Chapter 9 - The Pickup Line We Didn't Stop In
That afternoon Daddy said he would take us for ice cream after school pickup, which wasn't normal. Normally the maid walked us to the corner and waited with the other moms and nannies while we lined up by cones. That day he had us in the back of his black SUV before the bell even rang at the other building, all three of us buckled in our dresses from that morning. My floral one was wrinkled now. I had my bunny in my lap and I kept smoothing its ears down flat.
My oldest sister in pink kept checking her shoes. My little sister in lavender kicked the back of Daddy's seat without meaning to, then froze.
"Daddy," she whispered, "we're going to miss our line."
He didn't look back. His eyes stayed on the side mirror. "Not today. We're just driving through."
I remembered the way his tattooed hand rested on the wheel, the knuckles tight. He'd changed his shirt but kept the same black jacket. Under it I knew where the dark shape sat at his waist. I tried not to stare at it anymore after the kitchen. I stared anyway.
The pickup line curled around the front of the school in a slow U. Orange cones, teachers with clipboards, minivans idling with their blinkers on. Kids with backpacks bigger than them. I saw our usual spot by the fence where the maid always stood with her hands folded over her apron, even though she wasn't there now. My stomach dropped when Daddy didn't turn in.
"Keep your heads down?" he said, but it wasn't really a question. He pulled into the through lane and crept past.
That's when Mrs. Allen saw us.
She was standing by her white Tahoe with the trunk open, wearing a tennis skirt and sunglasses pushed up on her head. She did charity stuff with Mom once, I thought. She had a clipboard for the gala. She waved hard and stepped closer to our car before Daddy could speed up.
"Dominic! Hey!" She knocked lightly on his window and he had to roll it down. The air conditioner air spilled out into the hot parking lot. "I was just going to text your wife. Are you guys coming Saturday? We saved your table for the gala."
The line moved a foot. A teacher blew a whistle. Behind us someone honked, short, not mean.
Daddy smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. I knew that smile from pictures. "Wouldn't miss it," he said.
Mrs. Allen leaned down a little to see us in the back. "Hi girls! Tell your mom I need her centerpiece vote. She's got the best eye."
My pink-dress sister looked at Daddy. My lavender sister looked at me. I held my bunny tighter and felt its stuffing thin between my fingers.
Daddy's hand tapped once on the wheel. "She's visiting family out of town," he said quickly. "She'll check her messages when she's back."
It came out smooth. Too smooth. I heard the pause before it, small but there, the way he'd paused in the kitchen before he said my name. Lucia, what is it? That same breath.
Mrs. Allen nodded. "Oh, of course. Send her my love. Hope everything's okay."
"Everything's fine," Daddy said. "Excuse us."
He rolled the window up before she could say anything else and pulled forward out of the line, past the buses, past the crosswalk guard holding his stop sign. None of the teachers called our names because we never stopped to be called. In the mirror I watched Mrs. Allen write something on her clipboard.
Nobody talked for two blocks. The ice cream place came and went on our right and Daddy didn't slow down. The pink-dress sister finally unbuckled and leaned forward.
"You said Mom was—" she started.
Daddy cut her off, gentle but firm. "Girls. Don't worry about grown-up plans."
But I was worrying. I kept his words lined up in my head the way I lined up crayons. She's visiting family out of town. Everything's fine. I knew Mom didn't have family out of town. Grandma lived forty minutes away by the highway and Mom always drove us there herself on Sundays. Visiting family meant something else. It meant gone.
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Back at a red light, Daddy glanced at us in the rearview. His eyes caught mine and held them a second too long. I didn't look away this time. I wanted him to know I heard it.
When we got home I didn't tell the maid what he said right away. I went to my room and whispered it into my bunny's ear so I wouldn't forget the exact words. Visiting family. Fine. I pressed the words into its fur like I could save them there. I didn't know the word lie yet, not really, but I knew the feeling in my chest had gotten heavier, like water filling up my shoes.
