“Knock, knock,” Mom said, pushing open my door.
I was on my bedroom floor with my knees to my chest and my arms wrapped around my legs.
“Can I come in?”
My answer didn’t matter. She sat down in the chair by my workstation and rolled closer.
“I waited to tell you because I didn’t want to ruin your weekend,” she said.
I pulled my legs in tighter and rocked back and forth.
“Honey, no matter when I told you, it was going to be the wrong—”
“When did you find out?”
“Tuesday. I knew he was—”
“Tuesday?”
“The day we went to Perky’s.”
“You waited until now to tell me?”
She reached back for the pencil by my printer. “Like I started to say, no matter when I told you—”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I probably should’ve told you—”
“Probably?”
“He texted while you were at practice.” She strummed the pencil against her leg. “We stopped at Perky’s on the way home because I wanted Dana’s advice.”
“You told Dana before you told me?”
“Honey, don’t even. That’s not what this is about, and you know it. This is about David.”
I winced at the sound of his name.
My father left when I was in first grade. His company moved to the other side of the planet. He was offered a job he couldn’t pass up. So he says.
When he first moved away, we Skyped or FaceTimed two or three times a week. Then it became two or three times a month. Then it became even less than that. After what happened in third grade, I didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
“When?” I asked.
“When what?”
I let out a puff. “When does he want to see me?”
“He wants to see you play in the Showdown.”
“No!” I banged my shoulders into the mattress behind me.
“Honey, before you—”
“No! He can’t. If he’s going, I’m not.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. If he’s going, I’m not. I don’t care.”
“What about Red?”
“I don’t care.”
“I know you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” I rammed my elbow into the mattress. “He can’t come to the Showdown.”
“Honey, this is a good way for you two to finally—”
“No!” I rammed it again.
And again.
And again.
“Rip, enough,” she said firmly. “Enough.”
I slammed it once more and let out a harder puff.
“We need to talk about this,” she said.
“No, we don’t.” I folded my arms tightly across my chest.
“It’s time we start dealing with this situation. We decided several months ago that—”
“You decided. I didn’t.”
Right around New Year’s, Mom began making a huge deal about how this was a big year for me. I was graduating from RJE and starting middle school, and she expected to see even more growing up from me. She made a point of saying even more because I already was behaving more grown-up, and she knew it. But she also made a point of saying when it came to my father, I needed to stop kicking the can down the road, as she put it. She said I needed to start taking steps toward reconnecting with him.
“I’m going to be with my team,” I said.
“He understands that, Rip. He wants to see you play ball and—”
“No way.” I smacked the carpet.
“Honey, it’s been almost two whole years since you last saw him. Who knows? You may decide you want to spend some time with him.”
“No, I won’t.”
My brain flashed back to The Wizard of Oz, the RJE school play in third grade. That was the last time I saw him. The whole class were Munchkins. He was supposed to come see me in it. He got there in time to see the Wicked Witch of the West melt. He left when the cast went out for ice cream afterward.
“Was this why you were looking at me like that at dinner?” I asked.
She nodded. “But I wasn’t going to say anything in front of Red.” She brushed her knuckles along my cheek.
I leaned away. “I don’t want him there.”
“It’s time we start dealing with this.”
“You said that already.” I smacked the carpet again. “He ruins everything.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“You’re defending him?”
“He doesn’t need to be defended, Rip. Your father and I are on the same page about this. We have been ever since we found out he was being transferred back later this year.”
I let out another hard puff. “Thanks for the Sunday Night Bomb.”
“I am sorry about that,” she said. “Honestly, I am. But your father knows all about how much—”
“How does he know anything about me? He doesn’t care about—”
“Really, Rip?” She tilted up my chin. “Who do you think pays for that cell phone of yours? And how many pairs of sneakers do you have? Three? You think I paid for those on my own? Your video games? That laptop?”
I slammed my elbows against the mattress.