Chapter 15 - I Finally Asked Dad If He Wanted To Leave
Spring came slowly.
Coach Brody's resignation became permanent.
The school review concluded that donor-directed aid had bypassed parts of Hawthorne's normal financial-aid process.
Students were not punished for arrangements they hadn't knowingly created.
Thomas Merritt stopped funding basketball.
The program survived.
Budget got uglier.
People complained.
Then adjusted.
Coach Lewis stayed as interim head coach through the season.
Jordan never stopped insisting he should be paid for emotional leadership.
Malik's family received replacement aid.
So did two other players.
Dad kept working cafeteria.
That surprised me.
My tuition no longer depended entirely on the job by March. Hawthorne created a temporary assistance pool while the donor mess was unwound.
Dad could have left.
He didn't.
One afternoon, I found him loading trays.
“You staying?”
“Until summer.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Mrs. Alvarez offered me kitchen operations work next year.”
I stared.
“You're serious?”
“Part-time. I can rebuild flooring jobs around it.”
“You want to?”
He looked offended.
“Why is that surprising?”
I caught myself.
It shouldn't have been.
“Sorry.”
“Good.”
He slid a tray into place.
I watched.
Then:
“I got into Mason College.”
His hands stopped.
He knew I'd applied.
Didn't know the result.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
His face changed.
Proud.
Then he controlled it because he was trying not to decide for me.
It was almost painful to watch.
“And Brookfield State.”
“Good.”
“And North Coast.”
“Very good.”
“Mason wants me more.”
“What does that mean?”
“More playing time.”
“What do you want?”
I smiled.
“Still working on it.”
He nodded.
I looked around the cafeteria.
The room was mostly empty.
I had avoided standing exactly where the video happened for months.
Now I did.
Dad noticed.
Neither of us mentioned it.
I asked:
“Do you want to leave Hawthorne?”
He frowned.
“What?”
“After I graduate.”
He thought.
“Maybe.”
“For what?”
“Company's picking up.”
“So flooring?”
“Some.”
“Cafeteria?”
“Maybe.”
I laughed.
“You have no plan.”
“I have several.”
“That is not what you've been teaching me.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You learned that phrase from Mom.”
“Yes.”
He wiped the counter.
I looked at him.
“Did you ever think about leaving the first day?”
“Every twenty minutes.”
“Because of kids?”
“Because my back hurt.”
I laughed.
Then:
“After what I did?”
Dad stopped wiping.
“Yes.”
My smile disappeared.
He leaned against the counter.
“I thought about walking out.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I was angry.”
“That sounds like a reason to leave.”
“It would've meant you'd decided whether I could stand being seen there.”
I stared.
He continued.
“I didn't want your shame making my career decisions.”
That one belonged entirely to him.
Not me.
I swallowed.
“I’m still sorry.”
“I know.”
“Do you forgive me?”
Dad looked toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Alvarez was shouting at someone about freezer temperatures.
He thought longer than I expected.
“Mostly.”
I laughed softly.
“Mostly?”
“You wanted honesty.”
“I did.”
“I still remember it sometimes when you act like an ass.”
“Great.”
“It has motivational value.”
I smiled.
Then he became serious.
“You don't need a complete answer from me either.”
I nodded.
At graduation two months later, Dad wore a suit.
Not because I asked.
Because Mom threatened him.
Denise Reed sat two rows away in a bright green dress.
Jordan claimed she'd chosen it specifically to ruin his photos.
Malik's parents came early.
Coach Brody stood near the back of the auditorium.
He had been invited by several families.
Nobody announced him.
Thomas Merritt did not attend.
My name was called.
I crossed the stage.
For one second, bright lights made it impossible to see anybody.
Then I heard Dad.
Not yelling instructions.
Not correcting anything.
Just clapping.
Afterward, we took pictures outside.
Mom wanted one with all three of us.
Dad complained about the sun.
I complained about the gown.
Normal family behavior.
Jordan came over.
“You decide?”
“College?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You have four days.”
“I know.”
He looked at Dad.
“What's he want?”
Dad answered before I could.
“Not my decision.”
Jordan groaned.
“You people are exhausting.”
Later, after everyone had left, I found the old sealed Brookside envelope in a desk drawer.
Still unopened.
The meeting date had passed months earlier.
I brought it to Dad.
“Throw it away?”
He looked at it.
“Your call.”
I tore it open.
Not because I needed anything inside anymore.
The packet held directions to Brookside High, transfer deadlines, a counselor's card.
Ordinary paper.
At the bottom Mom had written:
Going to look is not the same as leaving.
I smiled.
Dad read it over my shoulder.
“She stole that from me.”
“No chance.”
We threw the outdated forms away.
I kept the counselor's card.
I don't know why.
Maybe because I had finally stopped needing every option to become a decision.
That summer Dad's flooring business picked up again.
He reduced his cafeteria hours.
Didn't quit.
I chose Mason College three days before the deadline.
Not because Coach wanted it.
Not because Dad liked it.
Not because a donor promised anything.
I chose it because I liked the coach, the academic program and the chance to compete early.
Maybe I was wrong.
Seventeen-year-olds are allowed to be wrong without every adult rearranging the world to prevent it.
On my last day before leaving for college, I met Dad at Hawthorne for lunch.
He came through the kitchen doors wearing the same uniform I'd once been ashamed of.
There was a tray in his hands.
He stopped a few feet away.
We both looked at it.
Dad raised an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
I took the tray.
“Depends what's on it.”
“Chicken.”
“Then yes.”
He laughed.
I carried it to a table myself.
Dad went back behind the counter.
A freshman nearby looked at me, then at him.
“That's your dad?”
A year earlier, I would have heard the question underneath the question.
Now I just answered the one he'd asked.
“Yeah.”
Dad glanced over.
I lifted the tray.
“Unfortunately.”
He threw a napkin at me.
The kid laughed.
May you like
So did I.
And when Dad turned back to work, I didn't need him to explain why he was still there.
