Lettie
I see the adoring look my father sends me when I play that Pearl Jam song. I also catch the dirty one he sends Mom’s way. It’s hard to miss, but Mom is too busy with Officer O’Brien to notice. Lucky her. Clearly, Dad’s pissed about something, but I don’t know what. Mom’s been gone from the party for a while, so maybe he’s angry about that, or it could be she tumbled off the wagon. That would be a crisis maker for the ages, but I’m not ready to assume the worst.
Mom marches off, heading for Brooke’s house, doesn’t even bother to engage with me, which is odd. I’m sure she’s rattled given all the excitement with the police showing up over some dumb drama between Bug Man and Uncle Ken.
The Bug Man is sticking around, just to be a pest (pun intended). But now that the police are gone—as is Uncle Ken, who’s retreated to his house to lick his wounds—things are getting back to normal. I’m trying to keep the energy going with more nineties jams. Up comes a song from a band called Toad the Wet Sprocket. What does that even mean? What the hell is a wet sprocket?
I see Dad heading toward me. He doesn’t look angry anymore.
“Well now, this is a surprise,” he says. “Last time you DJ’d the block party I think you were still in braces. To what do we owe this sudden enthusiastic involvement?”
“I dunno,” I say, shrugging. “Everyone was distracted with the cops, so nobody was doing the music.”
“You seem to be having fun.” Dad eyes me with suspicion. “I’m worried about you.” He smiles, but I can tell he’s being semi-serious.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. But I don’t share my whole truth, which is that I’m feeling all the feels. This is my last block party as a high school student, and I guess I’m a little sentimental. For a moment I wonder if Dylan will make good on his pledge (threat?) that it would be the most memorable one yet.
“That sure was some excitement,” Dad says, nodding toward the Bug Man, who for some reason is still loitering about, as if panhandling for trouble.
“Why won’t he just go away?” I ask. “Nobody wants him here.”
“He’s making a point,” Dad speculates. “Free country, all that.”
“Yeah, free to be an asshole,” I say, and that gets a laugh. “Hey, what’s up with you and Mom?” I ask. I don’t love the knot in my chest, but whatever. “I saw the look you gave her.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Just a little disagreement is all.”
I don’t believe him, not for a second, but I’m not about to press for details.
“However, there is something I want to talk to you about,” he says.
The hairs on the back of my neck and my eyebrows go up at the same time. “What?” I ask.
“Your mom called USC,” Dad says. He drops the bombshell like a microphone onto a stage, all nonchalant and cool.
It takes a second before I’m breathing again. “Um, yeah … um—” No words.
“Why’d you lie, Lettie?”
My eyes are drawn to my feet as though pulled there by gravity. “Why’d she call?” I ask.
“Your mom pays more attention than I do, I guess. She noticed your reaction to being rejected wasn’t exactly—true to form. You got in. You even got some merit money. So … why the lie?”
I gather my courage to look him in the eyes, and the words just come to me. “Because what’s the point?” My anger sparks to life. “You’re not going to help me. You’ll just tell me it’s a waste of money. That I don’t understand the value of a dollar … that a BA from UMass is the same thing as one from USC. Why should I be excited about getting in when you’ve taken the possibility off the table?” My throat closes up like I’m having an allergic reaction, but the only thing I’m averse to is the truth.
Dad appears crestfallen, but I don’t feel bad about what I’ve said. He goes quiet for a moment, then says, “You’re right. And your mother said all the same things to me. I was going to tell her this news before I told you, but she went for a swim—and she’s on board with it anyway, so now you’ll hear it first from me. Your mom and I talked this over extensively, and I’ve been giving it a lot of thought myself. I can see now that I was wrong. I shouldn’t have taken the option away from you.”
“Exactly,” I snap. “I mean, what’s the point of telling you about USC if you’re just gonna—wait, what?” I blink rapidly even though I’m sure I’m having an auditory hallucination. “Say that again?”
“If you want to go to USC, Lettie, I won’t stand in your way,” he says. “Admissions said they could still let you in.”
“What about learning the value of a dollar?” I ask. “What about all the things we’ve been arguing over?”
“I guess I’ve had a change of heart. When I found out you lied about getting in, I had to take a good look at why. And that’s when I realized … I was the problem. You couldn’t be honest with me because I kept shutting you down. Clearly my priorities were out of whack. Now they’re in whack.” He smiles proudly at his own bad dad joke.
“For real, Dad?” I ask. “You’ll help me?”
“You won’t have any debt when you graduate,” he says. “We’re lucky, Lettie. We have the money. I shouldn’t be holding you back to prove a point—my point. Your mother’s right. We’ve been saving for this day for a long time now. It was wrong of me to stand in your way.”
I let out a delighted scream, and suddenly I’m jumping up and down as though practicing for the upcoming sack race. I can’t seem to contain my joy. I wrap my arms around my father in the biggest hug I’ve given him since I was about nine years old.
“I’ll apply to be an RA,” I tell him breathlessly. “It’ll save so much money … see, I do get it. I’m not into drinking, either—well, not anymore, I can promise you that. I don’t need to go to any big parties, and I’ll rat out all the rule violators, all of them! I’m like a pro at ratting now.” I’m thinking of Riley and Dylan.
Dad’s jaw tightens. He seems to have taken a turn for the emotional worst. “I’m proud of you, Lettie,” he stammers. His lips do a quiver thing that makes me profoundly uncomfortable. “I’m so damn proud. I don’t always say it, don’t know how to show it, and sometimes I feel pulled in too many directions to give you my full attention, but I’m watching, and I love what I see. You’re an amazing young woman, and I’m truly grateful to be your father.”
He’s choked up, and okay, now there’s this lump in my throat, too.
“Thanks,” I manage. “I’m so grateful I can’t even tell you, but don’t go getting any crazy ideas. I’m still not doing the egg toss with you.”
“Crush my heart.” Dad clutches his chest as if he’s having a heart attack. He seems relieved I’ve given him an out from expressing his more honest and raw emotions.
I’m glad, too. I don’t need us acting like blubbering fools.
“I’m keeping the faith, regardless,” he says. “Once an egg tosser, always an egg tosser.”
I’m about to respond when Aunt Emily appears. The three of us talk about the police, Bug Man, and all of that, but I resist the urge to tell her about my new college plans. I need to sit with it awhile before I share. And I need to tell my mom.
Emily’s about to go, but then stops as if she’s remembered something. “Lettie, hon,” she says to me, “can you grab some folding chairs out of our basement? We need them for the outdoor movie and Ken’s refusing to come out until the Bug Man is gone, and honestly, I don’t blame him. The chairs are on the unfinished side. There should be four of them.”
“I’ll help,” Dad says, but I tell him no. I’ve had enough of his egg toss sales pitch for one day.
So off I go into Aunt Emily’s house. I enter through the front door, calling out to Ken just to let him know I’m here.
“Chairs are downstairs,” he calls back. Emily must have told him why I was coming over. He still sounds gruff.
I scoot down the stairs to the basement. I could have used the bulkhead entrance to avoid Ken entirely—they never keep it locked—but it didn’t occur to me until now. Eventually I find the chairs tucked in a corner behind a bunch of smelly sports gear. They’re light, and it won’t be hard to carry them outside in one trip.
As I’m heading back up the stairs, I notice the gun case on a tool bench. I had already dropped a not-so-subtle suggestion that Uncle Ken should change the code. “I’m sure nothing will happen,” I told him some days ago, “but I saw a YouTube video about a suicidal kid who knew the code to his parents’ gun safe, and, well … I’m just suggesting you change it, just to be sure.”
I can’t stop looking at it—the case, it’s taunting me. It’s a sturdy black box that’s big enough to hold a single gun. I know I shouldn’t, but I also remember what Dylan told me about the code. All I want to do is have a quick look inside, make sure Dylan put the gun back like he said he did. It takes two minutes surfing the web to find Logan’s jersey number and total goals scored—26—from his last season playing lacrosse.
I push the buttons on the safe based on my calculations and hear a satisfying beep. A red light on the front turns green. I look around nervously as if I’m going to be caught, but no one is around. Still, I’m freaked out as I undo the latches. Slowly, carefully, I flip open the case.
My eyes go wide while my mouth dries up. Before me is a big empty indent in the foam insulation where a gun should be.