Chapter 2: Tatemae

- (noun) what a person pretends to believe; the behavior and opinions one must display to satisfy society's demands.

I've always wondered if our barn is unhappy because it does not have the job it was built for. The structure sits off a ways from the house in an area that the sun seems to be too afraid to touch. I know barns don't feel, but sometimes when I catch a glimpse of it from my bedroom window, I see it at just a certain angle that its form appears to be sinking further into the ground. And I have that feeling sometimes. That gut-wrenching feeling which eats me up inside and makes me wish that the land beneath me would rise up and swallow me whole.

Our barn is full of metal, unfortunate events . . . and the truck becomes parked in the midst of it all.

Dad is running around in what the barn holds, moving his mini-inventions here and there to make room for his new findings. His voice comes out in rushed volumes of air like it does when there's a lot going on, when something's on his mind.

I pick up on bits and pieces of a sentence, " – goes by the circuit boards – "

Lucas sighs a little too loudly and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

And then: " – Zeiss lenses over there – "

I'm not sure what any of these terms and gadgets mean, but they're important to my dad, so I let it go. Dad has many studio lights in the barn and within them, I can see dust particles floating through the empty space. I wave my hand into a cluster, but they instead avoid the limb and squirm around my intrusion. I can't feel them, don't know if they're hurting me or not. I'm near the truck and I watch as some sweep across rays of light filtering in, and land on the front bumper. Stepping forward, I cross the distance between the vehicle and me. I swipe off the dirt that marks age. The truck still looks sad and lonely. I understand that. It's hard not to feel alone in a group of strangers, even if something always fills the air. My thumb traces the polished symbol.

I catch my dad when he brushes past, a minor gust of wind hitting my back, "What do you think this is?" I ask, eyeing the protruding silver laid against a rough, peeling paint job.

Dad looks from under the crown of his baseball cap, but he doesn't really look. "I don't know, sweetie," he breathes out, quickly, and then his eyes are elsewhere, "Probably just some – " He stops to reach across a table to my right for his glasses, his tone in voice changing, "some off-brand logo."

"Yeah . . ." I mutter low enough that I'm sure he can't hear. My legs push me away from the truck.

Dad is examining a part of some run-down machine like it's a telescope when my sister breaks through into the small clearing set up in the back of the barn. Tessa holds a mound of folded up white in one hand; the remains of the mail from when I oh-so-brutally slid it across the kitchen table.

"Dad, please," she gains his attention with a soft tone, and he lowers the object in grasp. "You can't keep spending money on junk just so you can turn it into different junk." I flinch at the infamous word – junk – that my older sister just loves to use. Dad drops the cone-like item to his workbench and it rolls across the surface for a few seconds before stopping and wiggling. With a knuckle, he pushes his glasses up and off the bridge of his nose. Our father is itching to say something about Tessa's comment. I know it well by his posture and fidgeting hands, and she does, too. Tessa likes to push buttons sometimes because she can, because she's older, because she can apparently get away with it . . . I'm guilty as charged as well, but my luck with Dad is not as long lasting.

That does not stop me from taking any opportunity I can get, though. "Wow . . . You used it twice." I state, pulling my teeth back into a painful smile. "That's like a second offense."

"You don't even know what you're talking about – " she bites back.

"At least I can follow the rules."

Tessa spins around. Her glare is enough to kill if possible, pointing daggers, and I just give her a nice, big smile that they always ask for on school picture days – even if I do the opposite on purpose.

"Cassie, stop egging your sister on." scolds Dad, finally finding his voice. I back down. "And Tessa – you know the rules – we do not use the "J" word in here." He points to something out of eyesight, and we turn so we can really take his words in, put two and two together. "That is a Super Simplex theater projector. It's very rare."

Dad offers up some of his other inventions that never quite made the cut, and my brown eyes follow his voice and gestures. "Simply ahead of their time" is his excuse; different from the last one, and then something else is in his hands, turning around, switching between limbs. My dad has always had a fast mind. Tessa is usually the one to make him slow down, but when he's here, in his element, it picks right back up again. Like a drum – BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! He travels fast so he doesn't have to be stuck in our stroke of bad luck: the lovers who went wrong, machines and structures that can't do their jobs and just be, all of those crumpled pieces of paper in the garbage, and the neat notices that Tessa has now, the ones that are supposed to catch your attention.

Dad's too fast to see anything of that. It is how we live. How he keeps living.

"Yeah, like the alleged Guard-Dawg." announces Lucas, coming from the back room, and weaving around shelves and whatever other obstacles this barn has to offer. At the sound of the name I never call him, the dog – which is sitting on the table after falling over earlier – moves its ears. And then here comes the supposedly frightening bark, the greeting everyone else but me gets. My dad tells Lucas that he's making the dog upset while pointing to the thrashing creature. I touch the dog's head. He stops. THUMP! goes his tail.

Holding the remote to the invention, Lucas asks if the Butler-Bot or whatever works. It's supposed to get beer from our mini-fridge in the barn and bring it to you. Tessa yells that it doesn't work.

Dad overrides her statement and claims it does. He points to the sitting area ten or so feet from the fridge. "Go back there and lay on the recliner, and just wait for a cold one."

My older sister pushes off the workbench we've been standing around, rolling her eyes and softly sighing. The mini-fridge's door swings robotically open by itself as Lucas hits our punching bag; it connects with a solid object and tools clatter to the floor. Dad warns him to stop breaking stuff and I join Lucas because in that moment my dad breaks away and Tessa starts handing out the bills to him.

"It's a lot easier to break something than to fix it," I comment, eyes on Lucas.

He plops into the recliner, ignoring me, and stretching out. "Pssh . . ."

Moving around and stepping over stuff, I fall back into my own chair. My back connects with something softer and lighter than the chair. I realize one of my flannels is draped over the back of it. Grabbing the article of clothing, I take a whiff of the material and set it in my lap. It still smells decent. I watch as the fridge door comes to a close and the Butler-Bot – or mechanical, trashcan-looking-thing – begins its journey.

Lucas pats his lap. "Come on, come on . . ." The Butler-Bot inches closer and closer by the second. "Bring Daddy the alcohol. Come on!" He encourages the machine like it's a dog, but an actually real dog and not the should-have-been one sitting on the table.

"Or you could just get it yourself," I suggest. "Be a lot quicker – "

"Shut up, Cassie." He smiles and I know he's joking. "You see, this here is every man's dream."

"Yeah, it's really somethin' special, isn't it?"

Lucas goes to say something snarky back but a device clatters to the ground, breaking. I glance at Tessa, it came from her.

"What's the estimated time of arrival usually average?" Lucas questions loud enough to be heard over my dad and sister's hushed talking as a result of her breaking his stuff. And that is when the Butler-Bot decides it has had enough and it is tired, because it comes to a halt and the top lifts up, presenting a beer. "Wait – so it just brings the beer near you? That's the trick?"

My dad stops what he's doing on our business computer, glancing over his shoulder at us, "It's got a couple of kinks, man."

"Yeah. You could say that."

Snorting, I stand up and tie the flannel around my waist. Heading over to the Butler-Bot, I take the beer, and drop it into Lucas' awaiting arms. "Told ya it was somethin' special." He doesn't reply.

"Dad, don't you think some things should never be invented?" Tessa questions as I advance forward, getting closer to the exit.

He drops the mail he'd only been looking at for a total of ten seconds, pushes off the wheelie chair that's fun to roll around in when Lucas spins and pushes me, and climbs to his feet. "No, I don't; that's backwards thinking." I reach the barn doors just in time to see a familiar car with big, flashy stickers on the sides pull up beside our house. I release heavy air from my lungs, leaning on the old doors and crossing my arms. "This is a temple of technology. You guys are standing in a holy place."

"So, if this place isn't historic yet," I start, flicking my head to the outdoors and some strands of dirty-blonde fall into my face. "Why did we start tours?"

I dash out of the barn, the soles of my boots connecting with flattened grass. These visits never end well, so I'm trying to at least have a good start as my legs hit rough and uneven terrain, and I jog to the three figures emerging from the car. They must not see me yet from the barn's shield made out of shade because the laughing begins. There is a man and a woman – a couple – and they're dressed nice for the occasion, even though the occasion is a false deal on a farm. The main attraction in the form of real estate lady takes in our land, lifting her arms, praising this so called "holy place".

"Whaddya think?" she asks the couple, cheerfully, "Why don't you look at all of this? This could be yours! What about this land?!"

But she stops there because I'm spotted. I approach, breathlessly, and the three of them stare at me like I'm wrong, like I shouldn't be here. But I live here. I never bothered to learn the real estate lady's name even though it is on the side door of the car. I search for the key word, finding it,

"Ms. McGatlin," I greet, "this place – it – it's not for sale." I make sure to get a glance at the two customers during this time. They look confused or – or upset. Good. Because that's exactly how I would feel if they ever dared taking my home.

Ms. McGatlin removes her sunglasses to speak with me, which is supposed to be a polite gesture – so I've heard. She is dressed in all purple, the usual, and I merely assume that this is not only her favorite color, but the only one she knows. Besides, she took in my dull attire like she just saw a ghost. Dad likes to call her a People Eater - sometimes when she's in earshot, and most of the time not. I have to bite back both a smile and laugh at the thought.

"Honey, you get your daddy to pay some bills, and then we'll talk." Ms. McGatlin tells me. "Right now, I'm jus' doin' my job." She turns to the other two, reframing back to her original plan and ignoring a thirteen-year-old girl who just wanted to do something right for once. Me. "Isn't this incredible? I knew you'd like it." she says to her customers.

"No," I speak up, moving closer. "It's having human decency to recognize that people go through hard times!"

This shuts her up real good. Ms. McGatlin gives me the "Tessa look" that serves as a warning to what's coming. But just like Tessa, I'm not scared of her. She straightens her spine.

"Little girl – "

"Hey, you!" Whirling around, I observe my dad bolting out of the barn with a wooden baseball bat. He's saving me, once again, from the troubles of the world. Too bad he doesn't know that I'm the one to take down eviction notices and too bad he thinks I don't read the mail sometimes even when it's my job to retrieve it. "Hey! I own this house! It's not for sale!"

They already know that. Tessa and Lucas stroll out of the barn after Dad. Taking an arm, Dad moves me away from the frontlines so I fade away into the background with other familiar faces.

"Six months late on payments, Mr. Yeager." Ms. McGatlin reminds Dad, loudly, like she wants the whole world to know just how bad we are off. And then she points to where our property line fizzles out. "And I see you stealin' power at the pole."

I internally wince. So, all of our electricity that runs within the soil under our feet, it's not really ours, just . . . borrowed. I hate when things aren't actually yours and in your possession because then people can take it from you. I squint in the sun that has settled on the horizon as the end of the day draws near. I stare down the woman in purple. Sometimes people will try and take what you have anyways, borrowed or not.

"Hey, that's not your concern." I hear Dad roughly inform Ms. McGatlin. He is not being mean; his tone simply carries a pointed edge. I walk on until my fingertips slide across the form of Lucas' car. After re-knotting the flannel around my waist, I hop up on the Mini Cooper's hood. The vehicle bounces a little from my arrival, but not too much. Lucas sits at the picnic bench under one of our big oak trees. He still has the beer I delivered to him, and many other empty bottles litter the surface of the picnic bench, most likely his as well. Tessa wanders forward a couple feet, but she remains standing, nonetheless.

My dad talks to the wannabe-buyers about tours of the property, and everything is steady and collected for a moment, until the yard erupts into chaos.

Dad raises his bat, threatening, "I'll show you three other buyers I got buried out back, then I'll crack your head open like an egg!" I tuck myself further up on the car's hood. The three of them are backing up to their own vehicle as my dad advances. There is a chorus of shouting different words and phrases.

" – Whoa! Whoa – "

" – Stay back! He's crazy – "

I find and latch onto my father's voice through the noise, "I told you to not come back here anymore! My little girl told you we're not sellin' – "

"Your little girl has no respect!" yells People Eater, and that's when I decide I'm never going to remember her name or ever use it again.

Dad folds his knees in, scoffing, "Really? 'Cause last time I checked, she had more class in her little finger than you ever will!"

People Eater opens her car door – the driver door – and her comrades scurry into empty seats marked by doors they never bothered to close. "I will have my brother come back and beat your ass! Don't you start with me! And – "

"Why don't you do it yourself?!"

She swings into the seat, shoving her purse inside. "And I'll bring the police when I come, too! My brother ain't no joke!"

Dad leans over the front of the car. The baseball is still in his hands if needed. He jabs a finger at the dirty windshield. "Who? Jerry?! You bring his big ass up here, he's gonna be huffin' and puffin' before he can squeeze out of that car!"

The car door slams, sounding like nothing compared to the rest of the scene. I snort loudly enough from Dad's words that it hurts my nostrils a bit. Her car starts with a groaning rumble. "You back out on my grass, you're gonna be in big trouble!" my dad warns, despite the fact Lucas is always tearing through here. The car starts rolling backwards. "You tell Jerry to come see me. I'll give him some pecan pie!"

And with those words, the small car's tires snap to the right and it flies straight into our front lawn. Dad chases down the vehicle, chucking the baseball bat in his wake. It bounces off the back bumper with clunk and then I can only watch while that freaking lady drives her ugly car right through our electric fence and into the wheat field. I scrunch my face up from the dust and hop off of Lucas' black Mini Cooper. My dad throws his arms up, groaning, "She smashed through the fence?!"

"Congratulations, Lucas," I say once I'm close enough. "We've found a worse driver than you."

He's sitting on the table top amongst his friends: the beer bottles. "Funny."

I climb up on the picnic bench and take seat on a clean spot next to him. "Might have to step your game up, though, if you want to be back in the lead . . ."

Lucas shakes his head, turning to my dad as he pivots around. "Cade, relax. You're going to have an aortic infarction."

"What is that?" he asks in passing.

"I think it's a, uh, brain heart attack."

"Yeah. I've had one already."

I'm not quite sure Lucas' definition of the phrase is correct, but I'm off the picnic bench and heading to my sister with Dad, so it doesn't really matter.

Tessa's hands are on her hips when we make it to her. "So, we're stealing power now?"

"No, we're borrowin' it from the neighbors."

"Great. That's awesome." There is a brief pause between the three of us, a family pause. My older sister sighs, throwing her posture back. "Once I graduate and I'm gone, who's gonna take care of you?" Tessa is graduating in about a month, and I'll be moving up to eighth grade. Summer is approaching fast, and, for the first time, I don't know if I'm ready for it.

"I'll be here." I speak up.

"Yeah, but not here here."

And she might be right . . . Dad and I are too alike for our own good.

Dad turns to her. "Oh, and you take care of me?"

Tessa nods, blinking back tears, which I am not even sure when they arrived in the first place. I don't cry much anymore.

"Who taught you two how to solder a circuit?" questions our dad. I swallow. "Or write a program? Or French braid each other's hair? Or throw a spiral for gym class? Me. That's what I do. And I'll keep teaching Cassie stuff even when you're not here." He's right, he did teach me all of those elements, but I'm not sure I remember. It's easy for things to get lost in a vast space of memories.

"Who taught you how to cook for us without using ketchup? Or balance your checkbook? Or helped you with Cassie all of the time?" She looks away for a second and at this point Lucas has joined the conversation. Watching. "Who . . . always has to be the grownup around here?"

"Alright, you got a point, okay?" Dad replies, sincere and honest as ever. He looks to me for a split second. "And she and I both know that." I agree with a few, quick nods to my sister. "But that means we're a great team, all three of us. And I know it's been sucky around here lately, but we're gonna be fine, sweetie. You just gotta keep believin', okay?"

Okay.

"I mean, that's what great inventors do."

Believing is how we keep going.

"I promise you, one day, I'm gonna build something that matters."

By dinnertime, the day is showing its age. The sky is a mixture of pinks, oranges, and yellows all running into one another. The clouds are breaking waves. I sit at the table alone while Tessa prepares Dad's meal to be taken down to his workshop: the barn lacking purpose. I poke at my peas with a fork until Tessa turns around with the food and then I stab one, plopping it into my mouth.

"Tessa?" I call before she is out of sight, teetering on being gone. My fork swirls my mashed potatoes around to give my hands something to do. "Do you believe Dad? That he'll invent something good and then everything will go away, and it'll be okay again?"

My sister comes back in and she's trying for a smile, but I see right through her mask. She sets the tray on the table, sighing, "I don't know . . . I just – I know . . . I know something in this whole thing has to matter. Feels like they shoulda come and taken everything by now."

I look down at my plate, but I'm not really focused on it. I can feel myself still nudging bits and pieces of my food around. "Sorry if I'm a brat."

My eyes don't return to her, but I hear her shift, can sense the pressure of the air lessening its hold some. "Me too."

I snort and smile to myself. Tessa picks up the tray again with Dad's food and says, "Kelsey called and wants to go out driving. I'm gonna see if he'll let me go 'cause it's Friday and all."

"Oh . . ." I draw out the single word. "Is Shane going to be there?"

Tessa's eyes widen. Her arms drop down a bit, and she has to steady the tray so nothing falls off. She looks around cautiously before speaking. "Cassie!" hisses Tessa. "You don't talk about him, not even a word, and I won't mention to Dad how I just happened to be home when the school called about your detention."

Yeah, I know. That's the deal.

"It wasn't even my fault!" I protest, stabbing another pea. That stupid kid started it.

"Yeah, have fun telling Dad that. And, no – if he must know, he won't be there."

I shrug. "You really think Dad's going to let you go, though? He wouldn't even let me go to a concert with parent supervision."

She starts walking, her footsteps changing in tone when her feet transition from the tile kitchen floor onto the hardwood of the hallway. "It was on a school night, Cassie; not to mention three hours away." Her hand hovers over the front screen door's handle. "And, please, stop playing with your food. I already have to be on Dad so he'll eat."

The door clicks closed, and I decide against telling her it was going to be the only time the band would be in Texas. I hear Tessa's footsteps thud down the three front steps before disappearing when she hits grass. Sighing, I roll my eyes, but listen to her anyways because she's my older sister and her job is to worry.

We've all got jobs to do.

Mine is to believe.

Much to my surprise, Dad ends up letting Tessa go with her friends. Dark has just about taken over the sky when I hear him return to the porch. Before his arrival, I was lying on my back in my bed. My radio hummed some tune of a song I didn't have enough mind to pay attention to and To Kill a Mockingbird rotated in my hands as I turned it over and over. I put the book on my stomach when my ears picked up on his familiar footfalls. When I sat up, To Kill a Mockingbird slid and flopped across my mattress.

The volume of my radio is turned down low now, but I can pick apart some words of whatever song is playing:

"I don't even know if I believe

Everything you're trying to say to me."

I recognize the voice behind the microphone as Mumford and Sons, and I rise from my bed, heading to the radio to turn it off.

"So open up my eyes

And tell me I'm alive.

This is never gonna go our way

If I'm gonna have to guess what's on your mind."

Click. I'm left in silence.

Down the stairs and around the bend, I find Dad leaning over the railing and gazing out into empty space. The crickets chirp loudly and the nightlights we strung up in trees as kids to guide our way home shine brightly back. I stay behind the screen door, silent, and listen for once. There is not much downtime for Dad left and I rarely find him like this. Like this he's human, like this I know him, and like this I love him.

"Best thing that ever happened, Emily," he whispers softly to the sky. And I know who he's talking to, the family member I never met. Mom – "They're the best thing that ever happened." I blink and bite down on my lip. It's always been hard to think about her . . . and I don't talk about it either. My existence stopped hers. "You'd be proud. I am."

I believe you, Dad.