Chapter 2: The Hand On My Shoulder
His hand stayed. That was the thing I kept waiting for, for it to lift off or squeeze too hard. It just rested there, warm through my pink dress, not moving at all.
I couldn't look at him. I stared at the white velcro sneakers I'd kicked out in front of me and at the light wood floor where the dust showed in the daylight. My cheek throbbed under the skin. Every time I breathed my chest hitched and my knees pressed harder into my chest. I was still hugging them like if I let go something worse would happen.
"Millie, who scared you?" he'd asked. His voice hadn't gone loud. That was why I didn't know what to do with it. If he'd been mad I would have known the script.
Behind him, the living room was too quiet. The yellow balloon from earlier was still floating near the ceiling, bumping soft against the light fixture every time the air moved. I could see Mom out of focus behind Dad's shoulder, her dark green dress, her arms still crossed. Grandpa Ray was just past her in his blue shirt, not saying anything, just standing there.
Dad was close enough that I could see the crease between his eyebrows. He wasn't rushing me. His other hand was open on his knee, palm up like he was waiting for me to decide to put mine there.
I swallowed and my throat clicked. I needed to give him something so he would stop asking.
"I just fell down, I was being clumsy," I said. The sentence came out all in one piece, too fast. My voice cracked on clumsy.
The lie sat in the air between us. I felt it right away because my body didn't agree with it. My shoulders pulled up toward my ears under his hand and I flinched, just a tiny jerk, even though he hadn't moved.
Dad's eyes flicked down to where my hands were locked around my shins. My knuckles had gone white. My left sneaker was trembling even though I was trying to hold still. He saw it. I saw him see it.
He didn't call me a liar. He just breathed in through his nose, slow.
Before he could say anything, Mom's voice cut in from behind him. She'd taken half a step closer but she still had that distance in her posture.
"She's worked up from the party," she said, quiet and even. "She had too much sugar and got overtired. You know how she gets. It's probably just a scratch from playing."
She said it like she was helping. Like she was explaining me to him so he wouldn't worry. I felt my stomach drop because overtired made it sound like nothing, like the red mark on my face was the same as spilling juice.
Dad didn't turn around right away. He kept looking at me, his hand still light on my shoulder. Then he glanced back at her over his shoulder.
"She's shaking, Lauren," he said. His voice was still low, careful. He didn't argue with her, he just named what was in front of us.
Grandpa Ray shifted his weight. He cleared his throat but didn't speak. The balloon bumped the ceiling again.
I wanted Dad to look back at me but I also wanted him to not look at me. My eyes were filling again and I hated that. I bit the inside of my lip to keep it from trembling.
Dad leaned in a fraction, enough that his yellow shirt filled my view and blocked Mom out for a second. His eyes softened and he tipped his head like he was trying to get level with mine.
"Okay, honey," he whispered, just to me. "Okay. You don't have to say it here."
He wasn't going to make me answer in front of everyone. I felt his hand lift just enough to rub once, gently, on the seam of my dress where my shoulder met my arm, then settle again.
He looked back toward Mom and Grandpa Ray, not angry, just decided.
"I'm going to take her to her room for a minute," he said. "Just us. She needs some quiet."
Mom's arms tightened across her chest. Her mouth pressed into a line.
"There's no need to make it a big thing," she said, but she didn't move to stop him. "She'll calm down if we just let it go."
Dad nodded once, like he'd heard her, but he was already turning back to me. He eased his hand under my arm, not pulling, just offering.
"Come on, Millie-girl," he said softly. "Let's you and me talk, just you and me. You can tell me or not tell me. We're just going to sit somewhere quiet, okay?"
May you like
I stared at his open palm. The trembling in my sneaker had moved up into my knees. The cheek mark burned. I didn't know what would happen in my room, but his hand was still patient, still not squeezing, and the spot on the floor where I was sitting suddenly felt too exposed with everyone watching.
I loosened one hand from around my legs and put it in his.
