The relief is short-lived.
I should notice we're going in the wrong direction sooner than I do. My father isn't prone to sightseeing. Even if he was, he could've gone for his jaunt after dropping me off. The fact we're traveling north instead of south means he's on a mission.
In the confined space of the car, I take a deep breath. My keen sense of smell developed when I hit puberty. It's both distracting and annoying. Worse, I can't shake the compulsion to categorize people in terms of their scent. My father is licorice candy. Sweet, borderline cloying. I earn my second disapproving scowl of the day by cracking the window.
He turns left onto Shore Road, clearly taking me to the cove. There's only one house there, and that house belongs to Ryan Keane, father of Tally and her twin brother Declan, who started at CCHS the beginning of our senior year. The freshness of their arrival warranted immediate attention. While she's the social butterfly of the two, he's equally enthralling. They acclimated full tilt, rising to a position of hierarchy in the popular clique.
"Are you telling me where we're going?" I ask dryly.
"The Keanes."
Every Friday night, Tally hosts a huge bonfire bash. Most people are flattered to be invited. It's bigger than a party invitation. It's an elitist conclave induction. "Hard pass," I decline.
"Not optional," he volleys. "I confirmed for you."
"Shouldn't you have confirmed with me first?" The idea is wrong on a few levels. One, I don't socialize. Two, there's going to be a fire. Given my history of flame-induced misfortune, this is epically unwise.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel. "You would've said no."
You should've gone to the Rec Room, Superego chides.
I slowly reach for the door handle. Jumping is more appealing than being dumped at the bonfire. "Just turn around," I order.
"No," he refuses.
I let out a frustrated groan.
I could ask why he hates me so much, but I already live and breathe that answer daily. "Can you at least tell me why you're making me do this?"
He dodges. "Were you aware Ryan Keane is a doctor at the hospital?"
"Why would I be aware?" I lean my face against the cool window glass. It offers minimal reprieve from the heat increasing inside me. "I don't spend time there aside from..."
You put people there, Superego reminds me unnecessarily. You don't go there of your own volition.
I'm blessed in the sense nothing bad has ever directly happened to me. The people around me, well, they're fair game. My blessing is also my curse because others suffer to even the scales. Karmic balance and all that.
"He's been caring for your mother."
I shrug.
"Tally and Declan are in your class," he persists.
"Cool."
"He stopped by her room tonight."
"Arctic."
He'd better get to the point. Jumping out of the moving car is becoming more and more tempting. The roads aren't great, a black ice byproduct of spring's thaw melting the thick compound of winter's handiwork. With any luck, the Buick will slide and get ditched before we go much further.
"They have no mother."
While setting my anger free isn't an option, nothing is stopping me from unleashing his. Perhaps he'll take me home as punishment, which wouldn't be punishment at all. "It's a dead mom club?"
"Your mother isn't dead," he deflects.
We've tried on a few occasions to have this same talk. He left the room each time, unwilling or unable to listen to my viewpoint. She isn't coming back, yet he refuses to move on.
"They have no father," he continues.
"You just said he works at the hospital."
"Their parents died, Sheyla." He swallows an emotional lump down his throat. "Both of them."
"Wonder what that's like."
A bit cold, even for you, Superego shames me.
He ignores the bait. "Ryan's their uncle."
"Looking for more strays, is he?"
"You have to go." He puts his game face on. "They did this whole party for you. Not going would be rude."
"When you say rude, do you mean rude like orchestrating a function I have no interest in attending? With no notice or prep time provided."
No time to talk your way out of it, Superego adds unhelpfully.
"Your behavior is a mutual concern. Ryan said Declan went through the same detachment in his transition, but they're perfectly normal now, wouldn't you say?"
I fold my arms across my chest. "If by normal you mean clonelike and superficial, then yeah."
"Easy on the judging," he admonishes. "They're good people."
"Sure they are," I tut. "Good for an unsupervised party. I don't do well unsupervised, remember?"
"Don't be so quick to dismiss the benefit of hanging around people your age." He coughs. "Or any people."
Hey there, Pot. This is Kettle. Radio check. Over, Superego muses.
"This is the opposite of a lead-by-example moment." Neither of us desires socialization. If he were lonely, he'd make some friends in our small town. As it is, he has no drive. His one piece of gravity, the one thing holding him down, is the lifeless shell that used to house my mother.
"You have zero clue what's best for me." That's unfair to say. He hasn't done a bad job raising me. Honestly, he's gone out of his way to do everything Mom would've wanted him to do. Presumably. Murdering her means living with the assumed expectations of someone I can't truly know, handed out by someone equivalently foreign.
"I haven't always done the right thing," he admits. "I've probably never done the right thing by you, but she would've wanted this."
There it is, the typical argument-ender. She becomes the scapegoat for rebuttal. Robot activated.
"What would she have wanted, hmm?" I challenge. "Would she have wanted the head cheerleader to be my fake friend? I find that highly unlikely."
"You need teenager experiences."
"Like utter humiliation and shame?"
"You're well past junior high."
"Same goal. Different tactics."
"This will help you, Sheyla." He genuinely believes that. I feel the sincerity in his words. Unfortunately, his words are garbage.
"Convenient a doctor is on standby. A trained medical professional for when things get too hot to handle."
We don't discuss my disaster potential. It's a dirty basement secret best left locked away. We don't really discuss anything. We don't communicate. We breathe the same air. That's the extent of our connection. This venture to the cove is the closest to a meaningful conversation we've ever had. We aren't exactly nailing the attempt, either.
When we pull into the driveway, I see the fire blazing by the open section they've carved out near the edge of the frozen water. What I don't see are bodies surrounding the fire. "Some party," I mutter.
He grabs an overnight bag from the backseat, chucking it at me. "They promised to keep it low-key."
"You're dumping me," I accuse. "Have the courage to admit it."
"I'm not dumping you," he contends. "I'm safely depositing you."
"Safely depositing me?" The heat inside me breaches my protection mechanisms. Robot armed.
"I don't have the energy to fight you, Sheyla," he whispers. "I never did."
I yank open the door, get out in a huff, and slam it closed. I'm not looking for someone to fight me, not him or anyone else, and I'm certainly not looking for someone to save me. That's on me.
The fire I've been keeping at bay is reaching critical mass. These people are playing a dangerous game. They want to win the prize for being the first to elicit a response. They will not enjoy the response. Not even a little.
When my traitorous father pulls away, I do the only thing that can stall a catastrophic meltdown. I hit the panic button, activating my emergency shut-off switch. Fingers crossed, I'll freeze to death.