Vegas Boys

I flagged down another cab, and as I was climbing in, I glanced back at the coffee shop and caught Brendon watching me go with a sad look. I turned away and tried not to think about him as the cab merged into traffic, but of course I failed miserably.

Brendon was cute. He was funny and sweet, and obviously took an interest in me, and I was certainly in need of friends (or possibly more-than-friends) at this point in my life. Why had I said such nasty things to him?

I sighed and pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the cab window, hoping for the cold to ease my growing headache a little as I mentally berated myself. I had most likely just ruined my only chance of friendship and/or happiness in Vegas, and I couldn't even say why.

Mom, I thought angrily, gritting my teeth in resentment as I pictured her stern face warning me about the many evils of Vegas. She had gotten to me subconsciously. Even if what I'd told Brendon was stupid, it was also partly true--I didn't trust Vegas boys.

I didn't trust anything about Vegas. I loathed all of it instinctively.

Mom knew this--she was the one who'd taught me all those ridiculously negative views. How could she ever expect me to be happy in a place she'd purposely made me hate?

She doesn't care. She doesn't care if you're happy or not. I pushed this dark thought to the back of my mind and tried to focus on something lighter, but then all I could see was Brendon's pleading expression.

"I just want to get to know you. Is that so much to ask?"

No, I answered him mentally. I just didn't know how to react. No one's ever wanted to know me before.

"You alright, miss?" asked the cab driver in an impossibly deep voice, glancing at me concernedly in the rear view mirror.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," I replied quickly, wiping my eyes. "I just--allergies."

"Okay," he said uneasily, turning back to the road. Once again, I'd told a bad lie: no one has allergies in Las Vegas because there's not much of anything to be allergic to in the desert.

But I had been forced to think fast; I hadn't even realized I was crying.

-----

Dad got home before I did that night.

I was wiping my eyes furiously, hoping to hide the evidence of my second showdown with Brendon, as I stepped inside the front door. I wasn't expecting to see Dad standing there in the front hall, so I jumped and instinctively stuck my hands behind my back when I saw him.

"Where have you been?" The deep rumble of Dad's voice was no longer comforting--instead, it was harsh and intimidating.

"Um--I went to the coffee shop...?" I replied uncertainly. I couldn't help but take a step back; his grimly taut expression was terrifying.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? I was worried sick."

"I--I'm sorry?"

"Are you?" snapped Dad at the question in my voice.

"Yes!" I insisted quickly. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't realize--I mean, I didn't think it was a big deal--"

"This is Las Vegas, Kelsey," said Dad sternly in a booming voice that made me flinch. "It's one of the biggest cities in the country, with one of the highest crime rates. It's not some homey small town where everyone's friends with everyone else and we all get together and have fried chicken on Sundays. It's dangerous."

"I--I know," I stammered, confused and afraid. He was being as paranoid as Mom was, and I couldn't understand why.

"Really? Because you don't seem like it." Dad just stared at me angrily for a moment and then reiterated, "A pretty sixteen-year-old girl like yourself shouldn't be out on the streets alone at night. It's not safe."

"I wasn't out on the streets," I argued, suddenly gaining more confidence as I felt anger rising up in my chest. Who was he to be taking my irrational mother's side? "I went to a coffee shop--"

"I don't care," Dad interrupted. "I don't want you out anywhere alone at night, period. From now on, you don't leave this house without my permission, is that understood?"

I stared and let out a little humorless gasp of a laugh, completely taken aback by this whole turn of events. "What? Dad, you're being ridiculous--"

"No, I'm being responsible," said Dad firmly. "I promised your mother I'd take good care of you while she was gone, and I'm not about to let you put yourself in danger."

"Is that what this is about?" I demanded shrilly, growing more and more furious by the second. "Mom? Mom put you up to this?"

"No one put me up to anything!" yelled Dad so loudly that I jumped and took another step back, cowering away from his anger. "I am your father, and you do what I say without questioning me! Is that clear?"

I nodded soundlessly, terrified.

"I said, is that clear?!" he bellowed.

"Yes," I said quietly--the single syllable came out in a squeak of fear.

Dad just stared fiercely at me for another few seconds and then said, now in his brooding rumble of a voice once again, "Go to your room."

Side-stepping him flinchingly, I fled, eager to be away from him and his red face and impossibly huge body and deafening voice. Once in my room, I closed the door and locked it and just sat on my bed for a long time, thinking.

I couldn't understand why Dad got so upset. Maybe I was wrong to backtalk him, but why was he so angry with me just for going to a coffee shop? Thousands and thousands of kids my age lived in Vegas and went out by themselves every night--like Brendon, for instance (I quickly pushed him to the back of my mind again). It couldn't possibly be as dangerous as he and my mother made it out to be. They were just being absurd.

After a while, I pulled back the covers and slid down under them, hiding away from the world as I cried myself to sleep as per usual.