My dad isn’t home when I wake up the next morning.
This is a rare occurrence; rarer than, say, witnessing a cluster of migrating monarch butterflies, but not as rare as like seeing a Sumatran rhino up close or whatever. I mean, he goes to the grocery store and runs errands and stuff, but usually only when I’m at school or work. He has this thing about “always being present.”
It started after my mom left; I think he’s working through some guilt or something. I don’t know, it’s kind of cool, but also a little annoying. I never actually had that desperate need for his attention that he thought I did, but I felt as if he needed it, so I’ve always gone along with it. Or maybe I do have that need, but my needs have always been met. Huh. Anyway, I’ll have to unpack that later, because right now, with him gone, it’s the perfect time to snoop.
His workspace is totally covered with papers and files, disheveled in a way that only could ever make sense to him. I shift them around carefully, like an archaeologist on a quest. Somewhere there is a file labeled Prendergast, and I. Will. Find. It.
It’s not on his desk or in the file holder hanging over his desk or underneath it all in the stack beside his chair. I migrate to the file cabinet next—a place where files go to die—and I’m not expecting much. It’s rare that they ever make it back where they belong, all cozied up and alphabetical, without me helping him put them that way.
The garage door goes up, which, crap, means I have maybe one minute and thirty-seven seconds before Dad parks and is standing two feet away from me, asking me what the hell I’m doing going through his work stuff. I yank the drawer out, and there it is—filed right where it belongs between Pet Connection and Putt Putt Pavilion—Prendergast, W. I snag the file and pull it out, shoving it under my arm and then opening the drawer labeled M to hunt down the one labeled Magic Castle. I nearly rip that file yanking it out of the cabinet, which, man, that would have blown my cover for sure.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I race up the stairs to my room, and I barely get them stashed under my mattress before I hear him calling my name. I take a deep breath and grab a hair tie, wrapping it around as much of the mess on top of my head as I can while I walk into the kitchen.
He gives me a quick one-armed hug, wrestling with some bags as he does. “You’re up early.” He pulls a jug of maple syrup out of a bag; he must have been at the farmers market. “You want some food? I could use a few waffles myself.”
I guess this makes day nine of us pretending the fight never happened, then. I swallow hard and try to ignore the way the guilt twists up inside me. He’s being so nice, and I’m just standing here not apologizing for anything AND stealing his files to boot. Wow.
He tilts his head. “You okay?”
Not really, Dad, I’m kind of drowning in guilt over here, but . . .
“Yeah,” I say, snapping out of it. “Waffles sound great. I’m gonna grab a quick shower, okay?”
“Okay, kiddo,” he says. “Are we thinking Star Wars, Avengers, or plain today?”
“Avengers, definitely.” I smile, hamming it up as much as possible as I glide back up the stairs and race to my room. I kick the door shut behind me and pull out the files. Worst daughter ever, probably, but I’ll worry about that later.
See, I can’t stop turning over in my head how Mr. P said, “Magic Castle Playland will be closing” and not “I want it to be closing.” What if all of this is happening because he’s too proud to ask for help, even though he needs it? That makes it practically my duty to get to the bottom of this, and hopefully the stuff I took from my dad’s office will help.
My dad has always said Mr. P is one of his “highmaintenance” clients, which means Dad handles not only his business stuff, but every last bit of his private stuff too. I used to think that was super weird—like why would you want someone to know that much about you—but now, flipping through the files, I’m grateful for the info.
Granted, most of the papers in the files are boring junk, but there are a couple things that catch my eye. For one, Mr. P really has been making a ton of withdrawals, and his personal account balances have been looking pretty low lately. I flip over to the business file and page through, looking at the tax returns and the total income minus expenses and stuff. Dad taught me how to read profit and loss statements in the fourth grade, so this is all pretty standard stuff.
Magic Castle Playland brought in a nice income last year, sure, but it costs a lot more to run than I expected. So, yeah, he’s doing well, not like billionaire well, but well enough. Which makes it all the more weird that those numbers aren’t being reflected in his personal bank account.
I can use this, maybe. I mean, if it’s not the park itself that’s failing, maybe it’s just whatever those withdrawals are for that’s making him have to close up shop. All the little gears start twisting around my head, conjuring up ideas of fund-raisers and charity races and stuff. If I can replace some of that money . . .
I flip to the next page and see a proposal, well, an offer, really. I read a little slower, my eyes glazing over a little from all the legalese, but I can understand enough to get the gist of it. It’s from a land developer, and they don’t seem to care about the park at all, just the ground it sits on, and something about a chip manufacturing plant or something. A factory. A factory on top of Magic Castle? Nope. So much nope. I slide the files back under my mattress and hit the shower, more determined than ever to keep this place alive. At least now I know what I’m dealing with.
I spend my entire shower plotting and planning different ways to save the park, but as I walk back down the stairs and see my dad pouring over the waffle maker, I’m hit with a fresh wave of guilt.
“Hey, Lou.” He grabs a plate out of the cabinet and tosses a waffle on it. “You’re right on time.”
I try to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace as I take my plate and make my way back to the table. He turns back around to tend to the next waffle, and I sit down and douse mine in syrup. And okay, I can’t take this anymore.
“Just so you know, I’m really sorry about the other night. I had no right to say the things I did about you and Mom.” I say it fast, all in one breath. “Sometimes I get so mad about it. I want to just scream at someone, and I can’t scream at her because she’s never here.”
My dad freezes, like he knows it’s so much easier for me to say this with him facing away.
“I don’t blame you or anything,” I say, cutting my waffle straight in half with my fork. “I know it wasn’t your fault. Like, I realize how much you guys used to fight and stuff. I know she left all on her own and I know she’s the one who stays gone. I just . . . it sucks sometimes, you know? And with everything else going on lately, it’s just been so much. I’m sorry that I say stupid shit to you when I can’t handle my life. And I hope that you don’t feel crappy because of me. That’s all.” I shove a forkful into my mouth before I mess things up even more, and hope that he hears what I’m trying to say and that somehow it helps.
He opens the waffle maker and slides his food onto the plate, carrying it over to sit across from me. It takes me a minute before I can look him in the eyes, but when I do, they’re all watery again. He swallows hard, and I slide the syrup toward him. We eat without saying another word.
When I get up to clear my plate, he stops me and gives me the biggest hug, and it feels like maybe, somehow, everything is going to be okay.