| Throwing forward its girth with a rumble, the bus pulled away from a stop on the edge of suburbia. Jocelyn walked in the opposite direction to her house on the block's corner. It was a ranch affair, brown aluminum siding and a white front door. She turned her key in the lock, shoved the door open, let her backpack slide from her shoulders, and leaned back against it until it closed. After a moment, a wry grin crossed her face. She had done it. First try without a hitch. The liquor store attendant had looked more closely at her fake I.D. than she might have wished, but that problem was easily solved. Despite a valiant effort, PSAs simply couldn't match the power of a young woman who knows her body's use over a young man who doesn't.
As she picked up her backpack again and headed for the kitchen, she reviewed party plans. Get picked up by Sarah at 8:00, arrive at 8:30 (fashionably late). Deposit whiskey at the bar and mingle. Meet cute guys and take down their numbers. Laugh at pathetic asshole of an ex-boyfriend. Avoid creepy frat boys with Mexican roofies. Dance. Get mildly buzzed. Let straight-laced Sarah drive you home. Gossip on the phone for an hour. Go to sleep with a sense of accomplishment.
She picked up her backpack and slung it over her shoulder again as she headed for the kitchen. From the dining table, her father looked up. He was an unremarkable middle-aged man, with short black hair and mustache both showing traces of grey. There was something slightly fragile about him, about his posture and folded hands and dazed expression. "Hi Daddy," she greeted cheerfully while she picked up the mail. He smiled, mouth opening to say something. He remained wordless, which seemed to puzzle him as much as it did Jocelyn. She interjected, "You... didn't sort this yet, right?" before flicking through the stack. Efficient fingers graced with crisp red nail-polish formed a pile for each family member. "No," her father replied several beats after the question had been answered. "I... didn't have time. I was... well... how was school today?"
Jocelyn grinned mysteriously. She kept her eyes on the mail and murmured nonchalantly, "Good." Her father frowned. "Well.. err... how good?" Her grin grew slightly wider. "Pretty good." He laughed and shook his head, "No no, I mean, how was it good? What happened?" Finished with the mail, Jocelyn turned to the fridge and tugged it open. She hid behind the fridge door, ostensibly to grab a soda. She was afraid her girlishly amused expression would give it all away. "Oh, nothing really." Her father laughed again, wearily commenting, "You were just like this as a tot. Always loved to make people wait in suspense. Come on, what happened?" She emerged from behind the fridge door, coke in hand, and closed it with a theatrical flourish. "Really, nothing! Well, except... I'm a finalist for the ISTS. That's no big deal, though," she finished facetiously.
His face lost its last traces of nervous uncertainty, replaced by a warm smile. "Sweety, that's... that's wonderful! Oh wow... I'm so proud of you!" She was glad to see him light up like that. He had seemed somewhat more troubled than usual when she came in. Filling him in on the rest quickly, she continued, "Yeah, I'm really excited. I'm the only contestant from Minnesota. Anyway, nothing major's going to happen `til the end of January, but I have a bunch of forms you'll need to sign. I'll give those to you later." Feeling satisfied with the relation of this little success, she turned to leave the room.
"Hey... uhh... sweety, why don't we celebrate by going to a movie? Your mom won't be home until late, so maybe just us two?" her father sputtered before she could walk away, nervous again. She took a sip of coke as she turned back. `Thanks Daddy, but I'm going to a party tonight. Sarah's picking me up around eight."
Her father's eyes fell to the table. After a moment's pause, he noted hesitantly, "Your court date's tomorrow, Jocey." Her bemused detachment hardened ominously. She was angry at the implication, and even angrier that there was some truth in it. Voice low and carefully controlled, she replied, "You know Dad, it is possible for me to go to a party without getting piss drunk. Much as it may surprise you." He flinched and grew smaller as she spoke. Despite her anger, she'd never seen him yield like that before. He wasn't a father of the wrathful Old Testament sort, but he'd never just lost all vestiges of parental authority. It was disquieting. He spoke hastily and without much reassurance. "I... I know that Jocey. I didn't mean to, well it's just... maybe it's not a good idea to put yourself in that situation, you know? I really... just wanted to spend some time with you tonight." She rolled her eyes and started to walk away, sneering, "Sorry, but I really don't have time for Hallmark father-daughter fantasies right now."
As she almost reached the hall, he stood from the table and called, "Jocelyn!" His tone wasn't angry. It was almost desperate, quavering as if about to fall to pieces. "Jocey... I... went to the doctor today... to get the biopsy results. I've got colon cancer. He talked a lot about treatment options, but... at the end he only gave me six months." After a moment, he added quickly, "I hadn't wanted to tell anyone `til tomorrow. They'll be admitting me to the hospital on Monday." She stood motionless, her back still to him. Then her shoulders started to shake. She suddenly whipped around, eyes fierce and teeth bared ferally. "You... you... you stupid... stupid fucking... YOU ASSHOLE!" she screamed as she flung the soda can across the room. It crashed against the cupboard and fell to the floor as she stormed away. With the bedroom door's slam, her father glanced down at the can, slowly spinning, its contents spreading across the linoleum.
In her room she threw her backpack to the floor, a short sob bursting out. She slid down the door and pulled her knees up against her chest. Her eyes, bleary with tears, searched the room for an answer to questions she couldn't ask. And soon her anger gave way to numbness. Her thoughts were silenced as if by an outside force. Without knowing she rose, opened a drawer, and searched for something. Beneath half-used bottles of body scent, old letters, balls of knitting yarn, a small stuffed rabbit, and broken pencils she found a shot glass with "Seņor Frog's" inscribed over a badly drawn mascot. Her ex-boyfriend had brought it back from a trip to Cancun, his idea of a cherished souvenir. She held it tight. Returning to the floor, she reached with the other hand to unzip her backpack and pull out the bottle of whiskey. |
