DOGWOOD ✔︎

5 | Holding Back

Dad sighs behind me—loud and weary. "I'm the one who should be sorry," he says, his voice softer now. "I lost my temper the morning we left for Florida—and I was going to talk to you about that. But then at my brother's house, it seemed like you were..."

The waver in his voice makes me turn around. Dad's chin quivers. He presses his lips together and sighs through his nose. "The bottom line is I'm worried about you, sweetheart. I don't think you're going to find what you're looking for in our backyard."

It's almost an exact repeat of what he said in our argument but this time, his tone is gentler. Almost pleading. "Do you understand what I mean by that?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. But I still think he's wrong.

My mom put her "heart and soul" into everything she planted. Those were his words. It was pretty much the only thing he said the day I found her journal, hidden away on the bottom shelf in the family room. I still can't believe he kept it from me—plus all those years of neglect. He let weeds and insects invade the flowerbeds. He let half a dozen shrubs just wither and die. How could he abandon an entire backyard of precious plants that meant so much to the woman he loved?

"All I'm asking for is some balance, Ginna. I'm not saying you can't work in the garden. But you've been doing it single-mindedly for more than half the school year. Could you at least pick up a soccer ball once in a while—and maybe try a little social interaction?"

All the air in my lungs huffs out of my gaping mouth because social interaction has pretty much been the theme of my entire week. If it was up to me, I'd have both. I'd ask Angela to come over this weekend so we can figure out which ball trick to use for our English project. But that's obviously not going to happen—and it's his fault. Dad should've told me about the journal the day he introduced me to the tree.

He takes a few cautious steps in my direction, glancing at the fork in my hand. I drop it on the counter and he wraps me in a hug.

And I can't stop myself from slumping against him.

There's a part of me that wants to tell him what I told Aunt Becky today. Another part wants to push out of his arms and say every word I've been holding back—so he knows exactly how much he has disappointed me.

"Sure," I say instead. Because more than anything, I want this conversation to be over.

He pulls his head back to look at me. "Really?"

I nod. He kisses the top of my head. We leave it at that.

✿ ✿ ✿

Dinner is awkward. Dad chats, sort of nervously, about a science show he watched on television last night. Something about cloning a wooly mammoth. "It was strange and fascinating," he says. "And absolutely true."

I groan internally. Science is my favorite subject, but that doesn't mean I can't also like sci-fi and fantasy. Not Dad, though. He doesn't do otherworldly. He refuses to watch "those kinds" of movies—and I do my best not to let him see the covers of the books I like to read, because one time he frowned at my copy of The Goblet of Fire and said, "Wouldn't you rather read about real people, making a difference in the world we live in?"

That was before I found Mom's gardening journal—which is basically a memoir by the most important real person ever.

"You're not hungry?" he asks. His eyes shift to my plate. I jab my fork into the mountain of sauce covered noodles and twirl up a bite—that ends up being way too big to fit in my mouth.

Dad ignores my bad manners. "Did you go online and check for assignments for the days you missed this week?"

"Dar wotha..." I put my hand over my mouth. Finish chewing. Swallow. "There was a math sheet."

"Do you need help?" he asks, his tone suddenly hopeful. Dad likes math almost as much as soccer.

"It was easy so I went ahead and got it done. Even though it's not due until Monday," I add, hoping that might springboard me into asking if I can stay home tomorrow.

Ha. There's no way.

Dad might've agreed to that if I hadn't done a ton of yard work when I got home. But I did and he knows and so that's that. I'm going to walk into English tomorrow without a partner, and Ms. Joyce is going to match me up with some other weirdo. Probably an extra-smelly boy who wants to write a how-to on potato batteries.

"May I be excused?" I ask.

He nods, but he's frowning. It's not as bad as the one from earlier—which wasn't as bad as the one I got the day I told him my dogwood was more alive than other trees. But that's what I see now. Like he's wearing a mask made out of my memory.

I scrape my plate over the trashcan and open the dishwasher—and I groan out loud before I can think to stop myself. The stupid dishes are clean and it's my job to unload them. But there's no way I'm going to get through it with Dad sitting there judging me.

"I'll take care of it," he says.

His tone is nothing but nice. I know I'm being ridiculous, but I can't help it. I set my plate on the counter, run up to my room and close my door.

Dad knocks thirty minutes later. "You okay, sweetheart?"

I turn away from my window, swiping at the tears on my cheeks, and sit cross-legged on my bed. "I don't know," I say.

He takes that as an invitation to open my door. "I'm starting to think we both should've stayed home and rested yesterday."

I give him a shrug. I mean, yeah. I agree with that now. But I don't think I would have yesterday, when I still thought I had a chance to make friends with Angela.

Dad walks into my room and sits on the bed. "I have a meeting tomorrow, but it's not an early one. I say we sleep in. Can you miss your morning classes?"

"Yes." Please.

"Then it's a deal." He offers his hand. But after we shake, he keeps holding on. "Everything is better after a good night's sleep," he says. And something in his tone makes me think Aunt Becky might've given him a bigger lecture than she gave me.

✿ ✿ ✿

The problem is, I don't sleep. I lie in my bed flopping around like a freshly-caught fish because I can't stop my worried brain from reliving every terrible moment of this horrible day.

I sit up with a groan, scoot to the edge of my bed and tiptoe down the stairs. It's 11:16. Dad is slouched and snoring in front of the television and my gardening journal is on the kitchen table, right where I left it. I find the page again, and the Mark Twain quote written in my mom's handwriting. I read it twice—once in my head and then out loud, in a whisper.

What I want more than anything is a friend.

I hug the book against my chest, sneak out through the garage and open the back gate. The stone patio is cool under my bare feet but the night air is warm, and that freshly-turned earthy smell is even stronger now that it's trapped, hovering and close, in the moist air.

The sky lights up with a flash of that weird sideways lightning. I duck under the branches, sit cross-legged on the mound of dirt and rest my back against the trunk. That cozy, warm-hug feeling wraps around me and for once, I allow myself to be okay with it—overactive imagination or not.

"Can I please just get one friend?" I ask, loosening my hold on the journal. "Maybe someone who's okay with weird?"

It slides into my lap and I have to bob one knee up and down, sort of jiggling, until it falls to the ground and flops open.

But I don't look at the page—I can't take anymore disappointment. I close the book, rest my head against the knobby bark and stare up through the branches at the menacing sky. Heat lightning flickers through the weighted mass of clouds, coloring them in shades of denim blue.

I should go inside before Dad wakes up.

And maybe ask Google if spring fever is an actual condition.

The tree vibrates, slow and soothing. Like maybe it's asking me to stay a little longer.

So I do.