Drumbeats into My Heart

12. Jordi and the Good Day

I'm so torn. I really like Seth. I like how he makes me feel. Like I'm the awesomest, most talented person in the world. Like everything I do and say is fascinating. How fast will that change once he finds out the truth about me? That the best grade I can manage is a C+ and everything else is either failing or close to it? He'll no doubt see me differently once I'm an academic loser in his eyes.

I mean, how could he not? He's a tutor at the school, which probably means he's acing all his classes with that big brain of his. I don't belong with someone like that. He's already skittish. As soon as he learns how incompatible we are, it'll all be over.

Before it even has a chance to begin.

I sigh and stare at the plush football lying haphazardly next to the other stuffed animals on my bed. Dustin gave that to me while we were dating and I never got around to throwing it out. It's not like I'm holding out for him, hoping he'll change his mind or anything. I think that ship has sailed on without me. I just... I don't know. We had some good times.

Being with Dustin had been easy. He was your stereotypical high school jock. Not the bullying kind, but a bit self-absorbed and also not that great in his classes. I never felt inadequate or dumb around him. I did get bored sometimes, though. When he wasn't playing or talking about sports, he was playing or talking about video games. And his taste in music is awful.

Still, I did miss being with a person who made me feel like getting bad grades is no big deal. I didn't feel bad about myself. I felt normal.

It feels like my happiness depends on other people, and I don't like it. I push those thoughts out of my head and cue up a natural health podcast I've been listening to. If I can't control my feelings, I can at least make sure my dad and I avoid the same fate that fell upon my mother. Those chemo doctors never told us how much one's lifestyle affects your susceptibility to cancer. Even more than genetics. They make us think it's a matter of bad luck, and that science and pharmaceuticals are the answer.

Dad thinks I'm turning into a hippy. I have no idea. I wasn't around in the seventies, but if it means opening your mind to possibilities other than what's conventional, then I'll take it as a compliment. On some occasions, when I'm being extra preachy I suppose, he says I'd make a great cult leader.

Jordana McKay, hippy cult leader.

I wonder if I can get my own letterhead?

I hear the creak of the front door opening and the rustling of paper bags. Dad must be home. I pause the podcast and head to the living room.

Dad is propping the grocery bags against each other on the kitchen table. He reaches into one and pulls out a crinkly bag of greens. "Dave McKay, Bringer of Kale," he announces dramatically as he lifts the bag into the air like a trophy.

"Thanks, Dad. And you even remembered to get organic."

"I remember your lecture on the importance of avoiding pesticides." He switches to a falsetto voice that sounds nothing like me. "Kale is on the dirty dozen list with apples and peaches. You have to get them organic!"

"Wow, Dad," I say drily. "You could be a professional Jordi impersonator."

"Right? Why go into store management when I could do this instead?" He pretends to fluff curls he doesn't have. "Wait, I wouldn't have to shave, would I? Because that's a dealbreaker." He rubs his short beard. "I hate shaving."

I giggle at his antics. I'd forgotten how much Dad makes me feel like a normal person too. He's so goofy and down to earth. I can see why Mom fell in love with him.

Mom. The usual pang hits my heart as it always does when I think of her, but there's a sliver of joy with it this time. A remembrance of good times.

"Hey Dad, remember the time we rented that canoe on the lake, and you pretended to be an opera-singing gondolier from Venice? Your singing was horrible, but Mom applauded anyway, and when you bowed the boat went off-balance and we all tipped into the lake?"

Dad gives me a wistful smile. "That was a good day."

"I had water in my ears the rest of the day."

"Your memory is a bit faulty though."

I lift an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I'll have you know my singing is as impeccable as my taste in clothing."

I glance at the Hawaiian shirt he's wearing and hold back a snort. "I stand corrected."

"C'mere, you," he beckons.

I scurry around the kitchen table and into his outstretched arms.

"I love you, cupcake. I'm so lucky I still have you."

I sigh into his Hawaiian shirt. "Me too, Dad."

It's so important to remember the good days. And maybe vote for them. ;)