Alex, Approximately
Page 61
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“And because it will take you at least that long to build up your settlements,” I tell her.
“Is there a dungeon master?” Porter asks.
Dad and I both chuckle.
“What?” Porter says, grinning.
“We have so much to teach you,” I say, putting my hand on his. “And there’s no dungeon master. Wrong kind of game nerd.”
“Is this more or less boring than Monopoly?” Grace asks.
“Less,” Dad and I say together.
“Monopoly is for losers,” Dad informs her.
Porter frowns. “I love Monopoly.”
“We have an entire chest full of old board games,” I whisper loudly to him.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Wanda says on a heavy sigh.
“Now might be a good time to break out that expensive bottle of wine you guys brought back from San Francisco,” I suggest.
Porter grins at me and rubs his hands together excitedly. “This looks super weird. I’m so in. Let’s play.”
God, I love him. I don’t even know why I was so worried before. This is all fine now.
Dad unpacks the game and explains all the rules, confusing everyone in the process. We finally just start playing and teach as we go. They get the hang of it. I’m not sure if they like it as much as Dad and I do, but everyone seems to be having fun. We’re laughing and goofing around a lot, anyway. Everything’s going great, until about an hour into the game.
The pizza made me thirsty. I excuse myself to get some iced tea from the kitchen and ask if anyone else needs a refill. My dad does, so I leave to fetch tea for both of us. While I’m headed away from the table, my dad says, “Thanks, Mink.”
Behind me, I hear Porter ask my dad, “What did you call her?”
“Huh? Oh, ‘Mink’? That’s just a childhood nickname,” my dad says through the open doorway.
“I hear you call her that all the time,” Wanda remarks, “but you never told me why.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” Dad says.
I groan as I pour our tea, but my dad is already in storytelling mode, and I can hear him from the kitchen.
“This is how it came about. When Bailey was younger, fourteen years old, she was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” I glance back briefly to see him giving Wanda a lift of his brows that tells me they’ve had this conversation, so she knows about the shooting. “The entire time she was there, the TV was stuck on the classic movie station. You know, with all the old movie stars—Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. Night and day, that’s all that was on. We were so worried about her, that by the time anyone thought to change the channel, she’d already started to actually like some of the movies and wouldn’t let us change it.”
I sigh dramatically as I walk back through the doorway onto the porch and set down our glasses of tea.
“Anyway, for a few days, after surgery, it was a little touch and go. And being a dad, I was worried, of course. I told her if she healed up and made it out of the hospital, I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Most girls her age would probably say, I don’t know—a car? A pony? A trip to Florida with her friends? Not Bailey. She saw those glamorous actresses wearing all those fur coats before it wasn’t PC to do so anymore, and she said, ‘Daddy, I want a mink coat.’”
Wanda guffaws. “Did you get her one?”
“A fake fur,” Dad says. “It was just the attitude I never forgot. And she still loves those old movies. Is everything all right, Porter?”
As I’m scooting my chair back under the table, I glance up and see that Porter has a peculiar look on his face. He looks like someone just told him his dog died.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He’s staring at the table and won’t look at me. He was just laughing and clowning around a minute ago, now all of a sudden he’s clammed up and his jaw looks as if it’s made of stone and might break off.
Everyone’s staring at him. He shuffles around in his seat and brings his hand up with his phone. “I got a text from my mom. Gotta go, sorry.”
No way. The old I got a text trick? That’s an Artful Dodger maneuver. He just pulled my own con on me?
“What’s wrong?” I say again, standing up from the table with him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “It’s no big deal. She just needs my help and it can’t wait. Sorry.” He seems agitated and distracted. “Thanks for dinner and stuff.”
“Anytime,” my dad says, worry creasing a line through his brow as he shares a look with Wanda. “You’re always welcome here.”
“See you, Grace,” Porter mumbles.
I can barely keep up with Porter as he strides toward the front door, and when we’re outside, he bounds down the steps without looking at me. Now I’m freaking. Maybe he really did get a text, but it wasn’t from his mom. Because there’s only one person that makes him this intense, and if he’s avoiding my dad and Wanda, I’m worried it might have something to do with Davy.
“Porter,” I call as he heads down the driveway.
“Gotta go,” he says.
That just makes me mad. He can avoid my dad all he wants, but me? “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He spins around, and his face is suddenly livid with anger. “Was this some sick game?”
“Huh?” I’m completely confused. He’s not making any sense, and his gaze is shifting all over my face. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen?” I ask. “Is this about Davy? Did he do something again? Please talk to me.”
“What?” Bewilderment clouds his face. He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, mumbling, “This is so screwed up. I can’t . . . I gotta go home.”
“Porter!” I shout to his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look my way again. I just stand helplessly, cradling my elbows in the driveway, watching as his van rumbles to life and disappears down the street around the redwood trees.
“The time to make up your mind about people is never.”
—Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story (1940)
25
I text.
I call.
I text.
I call.
He doesn’t respond.
Grace tries, too, but he doesn’t answer her, either. “I’m sure it’s some stupid misunderstanding,” she assures me. But I’m pretty positive she doesn’t believe that.
After Grace goes home, I continue to replay the entire porch conversation in my head, looking for clues, trying to remember exactly when I noticed something was wrong. I ask my dad, but he’s no help. I’m so anguished, I even ask Wanda, and when I can tell by the expression on her face that even she feels pity for my desperate state, I nearly start sobbing in front of her, and that’s when I know things have gone to hell in a handbasket.
“He claimed he got a text sometime during or after your dad was telling that story,” Wanda says.
I rub the sockets of my eyes with the heel of my palms; my head’s throbbing. On top of this, I think I’m getting sick. “But why wouldn’t he tell me about it?”
“I hate to ask this,” my dad says in a gentle voice, “but did you do anything that may have wounded his feelings? Lie to him in some way that he may have found out about?”
“Is there a dungeon master?” Porter asks.
Dad and I both chuckle.
“What?” Porter says, grinning.
“We have so much to teach you,” I say, putting my hand on his. “And there’s no dungeon master. Wrong kind of game nerd.”
“Is this more or less boring than Monopoly?” Grace asks.
“Less,” Dad and I say together.
“Monopoly is for losers,” Dad informs her.
Porter frowns. “I love Monopoly.”
“We have an entire chest full of old board games,” I whisper loudly to him.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Wanda says on a heavy sigh.
“Now might be a good time to break out that expensive bottle of wine you guys brought back from San Francisco,” I suggest.
Porter grins at me and rubs his hands together excitedly. “This looks super weird. I’m so in. Let’s play.”
God, I love him. I don’t even know why I was so worried before. This is all fine now.
Dad unpacks the game and explains all the rules, confusing everyone in the process. We finally just start playing and teach as we go. They get the hang of it. I’m not sure if they like it as much as Dad and I do, but everyone seems to be having fun. We’re laughing and goofing around a lot, anyway. Everything’s going great, until about an hour into the game.
The pizza made me thirsty. I excuse myself to get some iced tea from the kitchen and ask if anyone else needs a refill. My dad does, so I leave to fetch tea for both of us. While I’m headed away from the table, my dad says, “Thanks, Mink.”
Behind me, I hear Porter ask my dad, “What did you call her?”
“Huh? Oh, ‘Mink’? That’s just a childhood nickname,” my dad says through the open doorway.
“I hear you call her that all the time,” Wanda remarks, “but you never told me why.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” Dad says.
I groan as I pour our tea, but my dad is already in storytelling mode, and I can hear him from the kitchen.
“This is how it came about. When Bailey was younger, fourteen years old, she was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.” I glance back briefly to see him giving Wanda a lift of his brows that tells me they’ve had this conversation, so she knows about the shooting. “The entire time she was there, the TV was stuck on the classic movie station. You know, with all the old movie stars—Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn. Night and day, that’s all that was on. We were so worried about her, that by the time anyone thought to change the channel, she’d already started to actually like some of the movies and wouldn’t let us change it.”
I sigh dramatically as I walk back through the doorway onto the porch and set down our glasses of tea.
“Anyway, for a few days, after surgery, it was a little touch and go. And being a dad, I was worried, of course. I told her if she healed up and made it out of the hospital, I’d buy her whatever she wanted. Most girls her age would probably say, I don’t know—a car? A pony? A trip to Florida with her friends? Not Bailey. She saw those glamorous actresses wearing all those fur coats before it wasn’t PC to do so anymore, and she said, ‘Daddy, I want a mink coat.’”
Wanda guffaws. “Did you get her one?”
“A fake fur,” Dad says. “It was just the attitude I never forgot. And she still loves those old movies. Is everything all right, Porter?”
As I’m scooting my chair back under the table, I glance up and see that Porter has a peculiar look on his face. He looks like someone just told him his dog died.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He’s staring at the table and won’t look at me. He was just laughing and clowning around a minute ago, now all of a sudden he’s clammed up and his jaw looks as if it’s made of stone and might break off.
Everyone’s staring at him. He shuffles around in his seat and brings his hand up with his phone. “I got a text from my mom. Gotta go, sorry.”
No way. The old I got a text trick? That’s an Artful Dodger maneuver. He just pulled my own con on me?
“What’s wrong?” I say again, standing up from the table with him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he mutters. “It’s no big deal. She just needs my help and it can’t wait. Sorry.” He seems agitated and distracted. “Thanks for dinner and stuff.”
“Anytime,” my dad says, worry creasing a line through his brow as he shares a look with Wanda. “You’re always welcome here.”
“See you, Grace,” Porter mumbles.
I can barely keep up with Porter as he strides toward the front door, and when we’re outside, he bounds down the steps without looking at me. Now I’m freaking. Maybe he really did get a text, but it wasn’t from his mom. Because there’s only one person that makes him this intense, and if he’s avoiding my dad and Wanda, I’m worried it might have something to do with Davy.
“Porter,” I call as he heads down the driveway.
“Gotta go,” he says.
That just makes me mad. He can avoid my dad all he wants, but me? “Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He spins around, and his face is suddenly livid with anger. “Was this some sick game?”
“Huh?” I’m completely confused. He’s not making any sense, and his gaze is shifting all over my face. “You’re scaring me. Did something happen?” I ask. “Is this about Davy? Did he do something again? Please talk to me.”
“What?” Bewilderment clouds his face. He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, mumbling, “This is so screwed up. I can’t . . . I gotta go home.”
“Porter!” I shout to his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look my way again. I just stand helplessly, cradling my elbows in the driveway, watching as his van rumbles to life and disappears down the street around the redwood trees.
“The time to make up your mind about people is never.”
—Katharine Hepburn, The Philadelphia Story (1940)
25
I text.
I call.
I text.
I call.
He doesn’t respond.
Grace tries, too, but he doesn’t answer her, either. “I’m sure it’s some stupid misunderstanding,” she assures me. But I’m pretty positive she doesn’t believe that.
After Grace goes home, I continue to replay the entire porch conversation in my head, looking for clues, trying to remember exactly when I noticed something was wrong. I ask my dad, but he’s no help. I’m so anguished, I even ask Wanda, and when I can tell by the expression on her face that even she feels pity for my desperate state, I nearly start sobbing in front of her, and that’s when I know things have gone to hell in a handbasket.
“He claimed he got a text sometime during or after your dad was telling that story,” Wanda says.
I rub the sockets of my eyes with the heel of my palms; my head’s throbbing. On top of this, I think I’m getting sick. “But why wouldn’t he tell me about it?”
“I hate to ask this,” my dad says in a gentle voice, “but did you do anything that may have wounded his feelings? Lie to him in some way that he may have found out about?”
