CHAPTER THREE: Apropos
Charlie looked to be trying when he asked her, "So, how was your first day at school?"
Her combination of a grunt and peeved sigh answered that.
"That's good," he said sarcastically, spooning the cooked grocery store lasagna on to a plate for her and pushing the dish over.
She cut a large piece with her fork and jammed the chunk into her mouth so she could avoid talking more. Why did people want to converse with her? Didn't her short hair unevenly chopped hair, heavy eyeliner, and black baggy attire scream 'leave me alone!' at every frequency?
She had an ounce of sympathy for her biological father, however. Renée had steam-rolled over any efforts he had made in the past to spend more time with her, and then dumped a teenager at his door step when the first sign of trouble arose.
Renée got all the boon, and Charlie all the burden.
Sounded like her award-winning parent of the year.
"How were classes?" he tried again, clearly feeling awkward.
"Bworing," she said through masticated Italian.
"I know Forks High doesn't have the advanced classes that you were taking in Phoenix," he said, not through a bite of food. "And while your mother didn't tell me a lot about your schedule, I called the school to get the full report."
She froze.
He lowered his fork completely. "I'm glad you brought this up," she really hadn't, "Imagine how I felt when I learned that you skipped thirty two classes last semester." His stern glare dashed her appetite.
Her gaze flew to the floor, cheeks heated. Well, yeah, she didn't see the need to go to classes that offered her nothing of value. But how did one explain that to a parent? Renée hadn't really cared, or bothered with petty things like attendance or grades. She believed the value of existence came from other places, or some other bullshit that explained why she'd never challenged herself with college or a stimulating career. Renée was also busy with her new husband.
Charlie did seem like the kind of parent who would care. "I'm really concerned that you were doing drugs or getting into trouble. I've seen kids do that here, with terrible consequences."
"I wasn't!" she defended quickly, and that was mostly true. It really depended on how you defined trouble.
He leveled her with a look. "We will discuss that later. For now, let me finish."
She nodded, crossing her arms protectively.
"I then saw your grades." Charlie rubbed his chin in the unconscious pose of someone deeply perplexed. "Freshman year you had perfect scores in all your classes, except gym. Sophomore year that trend was the same, until your second semester."
Right, ugh. Why had she been such a goody two shoes people pleaser? She had wanted to impress her mom with grades. Look how well that worked out.
Charlie's gaze now caught and pierced her own. "What happened, Bella?"
What happened?
What. Happened.
Because obviously it was clear to even a distant, hardly involved parent that something had happened.
A small part of her screamed to tell him what had happened. That got easily quashed—who did this man think he was? Her father? HA! He was a stranger. One who made irregular appearances in her life and did not get, did not deserve, to be in her circle of confidantes. Well, that was the phrase, even though she exactly zero people included in that category. And Charlie wasn't going to be the first. At one point, she considered her mother as the only person she could trust and confide in.
Look how well that worked out.
She strictly did not examine how fast her feelings had changed from sympathy for Charlie to weariness to resentment.
Her stomach began to hurt more. "Nothing happened. Classes got harder. I didn't feel like trying."
A dissatisfied expression crossed his face. Did he expect her to spill her guts when he grew the gumption to ask after her welfare? Where was he when all this was happening? Taking an interest now was too little too late.
Bella was a poor liar—or at least, she had been, before she truly had something to hide. "Seriously, Charlie," she deliberately emphasized his name, hoping to subconsciously convey their distant relationship, "it's fine. I got into a bad habit of skipping classes. I won't do that here."
"You won't," he said with finality. "I'll be asking the school counselor for weekly reports until I'm sure you're behaving. There are three rules for this house, Bella." Oh, joy, a male in her life to assert dominance. "First, you go to school unless you have my permission not to. Second, you let me know if you are going to be home late or go out on the weekend. Third, no boys in your room."
Gross, did he read those rules straight from the Patriarchal Dad's Guide to Preserving Your Daughter's Virtue? What if she was a lesbian and that rule would be moot? Such presumptuous behavior made her want to go reread the treatise on third wave feminism she'd stumbled across last year. Also, his rules were apropos of nothing. The trouble she got into had nothing to do with boys or staying out late. Well, she supposed, that made it simple to obey but still do exactly what she wanted to.
Either way, she was so done with this conversation. She frowned, shoving her chair back. "Yeah okay, whatever," she said with an obstinate upturn of her chin. "I'm going upstairs." She rinsed her plate off and placed it in the dishwasher. Some habits were difficult to break, even if they ruined any dramatic exits from a room.
"Good," he said, seeming appeased that he had elucidated the rules of his household.
She took the stairs two at a time, bounding through the hallway into her room. After shutting her door without giving into the urge to slam it, sliding the lock into place, she threw herself face first onto her bed.
How dare he, she reflected with growing frustration.
She had never been subjected to rules. Renée had a laissez faire attitude toward parenting and life in general. She allowed Bella to do whatever she wanted, and before last year, that tenet had disproportionately rewarded Renée's choice.
Bella knew she had been practically the perfect daughter. Quiet, sweet, smart. She didn't party. She wasn't interested in boys (which to Renée, may have been a disappointment, but one that she had the pleasure of capitalizing as her own obsession, and despite that was normally a glad happenstance for the parents of teenage daughters, as Charlie demonstrated with his rules). In fact, her entire life had revolved around the caretaking of her mother, seeing to her needs, and never establishing a strong identity outside of that.
She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she had broken from that mold. A mold in more usages than one—it was a living thing that grew over her, covering her in decay and inertness.
Resentment rooted, festered.
She took a deep breath and focused on that. There was no use in letting the past bother her. It is what it is, as the platitude went. From the conversation with Charlie, it was clear that Renée hadn't informed him of the scope of her behavior.
That was good. The less Charlie knew, the better for her to skate through the next year. And maybe never have to revisit the topic again, especially with the stranger she lived with.
Forcing herself to bury her disquiet, she rolled off her bed and over to her desk, where she grabbed her backpack.
She tossed aside her homework and pulled out a book on coding that she almost finished working through. She wanted to do another few exercises on writing complicated codes before she delved into the start of her project.
She liked coding. It was like a puzzle, one that you could change by building new pieces to fit into the jagged edges, or turn into an entirely new picture with just a few alterations.
The comfort of the practice also helped her to not dwell on...things.
Allowing herself to become completely absorbed in her task, she worked late into the night.
