Paul
Well, this is torture.
The annual birthday dinner with the old man.
I am itching to get out of here.
A stack of unopened cards sit in the middle of the table from relatives that I haven't seen in years. No card from Dad. Certainly no gift. I have yet to earn my gift from last year; the brand new pick-up truck sitting in the drive. And, alas, no call from Mom. Not yet, anyways.
I push around a chicken nugget with my fork. Chicken Nuggets and Mac n' Cheese; a half-assed attempt at a celebratory dinner. It hasn't been my favorite since I was 12. And a rum raisin cake in the fridge; his favorite, not mine. In fact, I hate it. I tell him every year that I don't like it. By the next year, he's forgotten and promises to remember for my next birthday. He never does.
Sitting across from Dad in silence has all but killed my appetite. I wonder how long I have to endure this before I can excuse myself and hide in my bedroom.
"Seventeen, huh?" the old man mutters.
"Yup," I reply, daring to glance up at him.
I can't hold eye contact. It's too painful. I look away.
"It's your last chance, now," he says, forking macaroni into his mouth.
"What?" I glance up again, check the clock — 6:45 PM — and then look back at my plate.
"To get it together. I don't care if you flunk every class this academic year. You're out of here, come 18," he says, sternly, "got it?"
"Yes," I reply, "... sir," I make sure to add that in before he says 'yes what?'.
"And you're lucky for that. My father would have kicked me out by now if I showed the kind of disobedience you have, this summer. When my father grounded me… I got my ass in my room. I didn't defy him by sneaking out every night. Do you think that kind of behavior is acceptable?"
"No sir," I exhale.
The phone rings and our heads turn at the same time but neither of us move.
"I expect that would be your mother," Dad mumbles, "well… go talk to her."
I hesitate but then quickly get to my feet and answer the phone, "hello?" I don't like how my voice sounds; desperate. Like I'm a little kid again that just wants his mom. It's embarrassing.
Click, click. An automated voice fills the receiver, "this is a global tel link prepaid call from… Catherine Lahote… an inmate at… an Oregon correctional facility. This call-"
I hang up.
"Wrong number," I whisper. My voice; thick with dread.
Of course. Of course, she's gone and gotten herself into trouble. Happy birthday! Your mom's in prison. I stand by the phone, unable to move. I don't want to talk to her.
Then a knock at the door.
Dad wipes his mouth with his napkin and wanders out of the dining room.
I am truly screwed now. I didn't have many hopes set on seeking out Mom once I get kicked out by Dad but now that it is not an option at all, I feel… alone.
I exhale and sit back down at the table to shuffle more of my dinner around the plate. I stare at the empty chair across from me. Any other kid would be upset if his dad was seeing clients on his birthday. Not me. It's a nice break from the uncomfortable silence.
"Fucking kill me," I mutter to myself and lean my head in my hand.
A familiar voice. I stay still and strain to hear the conversation at the door. Horror-stricken, I realize it's Rachel.
Fuck!
I hurry out to the foyer.
"Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday?" Rachel asks with a smile.
"I uh… Um," I shake out of it half expecting Dad to harshly correct me for using the forbidden um words but he doesn't. Of course, he won't. Not with her here. "I forgot, I guess."
"Your friend brought you some of her study notes for the SATs," Dad says and then looks to Rachel, "that's very kind of you."
Funny how pleasant he can be when we're in front of other people.
"I found a binder with some old essays. It'll give you an idea of what they're expecting for the written portion and- um… you know what, I'm interrupting. I'll leave," Rachel says, passing me a binder.
"Nonsense," Dad replies, "stay! We've got plenty of food. It's nice to see that Paul has at least one decent friend."
"I have good friends, Dad," I reply.
Dad looks at me with a stern face, "and yet only one of them has shown up with something useful for your future," he says and then turns to Rachel, "last week he came home at 1:00 AM, smelling like pot. Those are the kind of friends he keeps. You stay!" he says pointing to Rachel. "I'll go get you a plate," Dad walks to the kitchen
Fucking kill me.
"Oh, shit. Did I get you in trouble?" Rachel whispers with wide eyes. "Should I tell him it was me who gave you pot?"
"No. Confess nothing to that man," I warn her. "You don't have to stay."
"I can stay. I don't want to be rude," Rachel replies.
Alarm bells are going off in my head. Danger. Danger. Danger. This has the potential of going wrong. Really wrong.
After last week at Kim's, Rachel has become a bonafide member of the group. After her shifts are done at the food truck, she comes and finds us on the beach. Our family feels complete. At least until more of the guys imprint.
Friends. That's the agreement. Until next year when I'm 18. Trust me, I am working on it. There is no way I am going to just roll over and give up on my girl for a whole year. However, Bird seems satisfied with calling me her friend. It does afford me some privileges. She lets me occasionally put an arm around her. She accepts a hug as a hello and a goodbye. And yesterday I kissed her cheek and she didn't seem to mind. I'll keep pushing my luck until she pushes back.
But this... This is not what I want.
There is so much at stake because Dad has all of the tools to utterly humiliate me and I am alarmingly aware that he is not afraid to use them.
I take Rachel to the dining room, "you have a nice home," Rachel compliments me.
I shrug. It's a nice house meant to impress Dad's clients but it's not a home by any measure. I much prefer the shack Rachel lives in with her father. It's run down and falling apart but at least it's filled with people who genuinely care for one another.
"If I knew we'd be having company I would have prepared something a little more sophisticated than this garbage," Dad says, putting a plate down in front of Rachel. "But, you know, whatever the kiddo wants to eat on his birthday…"
I grit my teeth. Kiddo? Great. And I didn't even want this crap. This is starting out as well as I expected. I sit down.
"Oh. I don't mind," Rachel replies, shrugging and takes a seat as well.
I don't say anything. I figure if I stay quiet and disappear into the background, maybe the old man will leave me alone. For the most part, my plan appears to be working. Rachel and Dad are having a pleasant conversation about college. It's as if I don't exist. It's fucking great.
"Fascinating. I can't believe he's still alive," Dad says, having already cleared the plates and is cutting pieces of the gross cake he likes. They're talking about a professor at WSU that they both had.
"He's pretty much an animated corpse," Rachel laughs.
"Hah," Dad chuckles along.
I change my mind. I hate this. The fake pleasantries are making me nauseous.
"You studied law?" I ask Rachel, speaking for the first time since we sat down.
"No. Whittaker was my Political Science prof," she explains.
I glance back at Dad, "you didn't get your B.A. at WSU. How did you have the same teacher?" I ask, calling bullshit on his story.
Dad glares at me. Questioning him is a no-no under normal circumstances. With a guest? It's damn near suicide.
"If you were paying attention, you would have heard me mention that I audited the course at Pullman for the summer semester during my internship," he snaps at me.
Right… I recall him saying something to that effect.
"Sorry," I mumble. I glance at Rachel. She looks rigid and uncomfortable after the exchange.
"Listening… You can pull up your SAT score but if you're not going to listen it's pointless for you to waste a dime in college," Dad points his fork at me.
"Yes, sir," I mutter.
Great. I'm the idiot. Again.
"It's his mother's fault," Dad says, leaning towards Rachel. "She always let him do whatever the hell he wanted. He never learned to listen. By the time we came here, the damage was done."
Humiliation sets in. He's talking about me like I'm a kid, and as if I am not here.
Rachel is stunned, sitting frozen with her lips slightly ajar.
"Can I go?" I look at Dad. I'm done with all of this.
"No. You're staying right here until your mother calls," Dad replies forking some cake into his mouth.
As fate should have it, the phone rings. Dad nods for me to go answer it.
Fuck.
I stand and move slowly towards the phone hoping that it'll stop ringing by the time I get there.
"Damit, boy. Stop dragging your feet," Dad scolds me.
I sigh and pick up the receiver, "hello?" I grumble. Looking back at Rachel with desperation in my eyes, hoping that she will take it as a hint to leave before things get worse. Much worse.
Click, click. "This is a global tel link prepaid call from… Catherine Lahote… an inmate at-"
I slam the phone down, "telemarketer," I lie and return to the table.
"They have a bad habit of calling at dinner time," Dad grumbles and then looks to Rachel, "so what are your plans now that you're back in town?"
"I uh-" Rachel looks nervous and unsure, "I'm just working right now in um… food service. I haven't really decided what I'm going to do yet."
"Well, you'll want to figure it out. A Bachelor's Degree doesn't get you very far these days. Statistically speaking, graduates who don't find a job in their field within 6 months of graduating are likely to never enter their field at all."
"Oh?" Rachel deflates, "I… I didn't know that."
Fucking prick.
My jaw tenses. He's making Bird feel bad and I'm starting to see red.
"You need to have a plan," Dad follows up, "I always say 'he who fails to plan plans to fail'," Dad nods.
"You never say that," I reply. I can't help myself. He's so full of shit.
Dad glances up at me with an amused expression as though he cannot believe I have the balls to talk back to him. Normally, I wouldn't but with Rachel sitting here I can't help myself. I want to protect her from my father's incessant mind games. This is how it starts. He plants the seed of doubt and then piles on until he breaks you down. I'll be damned if I'll let him do that to Bird.
"You never listen, boy," Dad shakes his head.
So we're back to listening. I can't call him out on his shit. Everything he says is true. And if I call him out he explains it away with how I don't listen. Great.
"Can I go?" I exhale. There is no winning with him.
"You haven't even touched your cake," Dad replies.
"I fucking hate this cake. Can I go?" I repeat myself. I clench my fists at the table.
"Paul," Rachel says quietly, her eyes looking towards my shaking fists.
"That's news to me," Dad replies, tapping his fork against his plate.
"Hah. Now, who doesn't listen," my mouth replies quicker than my brain can warn me to shut the fuck up.
"Is this how you behave in front of a guest?" Dad asks, calmly and then turns to Rachel, "I must apologize for my son's inconsiderate behavior. I wish I could say that this kind of thing is out of the ordinary for him. However, I'm afraid this is just the kind of immaturity I am accustomed to. It's been a real pleasure having you here, Rachel. But as you have observed, my son lacks the maturity to behave properly in front of a guest," Dad says calmly and stands.
"Oh. Um," Rachel hesitates but then slowly stands, "okay … I guess I'll…"
"I'll wrap up your cake," he says, picking up Rachel's plate of untouched rum raisin cake. Dad walks to the kitchen doorway, "say good night to your friend, Paul," he says over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. His tone; I'm going to be in so much shit once Bird leaves.
"Paul..." Rachel says softly.
"It's fine. Go… Please," I say in desperation. I've been humiliated enough.
The phone rings.
Fuck.
"Answer the phone, Paul!" Dad shouts from the kitchen.
I let it ring, sitting still and rigid. If I hear that automated voice announce a call is incoming from a prison in Oregon one more time I am going to lose it.
"Aren't you going to…?" Rachel asks, looking at the phone.
I shake my head.
"But it could be your Mom-"
"I don't care," I mutter.
"Answer the phone; I won't say it again!" Dad shouts from the other room.
"Paul, you should answer it. Don't you want to talk to your mom on your birth-"
"Fuck," I stand up so abruptly my chair falls back on the floor and make it to the phone in three large strides. I hold the receiver to my ear and hear those two familiar clicks before the automated voice starts. "Here!" I hold the phone out for her, "you fucking talk to her! Here!"
Rachel flinches. I hate that I did something that made her flinch.
She hesitates but then takes the phone from me and brings the phone to her ear, listening to the automated message. Her face morphs from confusion to realisation and then sadness, "oh…"
"Yeah, 'Oh'," I grumble, taking the phone away from her and slam it down. "No. I don't want to fucking talk to my criminal mother on my god damn birthday!" I sigh.
Fuck. I'm yelling at the wrong person. Bird doesn't deserve this.
"Paul I-"
"I'm sorry," I apologise to her before she can say anything.
"Rachel," Dad comes back into the dining room with a tupperware, "I put in a little extra since I suppose Paul no longer likes cake," he says, handing her the plastic container. "I'll walk you to the door."
Rachel just nods. I can tell that she genuinely doesn't know what to do. I don't expect her to. She wasn't prepared for any of this. She walked into shark infested waters. She looks at me one last time and then follows my father to the door.
I remain in the dining room, listening to my father apologise once more for my immaturity and rude behavior, and how I will be talked to. Great. Can't wait.
The door closes and an audible sigh of disgust rumbles from the foyer where my father remains, "get in here, now," Dad says sternly.
No use delaying the inevitable. I drag my feet but eventually the distance closes between us and we are face to face.
"Well... What do you have to say for yourself?" Dad asks.
"Why don't you just tell me what you want to hear and we'll pretend I said that?" I grumble.
Dad's brows lift. There's that look of amusement again, "pathetic," he shakes his head. "You like that girl too, I can tell."
My jaw tenses. I swear to god, if he says one bad thing about Bird I am going to lose it.
"And she's a fine girl but you are out of your goddamn mind if you think she is going to have anything to do with you," he spits with added cruelty to his voice and the look of disgust on his face.
Harsh words. But he's probably right, especially after all of the things Dad said during dinner about how immature I am. The main reason, Rachel herself, said I didn't have a shot. I'm just a kid. All of the confidence I had built up in the past few days — coming to believe that maybe Bird might want me too — crumbles.
I swallow. I have nothing to say. I'm defeated. Done.
"Get out of my sight. I can't stand to look at you right now," Dad waves his hand, dismissively. "And don't forget this," he says tossing the binder of essays that Rachel had brought me. "They're probably not as exciting as that pile of filthy magazines you thought you'd hidden well, but it'll give you something productive to do."
Fuck.
I turn my back to him and walk up the stairs to spare myself the humiliation of looking him in the eye. I knew he was just waiting to bring that up. At least he waited until Bird left. Man, if he brought that up while she was here I'd have just died. That was all before her. If Dad hadn't found them, I would have certainly gotten rid of them the moment I imprinted on her. She's all I think about now, anyways.
I toss the binder on my desk and slam the door to my bedroom.
"Fuck," I mutter to myself and lay down on my bed.
So much for everything…