(no subject)
Some of you on facebook may have noticed the slight hissy fit I had this afternoon, involving missing a party I made cupcakes for. I usually read to get myself out of such temper tantrums, but since I didn't exactly have access to my favorite tantrum-calming books, I ended up writing instead, which usually works just as well.
If you replace 'cafeteria' with 'dining room' and eliminate the father figure, the first paragraph is pretty much taken straight from life, but the rest is pure fiction.
She was sitting on a chair in the corner of the cafeteria when I found her, with her knees tucked up to her chest, playing tetris on her phone. Her face was expressionless and her eyes dry, but I somehow got the impression that she'd been crying. Maybe it was a certain redness about her cheeks, or the set of her mouth. Or maybe it was the pile of crumpled tissues and cupcake wrappers at her feet.
"I guess you missed the party, huh?" I asked, taking another chair from where they were stacked upside down along the tables and seating myself next to her.
"Yes." Her voice was as undreadable as her face, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was angry with me.
"I'm sorry."
"I know." She didn't look up from the game.
"Mom says hi."
She was silent, but her lips tightened angrily. Oh, well. At least it was some kind of reaction.
"I am sorry, sweetheart."
When she finally relpied, her tone was careless, blase, betrayed only by the slighest of squeaks at the back of her throat. "That's alright. Besides, who really wants to go their own best friend's birthday party? It's not like I put any, y'know, effort or anything into it."
I looked around at the trays of cookies and cupcakes, the stacks of unopened streamers and party decorations. "Sorry."
"I know."
We sat in awkward silence in the grey darkness of the cafeteria, my hands fixed in my pockets, her eyes fixed on the screen. After several minutes, I couldn't take it anymore and asked, "You wanna head home now? We can get ice cream on the way."
Her phone slid shut with a sharp and sudden snap, and she shot me a venemous look blazing with unexpectedly unadulterated anger. I thought for a moment she might yell, but after another second, her eyes hardened into their unreadable set, and all she said was, "We've already got a lot of desserts to use up, don't you think?"
I couldn't think of any way to reply to that, so uncomfortable silence filled the space between us again as she tidied her trash pile and I replaced the chairs and started helping her stack the trays. She maneuvered around me with brusque, sharp movements that made me feel like I was in the way no matter where I stood.
With the packages of decorations under her arm and the trays balanced precariously in her hands, she set off towards the door at a brisk pace, brushing off my offers of assistance. Once, on the way down the hall, one of the trays almost slipped and went tumbling down. I moved into catch it, but she yanked herself aside and steadied the sweets on her own.
In the car, I tried to make conversation to lighten the mood, to get her to open up. "Your cupcakes look nice. You did a good job with the frosting."
Silence.
"You'll see Becky on Monday, right? And you can go to her next birthday, kiddo. Sure, turning fifteen is nice, but sixteen is the big one. I remember when your mom turned sixteen, she -- "
When she interrupted me, her voice was nothing short of scathing. "Bethany did just turn sixteen," she corrected, staring out the window.
"Oh." Oops. Awkward. A slight change of subject was in order. "I didn't know you were hanging out with older girls. That's --"
"I turned sixteen three months ago, dad. At least I made it to that party, no thanks to you."
There really is no good answer there. After a few more miles of silence, I tried again. "There's a Dairy Queen coming up. Are you sure you don't..."
I interrupted myself this time, trailing off as she turned to look at me for the first time since the glare at school. She didn't look furious this time, though. She looked... tired. And suddenly very old, much older than I remembered her being. "Ice cream doesn't fix things anymore, dad," she told me. "It doesn't make the boo-boos all better, or make me forget every time you've gotten held up at work, or had to go help mom with some 'emergency,' or forgotten my birthday. It hasn't for a long time. You'd know that if you were paying attention."
I opened my mouth, trying desperately to think of something to say that would fix things, that would explain everything away or make her stop being so damn right. Nothing came, though. In a few more minutes, we were pulling into the driveway. She had her seatbelt off and backpack in her hands before we'd finished moving, and already opened her door as we slowed.
I loitered in the driveway, engine still running as she opened the backseat door and got her party things.
"I've... got some work stuff that needs finishing," I said slowly as she arranged everything. "There were a few things I had to leave undone when I left for your mom's... I'll definitely be home in time for dinner, though, I promise."
With her hands full, she kicked the back door shut with one foot. Her back was to me, but I could hear her well enough through the open passenger window as she walked up the front steps to the door. "It's spaghetti tonight," she said, back to her utterly blank cold shoulder. "I'll leave some in the microwave for you when you get home. See you tomorrow."
The front door clicked shut behind her, and I drove slowly away.
If you replace 'cafeteria' with 'dining room' and eliminate the father figure, the first paragraph is pretty much taken straight from life, but the rest is pure fiction.
She was sitting on a chair in the corner of the cafeteria when I found her, with her knees tucked up to her chest, playing tetris on her phone. Her face was expressionless and her eyes dry, but I somehow got the impression that she'd been crying. Maybe it was a certain redness about her cheeks, or the set of her mouth. Or maybe it was the pile of crumpled tissues and cupcake wrappers at her feet.
"I guess you missed the party, huh?" I asked, taking another chair from where they were stacked upside down along the tables and seating myself next to her.
"Yes." Her voice was as undreadable as her face, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she was angry with me.
"I'm sorry."
"I know." She didn't look up from the game.
"Mom says hi."
She was silent, but her lips tightened angrily. Oh, well. At least it was some kind of reaction.
"I am sorry, sweetheart."
When she finally relpied, her tone was careless, blase, betrayed only by the slighest of squeaks at the back of her throat. "That's alright. Besides, who really wants to go their own best friend's birthday party? It's not like I put any, y'know, effort or anything into it."
I looked around at the trays of cookies and cupcakes, the stacks of unopened streamers and party decorations. "Sorry."
"I know."
We sat in awkward silence in the grey darkness of the cafeteria, my hands fixed in my pockets, her eyes fixed on the screen. After several minutes, I couldn't take it anymore and asked, "You wanna head home now? We can get ice cream on the way."
Her phone slid shut with a sharp and sudden snap, and she shot me a venemous look blazing with unexpectedly unadulterated anger. I thought for a moment she might yell, but after another second, her eyes hardened into their unreadable set, and all she said was, "We've already got a lot of desserts to use up, don't you think?"
I couldn't think of any way to reply to that, so uncomfortable silence filled the space between us again as she tidied her trash pile and I replaced the chairs and started helping her stack the trays. She maneuvered around me with brusque, sharp movements that made me feel like I was in the way no matter where I stood.
With the packages of decorations under her arm and the trays balanced precariously in her hands, she set off towards the door at a brisk pace, brushing off my offers of assistance. Once, on the way down the hall, one of the trays almost slipped and went tumbling down. I moved into catch it, but she yanked herself aside and steadied the sweets on her own.
In the car, I tried to make conversation to lighten the mood, to get her to open up. "Your cupcakes look nice. You did a good job with the frosting."
Silence.
"You'll see Becky on Monday, right? And you can go to her next birthday, kiddo. Sure, turning fifteen is nice, but sixteen is the big one. I remember when your mom turned sixteen, she -- "
When she interrupted me, her voice was nothing short of scathing. "Bethany did just turn sixteen," she corrected, staring out the window.
"Oh." Oops. Awkward. A slight change of subject was in order. "I didn't know you were hanging out with older girls. That's --"
"I turned sixteen three months ago, dad. At least I made it to that party, no thanks to you."
There really is no good answer there. After a few more miles of silence, I tried again. "There's a Dairy Queen coming up. Are you sure you don't..."
I interrupted myself this time, trailing off as she turned to look at me for the first time since the glare at school. She didn't look furious this time, though. She looked... tired. And suddenly very old, much older than I remembered her being. "Ice cream doesn't fix things anymore, dad," she told me. "It doesn't make the boo-boos all better, or make me forget every time you've gotten held up at work, or had to go help mom with some 'emergency,' or forgotten my birthday. It hasn't for a long time. You'd know that if you were paying attention."
I opened my mouth, trying desperately to think of something to say that would fix things, that would explain everything away or make her stop being so damn right. Nothing came, though. In a few more minutes, we were pulling into the driveway. She had her seatbelt off and backpack in her hands before we'd finished moving, and already opened her door as we slowed.
I loitered in the driveway, engine still running as she opened the backseat door and got her party things.
"I've... got some work stuff that needs finishing," I said slowly as she arranged everything. "There were a few things I had to leave undone when I left for your mom's... I'll definitely be home in time for dinner, though, I promise."
With her hands full, she kicked the back door shut with one foot. Her back was to me, but I could hear her well enough through the open passenger window as she walked up the front steps to the door. "It's spaghetti tonight," she said, back to her utterly blank cold shoulder. "I'll leave some in the microwave for you when you get home. See you tomorrow."
The front door clicked shut behind her, and I drove slowly away.