Chapter 6
The double doors hissed shut behind us and the parking lot air hit my face, cold after the hallway fluorescents. I kept both hands on my backpack straps, the brown leather patch pressed against my gray hoodie. My dad's hand hovered near my shoulder but didn't land there. He walked half a step ahead, like he wasn't sure if I wanted him close.
His truck was at the far end, past the visitor spaces, an old white F-150 with highway crew mud still caked on the wheel wells. I stared at the cracked asphalt the whole way. I could hear his boots and my sneakers hitting the ground out of sync, and the wind moving through the flagpole rope.
When we got to the truck he stepped around me and opened the passenger door. The hinge squeaked.
He held it open and waited.
I slid in. The seat was cold through my jeans. I pulled my backpack up onto my knees and held it there with both hands, just like I'd held it in the hallway. The fabric was damp where my palms had been. Dad closed the door gently and came around to the driver's side.
Inside, the cab smelled like coffee and sawdust and the orange cleaner he used on his hands. He didn't start the engine right away. He sat with his hands on the wheel, breathing. I watched his knuckles.
"You okay to ride like that?" he asked.
I nodded, my throat tight. I didn't let go of the backpack.
He turned the key and the engine caught, rough, then steadied. He backed out slowly, past the rows of parents' cars and the school buses. I watched the brick front of the school get smaller in the side mirror. The green lockers were gone from view, but I could still see them in my head, that right wall, the cool light.
At the stop sign at the edge of the lot, he paused longer than he needed to.
I said it before I could think it through. My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.
"I only called because they said you wouldn't come."
He glanced over. "What did they say exactly?"
I swallowed. My hands tightened on the backpack.
"Tyler said, 'Call your dad. Go on.' And then he said you never come. That you work on the highway crew and you don't care about school stuff." The words felt stupid once they were out. I stared at my knees. "I thought if I didn't call, they'd just keep filming."
Dad's jaw moved. He didn't answer right away. He pulled onto the county road.
For a block, the only sound was the heater blowing. Then he said, "I should've picked up more."
I looked up.
"Last couple weeks," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "You called twice after practice. I was on double shift, up near mile marker forty. I saw it after, but I figured you'd be home. I told myself I'd call back after dinner, then I didn't." He flexed his hands on the wheel. "That's on me."
I felt my eyes sting again. I hadn't even remembered those calls until he said it. They hadn't felt important at the time.
"You didn't do anything wrong by calling me," he said. His voice was quiet. "I'm glad you did."
I nodded fast and looked away so he wouldn't see my face. I hugged the backpack closer. The zipper pressed into my palm.
We passed the diner on Route 9, the one with the flickering open sign and the parking lot that was always half full of work trucks. I watched it go by. The county road was empty except for us. The fields were brown and cut low, the sky flat white.
In the window reflection, I saw myself, gray hoodie, hair messed from clutching that bag, and behind me, not really there, the hallway again. Tyler's phone held horizontal, the red recording light. Jace with his arms crossed, then standing left foreground, smirking. The way the fluorescent light had made everything look pale and sharp. The dull thud I'd heard somewhere between their words, maybe a locker door, maybe my own heart. I kept replaying how I'd held the backpack chest-level the whole time and how my hands had trembled even though I'd tried to keep them still.
Dad didn't turn on the radio. He just drove.
After a minute he cleared his throat. "Tomorrow," he said. "That meeting they want. Principal said ten a.m."
"I know," I said.
"I told my foreman I'm out," he said. "No matter what shift they put down. I'm there. Ten sharp. You won't have to call twice."
My breath caught. I didn't say thank you, I just held the backpack tighter and stared at the road ahead, where our street was coming up.
May you like
He pulled into our driveway and put the truck in park but left it running. The house was dark, mom's car not there yet. The porch light was on. My backpack sat heavy on my knees, unopened. The letter inside that I'd folded three times felt like it was burning through the gray fabric.
I knew Dad would ask about it inside, and I had to decide if I was going to let him see it.
