We win our soccer game on Saturday afternoon, but that doesn’t matter. I know Dad will be upset with me for not scoring more goals. And I’m still upset with myself for flaking out on Audrey yesterday.
Everybody decides to celebrate with a burger at Legacy’s. Except me. Dad wouldn’t like me changing plans like that. I say goodbye to the team in the parking lot and then lope toward our green Range Rover. I can almost feel my blood pressure rising as I approach.
The fact that the car is green is a karmic flip-off to the environment. Every one of that monster’s eight cylinders guzzles gas like a frat boy in a drinking game. Mom has suggested that maybe we should downsize to something that suits a four-person family a little better.
I could point out to her that we never actually go anywhere as a family.
Anyway. Dad isn’t into fuel-efficient, environmentally responsible cars. He likes the big truck. And he likes the fact that we live in a big house in one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. Status symbols matter to him.
He likes people looking up to him. Maybe that’s because he’s short too.
I hear the doors unlock as I approach the truck. I open the gate and heave my soccer bag inside. Dad’s eyes watch me in the rearview mirror. I mentally check off the things he’ll want me to report in about. What happened during the game. How debating is going. Whether I’ve put any more work into my speech for my bar mitzvah.
I close the gate and come around the passenger side, my palms prickling with sweat.
I climb into the leather seat. It’s cold. I want to turn on the seat warmer, but it’s halfway across the ocean of space between my father and me, so I don’t.
“Thanks for coming to watch,” I say. Even though he only showed up for the last fifteen minutes. And he was on his iPhone pretty much the whole time.
He starts the engine. “Nice that you won.” As he backs out of the parking spot, my eyes pick out the receding forms of my teammates on their way to lunch.
He clears his throat. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Here it comes.
“You sure do pass that ball around a lot,” he says.
Translation: Why didn’t you score more goals? With Dad, it’s all understatement. He’s not the kind of guy who’ll ask you why you didn’t take more shots on goal. He comes at you sideways. Like a crab. You don’t see it coming until you feel this huge pinch. He wants me to be a lawyer so bad, but he’s the one who thinks all clever and manipulative. My brain just doesn’t work like that.
I think about a few possible ways to respond. I frame my answer carefully—but truthfully. “Coach wants us to pass the ball.”
And it’s true. We spend a lot of time passing in our drills. What soccer team doesn’t?
Dad grunts. I know I’ve picked the right answer, because he doesn’t argue.
My feet are sore. These cleats are so uncomfortable. If I were in Mom’s car, I’d take them off.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. I wish I could think of something to say. But it’s easier not to say anything at all. It’s so cold between us that my teeth could chatter.
I could keep the ball to myself when I play. That’s what Dad would like me to do. Keep the ball on my own fast feet and pound in the goals. But that doesn’t help build team morale. People like having me on the team because I’m not a ball hog. I’m fast and I’m good, and I don’t need to always be the one who scores the goals.
But Dad doesn’t get that. His approach to life is different from mine. He’s a one-man show in his job. Everything he does is for and by himself. He owns a mortgage brokerage. He has a staff of brokers, but they all work for themselves too. There doesn’t seem to be much teamwork involved. Just a lot of phone calls and paperwork and handshakes. Closing deals. Racking up the fees. That’s what it’s about for my dad. Cold hard cash.
He drums on the steering wheel briefly before speaking again.
“Are you spending some time this weekend preparing for your debating competition?”
“You bet,” I say.
“Good. You need the practice. What’s your topic?” Even though he’s asked me twice already.
“Today’s kids being overprogrammed.”
“And you’re arguing for?”
“Against.” He’s always testing me.
“How many sources have you consulted in your research?”
“I think nine.” As soon as I say it, I wish I had dropped the I think.
“Sources?”
For a second, I think he’s clarifying: Nine sources? But then I realize he wants me to list them.
“The New York Times. KidsHealth. The Atlantic. The Center for Family Wellness.” My brain spins like a series of flywheels, scanning back over the names of the magazines and websites I’ve used. “The Mayo Clinic. National Alliance on Mental Illness.” I stretch for one that I know will impress him. “National Institutes of Health and the National Library of Medicine.” I’m missing one, but I think I’ve given him enough for now.
He grunts again.
I release a breath I didn’t even know I had been holding.
More silence as we drive. I wonder what my friends would think if they saw me having a conversation with my dad. They wouldn’t recognize me as the same guy who cracks jokes that make even the teachers laugh. I brought home a 93 percent average on my report card last term. I made the boys’ A soccer team. I win almost all my debates. I babysit. I cook. I even walk Mrs. Pensak’s yappy little Yorkshire terrier three times a week.
But it’s not enough.
Dad turns onto our street. My heart is pounding now, and I’m feeling dizzy. By the time we pull into the garage, my anxiety is nearly unbearable. I need to write. To get away from the stressed-out way he makes me feel. Like I can’t ever do anything right.
I wait for him to climb out and close his door before I get out. I heave my soccer bag out of the back and follow him inside, pressing the button to close the garage door behind us.
I unpack, putting my dirty clothes in the laundry basket. I think about the rest of the team, enjoying a burger together. I think about how Audrey took off on me yesterday.
I hear Mom in the kitchen, probably getting lunch ready. Dad has already gone into his study and shut the door.
I hang my empty soccer bag on the hook behind the door. My hands are shaking.
“Chick?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I call. I kick off my cleats.
“How was your game, honey?”
“Great, Ma. We won by a point.” I hold my cleats over the sink and tap the dirt off. I drop one and pick it up, then drop it again. I force myself to slow down. I place them on the shoe rack. All I can think about is the feel of a pen in my hand.
“That’s fabulous!” she exclaims. “Are you coming in here? I need someone to set the table for lunch.”
“I’ll be there in a sec,” I say. My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I just gotta run up to my room. Be down in five?”
“Five minutes sounds good, honey.”
I take the stairs two at a time.