Breathe me Home | NaNoWriMo 2016

Chapter 7

The door slams behind me as I stomp into my house. I'm past the tears now. Now I'm just plain old mad. Those boys made me look like an idiot. And what did I ever do to them? I've kept to myself every day in that classroom, and the classrooms before that.
What a cruel, stupid joke. Trick me into asking a mean old drunk for an interview.
Ricky sat cross-legged in front of the TV, as always. I worry about that boy. Checkers & Pogo is long over now and he's well into Banana Splits. Groan. This is way to much happiness for me to swallow.
I complete my stomping and slamming exercise all the way to my bedroom, where I flop myself onto my bed. What's wrong with me? Why would anyone treat me like that? What if that old man had gotten violent and attacked?
I roll over and bury my face into the pillow.
Seconds later, there's a tap at my door.
My "Come in!" is muffled by the pillow, but the door opens.
"Hey angel." Dad sits on my bed. His weight causes me to nearly roll into him.
I muffle a "Hi."
"So how did things go today?"
Is he kidding? "Fine, thanks." Lying is not my best game.
"You got your interview?"
With great effort, I roll over. "No."
"Well what happened?"
"Doesn't matter. Everyone hates me. No one will talk to me."
"Oh, angel, that's not true. Everyone loves you."
He's not such a great liar, either. "Like who? Besides you, Mom, and Ricky."
"The guys in my division. They all love you."
"Really, Dad? I see them twice a year at the department beach party and Christmas. Chief Pierce always plays Santa."
Dad winces and peeks at the door. "That's classified. Keep it to yourself."
"I give up, Dad. We've only got a few months here, right? I'll just take the low grade this time."
"That doesn't sound like you. You've never given up on anything."
"Always a first time. It's great stress relief."
He stands and stares at one of my posters, the one with the horses grazing against a backdrop of mountains at sunset. "This is easy, Stacy. Things will only get harder for you, even when you have a permanent home."
"I'll make friends then."
"If you can't make friends now, you won't then." He sits on my bed again and pats my arm. "You have to be tough to be a rancher. Once we live there, it won't be a vacation like it's been before."
"I know that."
"No. You don't. Things will be hard. It's a good life, but a hard one. If you can't handle getting an interview with a local, how are you going to handle a bronco who wants to take your head off?"
Nice image. I've always thought of myself as tough. But is this the same thing? I envision that scraggly old man in the surf shop. He'd probably like to take my head off, too. For stealing his islands, he said. What was that supposed to mean? I didn't steal anything. I don't even want to be here.
But Dad's right. I can't quit. I really want this grade. I may be the only seventh grader with college plans, but I sure as heck wasn't going to start giving up on them now. It's a slippery slope.
"Okay," I mutter. "I'll try again."
"Good girl." He leans over and kisses my forehead. He still smells like a ship. Grease and diesel fuel practically run in his veins. "Dinner's almost ready. Real meat tonight."
"Yum. With catsup?"
"With catsup."
I planted my palms over my eyes after he left. Tomorrow I'd face my bronco. I just hope he's sober this time.