“Okay, Daddy.” I tried keeping my voice steady. “You know that any money I earn goes towards helping the family.”
That seemed to perk him up some. “Yer right . . . we are a family, and what’s yours is mine.”
So clearly missed the point. He plucked up my apron and dumped it out on the table. My back stiffened as he sifted through looking for the bigger bills. He seemed to tally up pretty quickly, even turning my apron upside down and shaking it.
“That it?” he demanded.
I squirted a long stream of dishwashing liquid over the dishes, biding for time. I was hoping this was a rhetorical question.
“Is this all you made tonight, Katherine?”
“Um,” I hedged again, “I also made my hourly wage of two-thirteen.”
“Yer meanin’ to tell me you was gone from 3:30 this afternoon till 11:00 tonight and all you made—after Uncle Sam takes his share—is a measly twenty bucks!”
“Uhhh . . . more, less.” I swallowed.
Daddy’s face contorted around a bit before settling into a sneer this time.
“Remember, it was a real slow night tonight,” I interjected quickly. “Ms. Norma said it’s gonna pick up again after school starts.”
He looked at me for a couple of seconds, I guess weighing the worth of the few dollars he pilfered with the smug satisfaction of being right about my employment being a waste of time.
I pressed on during the pause: “I could look for a better job, but you said I could only work Friday and Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons on account of my chores at home and worship.”
“If yer dumb enough to waste your time waitressin’ for a few dollars down at that crummy café, then I guess that’s up to you,” he said, while simultaneously slipping the bills into his back pocket.
I flashbacked to earlier when another domineering male did the exact same thing (only that one was much better looking). And I was core hurt. Here I was wasting my glory days slaving away to help our little family survive, and I was being chastised for it. I clamped my jaw shut. No way was I gonna get sucked into a pointless argument with my father. I would never win, and as he liked to point out on numerous occasions: he was the head of the house. I was supposed to just suck it up and fall into line like a good girl. My hands began furiously scrubbing dishes.
“Goodnight, Katie-girl.” Daddy’s voice softened a bit. “Get some rest . . . we got church in the mornin’,” he added unnecessarily. I knew the drill.
After finishing the dishes, I made for the door with my dwindled earnings and paused. Even though I was beat-down tired, the answering machine’s light caught my attention. It was blinking at me. Relentlessly.
Blink. Blink. Blink . . .
I was so tired and already mentally checked out. So why am I so drawn to it?
Blink. Blink. Blink . . .
It could wait. I would just check it tomorrow then. I shuffled on past and turned out the light, saw red blinking at me in the dark. Like a siren. It continued to gnaw away at me like I was going OCD or something—I couldn’t not listen to it. Arg! Dumping my bag on the counter, I lowered the volume and pressed play. The automated voice communicated that we had one saved message, then a sharp Beep! and a cheerful voice began speaking like there was a contest for brisk professionalism:
Hello, Mr. Connelly! This is Emma Mathers calling again from the International Elite Academy. We wanted to formally welcome your family to our mentoring program and thank you for giving us the opportunity to work with your son, Andrew. As per our agreement, an elite cadet will meet with him after school every day beginning Monday, August 29.
My heart stopped, but the bad news didn’t wait for it to restart before continuing.
. . . A copy of the contract should be forthcoming in the mail. Please sign the highlighted areas and return it in the return envelope— no postage necessary—at your earliest convenience. Should you have any questions regarding the program, please don’t hesitate in calling the office. We will be happy to assist you anytime. Thank you and have a very pleasant evening.
What’s going on? My ears began a dull buzz. I leaned over and gripped the counter. I thought Daddy was dead set against any of the schools that were after Drewy. After being the right word here. What had happened to change that and when?
I was seeing red (not the blinking kind). Instinctively, I dove into the bottom of my bag for the glossy, embossed envelope. I wasn’t even gonna wait to recycle it now. I was gonna heave it right in the middle of the trash heap to burn! Something was off with this organization. I could just feel it, right down in my bones.
Like a deflating balloon, all my angry energy seemed to be leaching from me. I slumped against the wall and slithered into a heap of misery on our linoleum floor. Maybe I’m overreacting? I mean she didn’t say Andrew was going away anywhere, only that someone from them was coming here— an elite cadet. But I’d never heard of a mentoring program for a boarding school. Why would an elite private institution dip its beak into public school that way? If they were that interested in Andrew, wouldn’t they just request for him to be tested and interviewed there?
Blue’s nudges roused me out of my stupor long enough to get me moving. Even though I smelled like a basket of tater-tots, I didn’t have enough energy for a shower, so I splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth, noticing in the harsh bathroom light just how splotchy my face was and how red my eyes were. How had Daddy missed that? And then I realized with a jolt—he hadn’t. He just hadn’t bothered asking me what was wrong.
How many ways could a person be hurt in one night? Is the ceiling going to cave in on me next?
A sob escaped me. Blue gave an anxious whine. “It’s okay, Bluesy,” I assured him with a hug. “We won’t let anyone take Drewy from us.”
I also noticed how enlarged my pupils looked tonight. Like huge, black saucers in my eye sockets, making me look positively bewitched. I usually tried to avoid taking photos because, inevitably, I always had the devil red-eye . . . when nobody else did. I had to agree with Andrew—I did look kinda spooky. Especially after a good cry. I didn’t mind though. That part of my eye was from my mother; the color was from my father.
Only one Connelly child inherited Mama’s warm, hazel eyes . . . and Mikey, too, suffered from a bad case of the red-eye.
I thought with satisfaction about the other bits and pieces of her I had inherited, like the angle of my cheekbones and my thick chestnut hair. My skin was a shade darker than my Irish father’s, but unfortunately, I still inherited his furious blush.
After throwing my scratchy uniform over the shower to air out the cloying diner smell, I pulled on Mama’s favorite T-shirt, the one with a leafy tree and the word hugger written beneath it. It was getting really late (or early, depending on how you wanted to look at it), so I turned off the light and on the tulip lamp I’d inherited from Ashley-Leigh, then went and stuffed a towel under the door. Just in case.
My feet dragged back to bed, but instead of falling into it, I kneeled down to withdraw my stash-of-cash from where it was hibernating under there (hoping to grow fat) with some of Andrew’s brilliant stories and Mikey’s extravagantly macaronied art. After fishing around in my bag for tonight’s catch, I hauled it out for inspection. The light cast its pink glow on the origami-heart in my palm. I dropped it onto my bed, along with the other bills I’d pilfered from myself, and the envelope that was starting to burn my hand.