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After the lesson, I told my mom pursuing a music career probably wasn’t in the cards for me. I wanted to keep playing as a hobby, but I didn’t need lessons anymore. She acquiesced without a fight. I think she was happy not to drive forty minutes each way four times a week.

That aside, everything about playing was wonderful. Mom purchased the piano for me as a Christmas present shortly after I began playing. It was a second-hand Steinway but in perfect condition. I fell in love the moment I saw it.

The piano started out in the downstairs living room. After one night too many playing after ten, my mom decided I needed a music room. Two weeks later the subcontractors soundproofed the bedroom across from mine. Mom picked out a rich, thick beige carpet, two overstuffed leather chairs and a matching coffee table even though I was the only person who would ever be in there. Every inch of the room was perfect, and it was the best present Mom ever gave me.

Sometimes I would sit in my room for hours, playing whatever came into my head, playing until my fingers ached and refused to stretch across the keys anymore. I could tell from the moment I hit the first note it was going to be one of those nights.

My phone lit up three more times with the same unknown number while I was playing. Part of me thought about calling the guy back, let him know he was getting the wrong number—
still—
but I decided not to. Surely he would figure it out on his own. Or he would keep calling me. It wasn’t my job to help out some dumbass who couldn’t figure out how to dial a phone correctly.

Friday night was party night. I wasn’t particularly excited about going out, but I promised my friend, Maggie, I would, and well, it was something to do. It was better than being at home, and Maggie was the only person in my life I wanted around on a semi-regular basis.

“So what’s the deal with the idiot they’re passing off as an English teacher?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Did you do the ‘who am I’ project?” We were introduced to our new English teacher at mid-semester—a replacement for the less than moral Mr Forrester who had a thing for his prettier students. The rumor was he picked the wrong student this time and impregnated her. We all had our theories about who the lucky recipient of the dangling participle was.

Forrester’s replacement was a freshly scrubbed, peppy little thing named Ms Hall. The kindest thing I could say about her was she reminded me of an After School special. Her latest assignment was to come up with a poem, collage, or essay to explain who we thought we “really” were. There were only two important things about us—we were desperate to graduate and equally desperate to get accepted into colleges as far away from our parents as possible. How do you turn that into a collage?

“Yeah, I made a photocopy of that stupid poster with the kitten on it. You know the one that says ‘hang in there’? Then I put balloons and hearts all over it.”

I almost choked, inhaling. “Are you kidding me? That’s hilarious!” Maggie puffed up, pleased with her cleverness.

As much as we were alike in our personalities, Maggie and I were at opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to appearances. I had inherited my father’s height, but thankfully not his girth. Maggie was lucky to stretch to a full five feet. Whereas my hair was long, curly and dark, hers was cropped close to her head and almost white blonde. Maggie joked if we were road signs I would be Dangerous Curves Ahead, and she would be Slow Children at Play.

“I was going to make it all dark and black to flip her out, but I figured there were enough douche bags doing that, being serious, thinking they were being all non-conformist and shit. It probably freaks her out more to think there’s a happy, optimistic kid in the class.”

“That’s classic. Can’t wait to see what you get on it.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, this stupid little poem thing. Nothing major. She’s the type to give an A because you turned something in. I didn’t put a lot of time into it.”

It was true. With everything that had happened the night before the assignment was due, I barely spent ten minutes throwing some words together on a piece of notebook paper.

Dad was home that night. When I got back from whatever it was I did to stay away as long as possible, Mom had already passed out. To be fair, it was after nine—long past her evening sober window. The minute I walked in the door, he ended his call. I wondered which one of the chippies he was talking to.

He ran his hand over his completely bald head, a nervous habit. It was a holdover from the days when he still had hair, which was when I was an infant. Mom said he began losing it in his early twenties. Instead of fighting it, he shaved it all off.

When I was little I loved the stubbly feel when he didn’t take the time to shave on the weekends. I would run my hands over his head, tickling my own palms and laughing wildly. Then we would run through the house, me squealing and him growling. When he finally caught me he would nuzzle the underside of my chin with his stubble. I would shriek louder and louder until Mom would finally holler for both of us to quiet down. In those moments he was my Daddy, and I loved him.

“Where the hell have you been?” His tone was full of fake indignation. He knew as my father he should have been worried I was out after dark and hadn’t called to let him know my whereabouts. The truth was he probably hadn’t realized I was gone until I appeared at the front door.

“Out. I didn’t think you were home. You were supposed to be on a trip.”

“It got cancelled, and that’s no excuse. You should have called.”

“Sorry. I need to go do my homework.”

“Persephone, this is not a hotel. You cannot just come and go as you please.”
Pot meet kettle.
“You may think you’re all grown up, but you’re still living under our roof. There are rules. It is downright inconsiderate to make your mother and me worry about you like this.”
Dear God, why did his trip have to get cancelled?
With Mom incapacitated I was the one who had to deal with his foul humor. He was really going to try to do the whole parenting thing. I just wanted to get away.

“I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Dad, seriously. I have a lot of homework to do.”

“Whatever.”

I should have known it wouldn’t end there. He needed something to keep himself entertained if he was going to be stuck at the house. I was only in the shower for a few minutes when I heard the bathroom door open. I could see his silhouette through the shower curtain—which meant he could see mine.

“I thought you said you had homework to do, Persephone.”
Get out, get out, get out,
my brain screamed.

“I do, but I needed a shower.”

“Why? What have you been doing?”
Go away!

“I can’t hear you over the water, Dad!”

“Then turn it off and get out here.”

“Soap in my hair! Be out in a moment!”

His hand slithered in and shut off the water. “Now, Persephone.” He pulled the curtain back and handed me a towel. I snatched it, hiding my body as quickly as I could. The brief glimpse was enough. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes. He could make me do whatever he wanted, no matter how old I was.

“Go do your homework.” And he walked out.

Homework was put on hold while I carved a pattern of hash marks across my left hip. One for the first time he touched me. Another for the first time Mom got drunk. A third for the first time I realized there was nothing I could do about either. And one last cut for the first time I didn’t cry because there were no tears left.

“Persephone, are you okay to drive? I’m ready to go.” Maggie was at my arm, eyes a little red, speech a whole lot slurred. Thankfully, I saw where the night was going within thirty minutes of arriving and drank accordingly. Maggie was obviously not going to exhibit a lot of self-control. It was amazing how much Red Bull and vodka a girl her size could put away before ten o’clock.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get out of here.” We half-heartedly mumbled our goodbyes. A few idiots whined the party was just getting started. I saw some plastic baggies peeking out of jacket pockets and knew I wanted no part of the next phase of the night.

“You want to stay over? Dad’s on a trip, so it’s only Mom at the house.”

“Yeah, that’s sounds good.” Maggie’s head lolled on the headrest.

“Hey, Maggie, do you think God exists?”

“Sure, and He hates me.”

“No, seriously. Do you believe in God?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, how could you not? There has to be some ultimate power creator-type force out there. But do I believe in the whole Jesus loves me crap? C’mon. Have you looked at our parents recently?”

What could I say? She had a point and she was too drunk to debate the issue further.

After tucking her in, I sat on my floor thinking about what Maggie said. Little strains of Bible school songs played in my head.
Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so… This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine… Jesus loves the little children… Suffer the little children, come unto Me.
And then my phone rang. It was the same number as before. Who the hell called someone this late at night? I was fed up.

“Hello?” Silence.
“Hello?”

“Um, yes, is Ken there?”

“No, Ken is not here. As a matter of fact, you will never reach Ken at this number no matter how many times you call it because this is
not
Ken’s phone! This is
my
phone! And I would appreciate it if you told Ken the next time you actually call him instead of me to
stop giving my number out
!”

“I’m so sorry, miss. I guess this isn’t 555-8786?”

“No! This is 555-8687.”
What a moron.

“I do apologize, miss. Ken’s an old buddy and not doin’ too well. Guess I musta misdialed. I won’t bother you again. You have a good night now.”

Wow, did I feel like the biggest bitch on the planet. Poor guy was only checking on his friend, got the numbers confused, and I went off on him.
Nice going, Persephone. Maybe tomorrow you can go kick some puppies.

Maggie’s mom called at some God-awful hour the next morning, demanding her daughter’s immediate presence at home. That meant I had to drag myself out of bed and drive her there. On the way back home, I started thinking about the poor guy on the other end of my tirade the night before. I actually worked up a pretty high level of guilt about my behavior. It wasn’t his fault my life sucked. My need to make it right was overwhelming, as weird as that was. I pulled my phone out and scrolled through the recent calls. There it was—multiple times. I pushed call.

“Ken?” His voice was anxious. Apparently he still didn’t have Ken’s correct number programmed into his phone.

“No, sir. This is the girl you called last night by accident.” Total silence. He was probably scared I was going to start ranting again. “Um, I wanted to say I was sorry. You didn’t deserve to be yelled at. It was an honest mistake, and I took a lot of personal frustration out on you.” It was a pretty truthful explanation. I felt the need to throw in some really wild lie to make up for my honesty, but he didn’t give me the chance.

“Well, that’s awful nice of you. Not too many people would do that. Ken and I were in the Marines together years ago, and he’s been kinda under the weather lately. I try to keep in touch—make sure he’s still hangin’ in there.” The guy had a southern lilt to his voice that made the end of his words disappear. It was kind of charming.

This was the perfect opportunity for me to lie. I could have told him my grandfather was in the Marines, too. Or that my father was sick and dying (I wished). The truth was my grandfather had been a con man at best and died when I was thirteen. My grandmother followed him to the grave shortly thereafter. She actually loved the son of a bitch and most people said she died of a broken heart. And, of course, my father was in perfect health.

I don’t know what kept me from telling him any one of the innocuous white lies flying through my head. It wasn’t like I was ever going to meet the man. What would it matter? I told bigger lies to people I saw every day. Instead I heard myself saying, “I’m sorry to hear that. Have you gotten a hold of him yet?”

“No, miss, I haven’t. I’m startin’ to get a little worried about him. Course, I’m not sure I’ve dialed his actual number more’n a couple of times.” There was a little chuckle. “I live up here in Kansas City, so I can’t really pop over and see him.”

“Well, maybe I could check on him for you. It’s not like Springfield’s a real big town. It wouldn’t be hard.” What the hell? Where had that come from? Not lying to the man was one thing, but I never offered to do anything I didn’t want to. I wasn’t that nice—as my grandmother was kind enough to point out in her final days.

About a week before she died, she was put in the hospital. Somehow, one evening, I ended up in the room alone with her. She took my hand and asked, “Who are you, Persephone? Why are you so mean and deceitful? You used to be such a sweet child.” My mouth hung open. I wanted to slap the shit out of her. “It was right after your sixth birthday. It was almost like you fell asleep one night, and a little monster woke up in your place.”

Nice words from a grandmother, huh? I felt like telling her she was absolutely correct. Right after my sixth birthday was when my father “visited” my room for the first time. A different kid
did
wake up the next day—a kid that felt like telling her grandma to burn in hell.

Instead, I kissed her cheek, walked out and never went back. She died three days later. I didn’t shed a single tear at the funeral.

“No, no, no. He’s a tough old bird, and I’m sure he’s doin’ fine.” Whew, dodged a bullet on that one. “‘Sides, I don’t know that he’d answer the door to a stranger. Then again, the way things are goin’ everyone might be a stranger to him soon.” He laughed at his own joke, but it sounded hollow. He was worried about his friend and trying to make the best of the situation.

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I guess you have my number.”

He chuckled again. “That I do, miss, that I do. Thanks again for callin’.”