he asks, brushing some lint off his sleeve. I’m so used to him wearing work clothes—button-down Oxfords and ties—that it’s strange to see him like this, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans.
I give him a thumbs-up that is far more enthused than I feel. I can’t lie, though—it has become significantly less torturous now that I can glom on to Asha and Sam. I’ve memorized their schedules and made a point of meeting them outside their classrooms so I’m not on my own in between classes. There’s a safety in numbers. People are less likely to mess with me when I’m around them. The worst I’ve gotten lately is some shoving in the halls, pointed glares and snickering from Kristen and her minions, and of course the daily locker vandalizing. I guess that Spanish teacher’s intervention didn’t stop Lowell. Or someone else is picking up his slack. Today through the vent cracks someone slipped in a folded note that read WATCH YOUR BACK TRAITOR BITCH.
I promptly tore the note in half and threw it in the trash. Hey, at least that’s easier to get rid of than the marker.
As I pick at my mac and cheese, I have to admit, after so much delicious diner food lately, all this bland processed cheese is a chore to eat. But I don’t want to hurt Dad’s feelings, so I shovel as much into my mouth as I can bear.
“So, you’re still not speaking.” It’s a statement, not a question, and a displeased one at that. The corners of his mouth are pulled down like he’s sucking on something sour.
I keep my eyes on the orange clumpy mess covering my plate. My appetite is suddenly gone.
“I’m just wondering,” he says. “How long is this going to last? It’s been nearly a month now.”
Dad is supposed to be on my side, not grilling me about this. That’s what Mom is for. I guess, though, that in light of his own problems, mine must look childish and dumb.
“Chelsea,” he presses, “I think it’s time you—”
I’m spared from more lecturing by the phone ringing. Dad exhales, shooting me a this-is-not-over-young-lady look, and answers it.