It's Not Your Fault
Chapter 4
I then tried something else: I tried to imagine life with Dad.
I suppose my family would be much closer; more like a family and less like roommates. I don’t remember much of Dad (since I was only three when he died), so I’m ok with talking about him.
Well, sometimes.
I learned quickly, though, that as far as Mom was concerned, Dad was only a memory. On one of those rare occasions when Sofia and I talked to and connected with each other, she told me stories about the old Mom—the Mom who was always happy. The Mom who cooked dinner every night. The Mom who knew where her kids were at any and all times of the day. Sofia told me about Dad, too; she had been six at the time of the plane crash, so she remembers more.
I snapped my journal shut and shook off those memories. It was no use dwindling in the past. That caring side of Mom no longer existed, and neither did that understanding sister. I tried to convince myself that it was better this way, with no one in my face to tell me what to do. I gave up after a minute. I hated it when people lied to me; why lie to myself?
Just then, my cell phone rang. The loud opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth told me it was my mother calling.
“Hello?” I picked up the phone reluctantly, making sure my voice sounded as flat and emotionless as possible.
“Danielle, hi. It’s Mom.” No duh. “I need you to call that Chinese place down the street, what’s it called?”
“Hot Wok?” I asked, annoyed already.
“Yeah, yeah. Order dinner. I won’t be home ‘till late.” She sounded impatient.
Nothing new there. “’Kay, Ma.”
“Ok, I’m gonna go, I have work to do. Oh, and Dan—“
Too late—I’d already hung up. I glared at my cell phone indignantly. “My day was fine, Mom, thanks for asking. God. She’s so very thoughtful,” I muttered, tossing the phone onto my bed. I sighed and walked back to my closet to check my eyeliner in the mirror. I was surprised to see that my eyes were puffy and my cheeks were streaked with black. I reached up to wipe off the smudged eyeliner. My fingers came away wet. How typical, I thought. I’m crying. I scowled, wiped off my face, and reapplied my eyeliner. I looked pretty good when I was done—but my eyes were still a little red.
I was about to pull out my laptop when my cell phone started ringing again. This time, I smiled. I could recognize that nasally, recorded voice anywhere.
“Yellow!” I pounced on the phone and cried.
“Green!” Evan yelled back. When I hear his voice, whatever anger I felt towards him completely melted away. “What’s crackin’, Patel?”
I grinned. “Same old. Getting more bored by the minute,” I responded, turning down my music to hear him better. He laughed.
“Excellent. Then you can come upstairs and hang out with my bored self!”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure. See you in five—seven if I do something stupid on the way.”
“Peace love gap!”
He hung up. I was still grinning like a psycho. Evan had that effect on me. I shook my head and shoved my phone in my pocket. Then I grabbed my purse and a book, shut off my stereo, and headed out of my room. I stopped by the kitchen on my way out to write Sofia a note.
"Fia—going to Evan’s. Back whenever. Mom says order dinner from Hot Wok. Number’s in the phone book. Don’t wait for me. <3 D”
I stuck the note on the fridge and tugged on my shoes. I grabbed my things and left the apartment. It was chilly in the hallway. I trudged up the stairs towards Evan’s top-floor apartment. I was just climbing the last stair when I stepped on the laces of one shoe and went flying…
…right onto Evan’s doormat.
Obviously, he heard the fall and instantly knew it was me. He opened the door and scooped me off the cold, tiled floor and into a bone-crushing bear hug. No words; just a hug. God, I thought, burying my face in shirt, how does he know just what to do exactly when I need it? Of course, this was still Evan. After breaking half of my spinal cord, he dropped me back onto the floor. “Thanks loads, Ev,” I grunted, glaring at him. He just laughed his contagious laugh.
“And I thought you couldn’t get any shorter,” he said, helping me up—for real this time. I stuck my tongue out at him and reached down to pick up my book and purse. Evan looked at me curiously when I straightened up.
“You’ve been crying.” It wasn’t a question. I looked away, knowing fully well I couldn’t lie to him. He pulled me into another wordless hug; this one was gentler than the last.
“Another morbid book, eh?” he asked nonchalantly as he let go, trying to change the subject. So he noticed, I thought with a smirk. I nodded enthusiastically. He just groaned and stepped aside to let me into his apartment. “I worry about you,” he muttered, closing the door behind us.
I suppose my family would be much closer; more like a family and less like roommates. I don’t remember much of Dad (since I was only three when he died), so I’m ok with talking about him.
Well, sometimes.
I learned quickly, though, that as far as Mom was concerned, Dad was only a memory. On one of those rare occasions when Sofia and I talked to and connected with each other, she told me stories about the old Mom—the Mom who was always happy. The Mom who cooked dinner every night. The Mom who knew where her kids were at any and all times of the day. Sofia told me about Dad, too; she had been six at the time of the plane crash, so she remembers more.
I snapped my journal shut and shook off those memories. It was no use dwindling in the past. That caring side of Mom no longer existed, and neither did that understanding sister. I tried to convince myself that it was better this way, with no one in my face to tell me what to do. I gave up after a minute. I hated it when people lied to me; why lie to myself?
Just then, my cell phone rang. The loud opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth told me it was my mother calling.
“Hello?” I picked up the phone reluctantly, making sure my voice sounded as flat and emotionless as possible.
“Danielle, hi. It’s Mom.” No duh. “I need you to call that Chinese place down the street, what’s it called?”
“Hot Wok?” I asked, annoyed already.
“Yeah, yeah. Order dinner. I won’t be home ‘till late.” She sounded impatient.
Nothing new there. “’Kay, Ma.”
“Ok, I’m gonna go, I have work to do. Oh, and Dan—“
Too late—I’d already hung up. I glared at my cell phone indignantly. “My day was fine, Mom, thanks for asking. God. She’s so very thoughtful,” I muttered, tossing the phone onto my bed. I sighed and walked back to my closet to check my eyeliner in the mirror. I was surprised to see that my eyes were puffy and my cheeks were streaked with black. I reached up to wipe off the smudged eyeliner. My fingers came away wet. How typical, I thought. I’m crying. I scowled, wiped off my face, and reapplied my eyeliner. I looked pretty good when I was done—but my eyes were still a little red.
I was about to pull out my laptop when my cell phone started ringing again. This time, I smiled. I could recognize that nasally, recorded voice anywhere.
“Yellow!” I pounced on the phone and cried.
“Green!” Evan yelled back. When I hear his voice, whatever anger I felt towards him completely melted away. “What’s crackin’, Patel?”
I grinned. “Same old. Getting more bored by the minute,” I responded, turning down my music to hear him better. He laughed.
“Excellent. Then you can come upstairs and hang out with my bored self!”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure. See you in five—seven if I do something stupid on the way.”
“Peace love gap!”
He hung up. I was still grinning like a psycho. Evan had that effect on me. I shook my head and shoved my phone in my pocket. Then I grabbed my purse and a book, shut off my stereo, and headed out of my room. I stopped by the kitchen on my way out to write Sofia a note.
"Fia—going to Evan’s. Back whenever. Mom says order dinner from Hot Wok. Number’s in the phone book. Don’t wait for me. <3 D”
I stuck the note on the fridge and tugged on my shoes. I grabbed my things and left the apartment. It was chilly in the hallway. I trudged up the stairs towards Evan’s top-floor apartment. I was just climbing the last stair when I stepped on the laces of one shoe and went flying…
…right onto Evan’s doormat.
Obviously, he heard the fall and instantly knew it was me. He opened the door and scooped me off the cold, tiled floor and into a bone-crushing bear hug. No words; just a hug. God, I thought, burying my face in shirt, how does he know just what to do exactly when I need it? Of course, this was still Evan. After breaking half of my spinal cord, he dropped me back onto the floor. “Thanks loads, Ev,” I grunted, glaring at him. He just laughed his contagious laugh.
“And I thought you couldn’t get any shorter,” he said, helping me up—for real this time. I stuck my tongue out at him and reached down to pick up my book and purse. Evan looked at me curiously when I straightened up.
“You’ve been crying.” It wasn’t a question. I looked away, knowing fully well I couldn’t lie to him. He pulled me into another wordless hug; this one was gentler than the last.
“Another morbid book, eh?” he asked nonchalantly as he let go, trying to change the subject. So he noticed, I thought with a smirk. I nodded enthusiastically. He just groaned and stepped aside to let me into his apartment. “I worry about you,” he muttered, closing the door behind us.