I was saved by Sara, who reappeared with notebook in hand. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“I’ll have the apple-cinnamon pancakes with a side of bacon, and she’ll have the chocolate chip with a side of home fries and a small orange juice.”
For some reason the thought of all that melted chocolate sticking to the roof of my mouth made me nauseous. “Actually, can I make that blueberry?” I interjected. It was the first other pancake variety I could think of.
My dad looked at me like I’d asked for, well, the granola. I shrugged.
“How’s work?” I asked pointedly.
He didn’t seem to notice, and launched into his latest grievances about the various “dumbasses” in his department. He ranted for nearly ten minutes straight, making two or three comments about his female coworkers’ perceived intelligence. Jamie would have found what he said sexist, and maybe it was, though I maintained he thought every man and woman he worked with was stupid.
When Sara returned with our steaming pancakes and sides and he still hadn’t mentioned moving home, I just about screamed. I glared at the mound of oozing blue-tinted pancakes in front of me, instantly full of regret. There should have been chocolate where those berries were.
“Want some of mine?” my dad asked.
“No, it’s okay.” I cut into the stack and ate a bite three layers high. “Dad,” I started, hoping the pancake in my mouth would make me seem less invested in the answer to my question. “You have a job interview? Here?”
My dad’s shoulders wilted, the ends of the fork and knife in his hands slumping until they tapped the table. “Your mom told you that?”
“Dad, you cannot be mad at her. You have had so much time to tell me.”
“I was getting there.”
“So when is it? Tomorrow?”
He speared a piece of bacon and held it aloft, examining the edges. “Yep. Nine-thirty.”
“Do you want it?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, so agonizingly casual and slow. As if this changed nothing, like I’d told my mom it would. “Depends on the offer. If they even make one.”
For a minute or two we chewed in silence, staring over each other’s shoulders.
“What about me?” I said finally.
My dad sighed and brushed his mustache with his knuckles. When he spoke he addressed his plate. “I know. This is not part of the plan. But it might not happen.”
“What if it does?”
Finally he looked at me. “I’m gonna watch you play for UNC no matter what.”
But I play now, too, I thought, and you don’t.
He watched me take another bite, struggle to chew, and swallow.
“I won’t take it if you don’t want me to,” he said.
I knew he thought this was the generous thing to say, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
“Let me know how it goes,” I said. “I want you to try.”
He smiled and took another bite. “Deal.”
Mouth still full of pancake, he changed the subject. “How’s Jamie?”
Oh yeah, I thought. He didn’t know. I tried to avoid talking about girls with my father, which was easy enough to do over text. In person, though, I felt I had no choice.
“She’s good, I think. We broke up, though.”
“Really? What happened?”
I shrugged, like no big deal. “It just stopped working.” I could feel my dad’s eyes on me as I cut deeper into my pancakes. I couldn’t tell him I’d been dumped. I just couldn’t. I prayed to anyone listening that for once he would take my discomfort as a sign to stop asking questions.
“That happens,” he said slowly. “You still friendly?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
“Good. She’s a smart girl.”
I felt proud of her, even now. My dad did not hand that word out easily. I had to stop him before he said anything else good about her.
“I’ve sort of been talking to this other girl lately. Ruby.”
My dad nodded, evaluating the name. “What’s her deal?” he asked, by which I knew he meant: Is she like you?
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But she’s cool. She’s in a band.”
“Good student?” My father was not impressed by extracurriculars and/or hobbies that did not directly lead to scholarships. Like rock bands.
“I think so, yeah. I don’t have her transcript with me.”
He gave me a look and took another bite, evaluating her as he chewed.
“Is she good-looking?”
Here we go, I thought. I knew, on some level, that his question was kind of (okay, fully) a creepy one. But I also knew to expect it. For him, good-looking and smart were the qualities that mattered in a woman. Though he’d never said so explicitly, I suspected he thought I could do better than Jamie—who, though striking, wasn’t the kind of pretty everyone agreed on. I knew he thought he was looking out for me; I knew he believed people wouldn’t give me as hard a time about dating girls if they were knockout beautiful, and popular, and decent students. And the thing was, I couldn’t really say he was wrong. People probably would treat me better if I dated Ruby. So I answered honestly.
“She is very pretty, yes.”
He grinned. “Good for you.”
I felt proud and sick and sad and happy at the same time. My stomach felt heavy with feelings, or else the lesser, non-chocolate pancakes. It was hard to be sure.
I gave my dad the rest of the bullet-point Quinn report: my soccer record so far, my grades so far, my best and worst teachers. He didn’t ask any more about Mom, but I told him anyway that she was doing great. I didn’t know if that was especially accurate, but I felt it was my duty to say it regardless. He accepted this information neutrally, like I was his doctor giving him his blood pressure reading. Not that he ever went to the doctor, now that Mom couldn’t make him. How was his blood pressure? I wondered.
My dad put his card on the bill Sara dropped at our table, and then he pulled four twenties from his wallet and gave them to me. I pocketed them eagerly, already thinking of things I could use the money for. Homecoming, I realized, was a little under a month away. Was there a world in which Ruby went with me, and I spent this money on flowers for her wrist?
“Thank you,” I said. He waved it off and signed the receipt, leaving his usual two-dollar tip on our twenty-four-dollar bill. When he got up to use the restroom, I removed a crumpled five from my pocket and tucked it under my plate. I met him at the front of the cafe, where we each took a crusty peppermint from the bowl on the register stand and popped them in our mouths.