Authors: Mila Gray
are these words coming from? Usually I just think them.
I’m never stupid enough to voice them.
‘Go to your room,’ my dad orders in a voice made of
steel.
I stare at him, trying to muster some defiance, my
jaw clenching and unclenching as words form and then
dissolve on my tongue. I want to stand up to him, to
demand he give me an answer, explain why he hates Kit
so much, but Riley gives a small but firm shake of his
head warning me not to push my luck. I look at my
mother, who’s staring down at her hands clasped in her
lap, and feel an overwhelming sense of rage at her as
much as at my father.
Not letting it show, I stand up and put my napkin
down on the table before leaving the room, my legs still
shaking.
*
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Half an hour later Riley finds me sitting on the edge of
my bed. I haven’t moved in all that time. I’ve only just
stopped shaking and my ears are still pricked, waiting for
the fallout. The rage I was feeling vanished before I was
even halfway up the stairs, replaced by anxiety.
Maybe my mom was able to calm my dad down,
because it’s been silent ever since – I’ve heard only the
sounds of the table being cleared, followed by my dad’s
study door opening then closing and the blurry noise of
the game coming on the TV.
‘You OK?’ Riley asks.
I nod at him as he comes to sit beside me.
‘What got into you?’ he asks. I lift my head at his tone.
There’s a flare of admiration in his eyes that I’ve never
seen before, as though he never expected I had it in me.
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug, looking away. Is he going to
wonder why I flew to Kit’s defence?
‘You know what Dad’s like,’ Riley says. ‘There’s no
point in trying to argue anything with him.’
I nod. ‘I know.’
I feel Riley’s eyes on me. ‘How’s he been while I’ve
been away?’ he asks.
‘Better,’ I admit. ‘This is the first time in ages he’s . . . ’ I
stop, as usual unsure what words to use to describe my
dad’s episodes.
‘Must be ’cos I’m around,’ Riley says, trying for a
humorous tone that comes out as bitter.
‘No,’ I say quickly, not wanting him to feel responsible,
though there is some truth in what he says. ‘Who knows
what triggers it,’ I say, keeping my voice light.
‘I wish he’d get some help,’ Riley says, sighing. He gets
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up and crosses to my window where my bookshelf is
and starts running his hand absently over the books.
After a moment he glances up at me. ‘He’s never . . . ’
He breaks off, frowning, and clears his throat before con-
tinuing. ‘ . . . hit you or Mom, has he?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Of course not. He wouldn’t. I
don’t think he would ever hit us,’ I say.
Riley raises an eyebrow at me as if to say we both
know that’s not a certainty. I frown some more. I don’t
want what he’s implying to be true. I want to believe
there’s a line my father wouldn’t cross.
‘If he did ever lay a finger on you or Mom, you’d tell
me, right?’ Riley asks.
I nod.
‘Promise me. Because if he ever did . . . ’
I struggle to find my voice. ‘I promise,’ I say finally,
though it’s a lie. I couldn’t tell him, not given how I know
he’d react. Riley’s over six foot two. He’s taller than my
dad now. Stronger too. I don’t want to see the two of
them get into any kind of confrontation.
Riley comes and sits down beside me again. ‘He’s such
a bastard.’
I flinch at the word. ‘He wasn’t always this way, Riley.’
He used to be the kind of dad you see in sit-coms. Or
maybe that’s just how my memory has chosen to recreate
the past. ‘He used to laugh all the time. Don’t you
remember?’
Riley doesn’t say anything.
‘He used to play sharks with us on the bed, and tell us
pirate stories and do magic tricks.’ I remember all my
friends being jealous of me because my dad was the dad
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who could make chocolate eggs appear from behind their
ears. Now they all just pity me. Those that know, that is,
which is only Didi and a handful of others. ‘He used to be
like other dads,’ I say quietly.
Riley’s jaw tightens. ‘Yeah,’ he mumbles. ‘I remember.’
He exhales loudly. ‘So why’d he have to change? Why’d
he have to become such an asshole?’
I glance sideways at him. We both know what made
him this way: Iraq.
Riley catches my look. ‘No, I mean, what exactly
happened to him over there. He led tours in Serbia,
Afghanistan and Sierra Leone before Iraq and they didn’t
turn him into this. Iraq did.’
We sit for a moment in silence. I’m trying to picture the
kinds of atrocities he might have witnessed, things I’ve
only read about in the paper. Riley’s got much more of an
idea, but I don’t want to ask him.
I try to avoid reading war reports because I always
superimpose Kit or Riley into the story. I wish I could
turn to Riley right now and beg him to quit. I wish I could
tell him how much I miss him when he’s gone, how
scared I am that he’ll die or witness something so bad he
becomes like Dad. I wish I could tell him how hard Mom
takes it whenever he leaves and how she has to swallow
pills to get through the day. But I can’t, because what
good would it do to tell him all these things? He has to
go. Just like Kit, he’s contracted to the marines. He
couldn’t get out even if he wanted to. So instead I just rest
my head on his shoulder and wish there was a way to
make him understand without having to find the words
for it.
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Riley rests his head on top of mine and for a moment I
feel like maybe he does get it, that he does understand,
and is trying to let me know he’ll be OK, that he won’t
become like Dad.
Just then my phone rings on my desk. Without even
looking I know it’s Kit. I spring to my feet and dart to the
desk, grabbing it in case Riley sees his name flashing on
the screen.
Riley gets up. ‘Who is it?’ he asks as the phone contin-
ues to ring in my hand.
‘Um, Didi,’ I say.
‘OK,’ Riley says, making for the door. ‘I’ll see you later.
I’m going around to Jo’s.’
For the first time ever I don’t feel a wave of sadness at
watching him go. Instead I happily wave him off and kick
the door shut.
‘Hey,’ I say breathlessly into the phone.
‘Hi,’ Kit answers in that husky drawl of his which
makes something inside me unfurl like a sail.
I drop down onto my bed and curl onto my side, wish-
ing he was lying behind me, whispering into my ear.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Lying on my bed.’
‘Want me to come over?’ he asks.
My eyes fly open. ‘No,’ I say, thinking of my dad and
the precarious ledge we’re balanced on. There’s still time
for him to flip. ‘I mean, yes, I’d love to see you.’ He has
no idea how much. ‘But no. You can’t come over.’
‘We could rendezvous at twenty-two hundred hours
outside the back door.’
My stomach flips. The thought of letting Kit kiss away
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all the stress of the last hour, of feeling his arms around
my waist holding me up, is almost enough to make me
say yes, but then I remember my dad. ‘I can’t. Not
tonight.’
There’s a loud silence on the end of the phone. ‘Is it
your dad?’ Kit asks.
‘Yeah,’ I admit, blood rushing to my cheeks. ‘It’s not a
good time,’ I explain, hoping he doesn’t press for details.
Another heavily weighted silence. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But
tomorrow. Can I see you then? That is, unless you’re
seeing Peter.’
I smile. I’ve already explained to Kit that Peter was a
figment of Didi’s imagination. Then I groan, remember-
ing what tomorrow is. ‘I have school.’
‘It’s your last week,’ Kit says, ‘Take a day off.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . ’ I say, then stop. I don’t feel like telling Kit
that I’ve never ditched school. I have a near perfect
attendance record, with only one sick day to mar it since
middle school.
‘Wait,’ Kit says, his voice low in my ear. ‘Have you
ever
ditched school before?’
I hesitate long enough for him to pounce. ‘Oh my God.
You haven’t, have you?’
‘No,’ I admit. He’s going to think I’m so square.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘you have five days of school left.
You are skipping one of those days. You choose which.
I’m going to take you on an adventure that would make
Ferris Bueller jealous.’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘If my dad finds out . . . ’
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‘He’ll what?’ Kit asks.
Go mad. Ground me. Take away my phone. Any or all of the
above.
‘Come on,’ Kit taunts. ‘Live a little, Jessa.’
Maybe it’s those last four words or maybe it’s the way
he lingers on my name, but suddenly I feel a little light of
rebellion switch on inside me. Riley gets to live. Most of
the girls at my school get to live – they’re always taking
days off, going to parties, passing around their fake IDs,
boasting about what club they got into and how many
guys they’ve slept with. I’ve never so much as stayed
out past my curfew. I don’t even own a fake ID. Why
shouldn’t I rebel just this once?
‘OK,’ I say and am hit immediately by a wave of
butterflies and second thoughts.
‘When?’ Kit asks. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. No, not tomorrow, I have choir practice.’
‘Choir practice?’
‘Thursday,’ I say.
‘I’m not sure I can wait that long to see you.’
I bite my lip. I don’t want to wait that long either. I’m
conscious of the clock ticking by, of the days slipping past
towards when he has to leave.
‘I might have to pick you up from school tomorrow.’
‘I ride with Didi,’ I say.
‘I’m sure she won’t mind.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But not on your bike.’
‘Deal,’ Kit says with a smile in his voice.
‘And you have to bring me straight home.’ I feel like
an idiot for insisting on all these things. I’m pretty sure
the girls he’s been with before didn’t give him lists of
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rules and regulations. Will he figure I’m not worth the
trouble?
‘Fine,’ he says, then, after a pause, ‘Listen, are you OK
with the whole prom thing?’
I sit up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You sure you want to go with me?’
It takes me a moment to realize that he’s worried I
don’t want him to be my date and I almost laugh out
loud. ‘Yes,’ I say. Then I pause. ‘Are you OK being Didi’s
date?’
‘Yeah, so long as she is.’
‘She’s fine with it,’ I say, then add, ‘Are you sure you
want to come? I mean, it’s a high school prom. It’s prob-
ably going to suck.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ he asks. ‘Yes. I want to come.’
He breaks off. ‘To the prom that is.’
I burst into a grin. ‘I knew what you meant.’ But now I
can’t get the image out of my head of the other thing. I
scrunch my eyes shut. No. Still won’t go anywhere.
‘On that note, I’m going to say goodnight,’ Kit says,
laughing to himself.
‘Goodnight,’ I whisper, not wanting him to go, wishing
he could stay on the line all night.
‘Sweet dreams,’ he murmurs in my ear.
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Kit
I’m not sure of the protocol for waiting outside a Catholic
high school. I’m scared I’m about to be arrested for loiter-
ing or trying to solicit. It looks more like a prison than a
school − red brick walls block the view, and the only
thing visible beyond is the steeple. I can’t believe Jessa’s
been going to school here for five years. No wonder she’s
never skipped out for a day. I’d imagine they’d come
looking for you. They probably stick spiked heads on the
walls to warn students off even trying.
I went to public school with over three thousand kids,
so no one really gave a damn on the days I didn’t show
up. And the days I did play truant tended to coincide
with the days my dad was on a bender, so he didn’t care
much either. Leaning back against the hood of the truck
and staring up at the wrought iron gates in front of me,
inscribed with some words that I’m guessing are Latin, I
can’t help but feel like I’m breaking Jessa out of jail.
At five to four the gates open as though visiting time is
over and a gaggle of girls comes racing out. My eyes go