He whistles softly through his teeth. “I really screwed up this whole parenting thing, didn’t I? You go years thinking you did all right, never realizing just how much damage you caused.”
“You did the best you could, Dad. I had a roof and a bed and food and necessities . . . that’s more than a lot of people can say. Besides, I didn’t turn out that bad.”
“You turned out just fine, but I don’t know how much of it was my doing.” He considers me for a moment and adds, “You look so much like your mother. Just like her, except for the height. You’d tower over her.”
I could count on one hand the number of times he’d mentioned Mom in front of me.
Careful to keep my gaze directed down toward my food, I ask, “Do you miss her?”
He blows out a breath, his eyes similarly fixed on the game on the TV. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I gave myself the option of missing her. I’ve been wondering, though, if she would have handled this all better. If she would have known what to do.”
Good to know the whole clueless thing doesn’t go away with age.
“Don’t beat yourself up over stuff like that, Dad. She didn’t stick around. You did. It’s crazy to let yourself lose to a memory.”
“When did you get to be so smart?”
“Mistakes can be awfully good teachers.”
He hums, pondering that for a moment, and then goes back to his meal.
In the silence, I gather up the courage to say something that I’ve been thinking about for a few days.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“In February, I’m going to Dallas to audition for a summer dance intensive with the San Francisco Conservatory of Dance.”
He sets down the remote again. “You are?”
“Yes,” I reply firmly. “I know you’re not comfortable with me going to college in another state. But I’m not comfortable doing nothing when I know positively that dancing is what I want to do with my life. As I see it, this is a compromise. If I’m accepted, it’s a six-week program with the added opportunity to do a choreography residency where I’d get to create a piece of my own to be danced by the workshop dancers. It can be a trial run. A stepping-stone. And if things go okay, maybe you’ll see that I can handle going to school out of state.”
He stares at me for several long moments, and I can tell he’s trying to be reasonable. We’ve just had possibly the longest, most civil conversation of our lives, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.
“Is this about McClain?” he asks. “Are you doing this because you’re mad at me?”
I smile and choke down a sad laugh. “No, Dad. It’s not about that. It’s about me. I need to learn how not to walk away, how to fight for what I want, because if I don’t learn soon, I’ll have nothing left to fight for. This is about me learning how to take after the parent that stuck around instead of the one who gave up.”
He looks away from me, clears his throat, and when he looks back, the skin around his eyes has gone pink.
“You know, when your mom left I remember wondering how I was going to manage alone. Eighteen years seemed like such a long time to be responsible for another person, and now it feels like the clock ran out in no time. I guess I just thought I’d have more time before you grew up and stopped needing me.”
“I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever grow out of, Dad. Whether I live here or a thousand miles away.”
He swallows, nodding his head a few times, and says, “February, then?”
“Yeah. And then end of May is when I’ll go if I’m accepted.”
His head keeps bobbing, processing, and I wonder if he’s just humoring me because I’m sad. I think he surprises us both when he decides. “After the season is over, we’ll take a look together, then, maybe talk to your dance teachers. Make sure you’ve got the best possible chance of getting in.”
I can feel the tears welling again, always so close to the surface these days, and he must see them too, because he clears his throat and turns toward the safety of the television again.
I stay for another hour or two, watching the film with Dad. After he’s had his fill watching film of the other team, he switches and watches his own team, trying to pinpoint any weaknesses he might have missed standing on the sidelines. I watch for a little while, but when all my eyes do is follow Carson, I decide to leave him to it.
I’M FEELING A little better on Friday, which is why I’m still wearing normal clothes instead of pajamas when Stella knocks on the window that looks in my bedroom from the side of the house.
I pull back the curtains, and when I see her, I pull up the glass to let her in.
“What happened to knocking on the door like a normal person?”
She pops through the small opening with perfect agility and says, “When I spoke to your dad yesterday, he led me to believe that you’re barely leaving your bed. So I thought this would be easier.”
I open my arms wide and gesture around the room, specifically toward the desk in the corner, where I’d been camped out reading.
“I’m fine, as you can see.”
“Bullshit. You’ve done nothing but study and work and dance all week.”
“That’s a fairly accurate depiction of how I’ve spent the last several years of my life, so I’m not sure exactly what you’re worried about.”
“I’m worried about dragging you along to the homecoming bonfire and pep rally with me tonight, so I don’t have to go alone like a complete loser.”