Gotcha (16 page)

I hear his tires spin on the loose gravel when he drives away.

Mom’s watching
TV
in the living room. “Home so soon?” she asks.

I take the remote control off the coffee table and hit the power switch.

“What are you doing?” she asks as the
TV
goes off.

“We need to talk,” I tell her.

“About what?” she asks, squirming uneasily in the armchair.

“About Dad.”

She sighs and sits up. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did he leave?”

“We weren’t getting along.”

“Why?”

“That’s between your father and me,” she says.

“And me,” I tell her. “I have a right to know. I’m still part of this family, in case you forgot.”

“What happened tonight?” she asks. “Why the sudden interest in your dad?”

“Sudden interest?” I could spit at her. “I haven’t known how to talk to you about him! You were acting like nothing was out of the ordinary around here.”

Mom rubs her face with both hands. “To be honest, honey, it’s been a relief to have your dad gone. He can’t get at my money anymore, and I don’t have to worry about what he’s doing or where he is. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.”

“He hasn’t been out of my mind. I miss him.”

“I’m sorry, Katie.”

We sit in awkward silence for a moment. Then she gets up, shuffles to the kitchen and plugs the kettle in. She’s wearing her housecoat and ratty slippers. It has always irritated me that she does nothing outside of going to work. She doesn’t take classes, she has no hobbies or friends, and she doesn’t exercise. She watches
TV
and makes cookies all weekend. No wonder Dad had to go out at night. This is all her fault.

“You didn’t tell me what happened to prompt this conversation,” she says.

I decide to lay it on her. “I was at Paige’s tonight, and she said Dad has a gambling addiction.”

Mom slumps against the wall between the kitchen and the living room. She crosses her arms across her ample chest. Her eyes shine too brightly as she studies the ceiling.

“Well, does he?” I challenge.

“I could never bring myself to say those words.” She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her housecoat and shrugs. “I guess I’ve been in denial.” She nods. “But Paige is right. I used to think of it as just a problem, but I suppose it’s spiraled into a full-blown addiction.”

“You’re serious?”

Mom nods but doesn’t look at me.

I collapse back on the couch. “How come I never knew anything about this?”

“I guess you chose not to see it.”

“I chose not to see it? What are you talking about? You hid it from me!”

“For a long time your dad has been your hero, Katie, and for some reason I’ve been the bad parent in your eyes. You didn’t see his faults.”

The kettle whistles and Mom pours the water into the teapot. She sets it on a tray with mugs, brings them into the living room and settles herself back in the armchair. “I never knew what I did to make you dislike me so much, Katie. Maybe it was jealousy. You wanted your dad all to yourself.”

“That’s stupid.”

She shrugs. “Anyway, your dad will never admit he has a problem.”

I watch Mom pour the tea. “I don’t believe this.”

Mom doesn’t say anything.

“How can you be addicted to gambling?”

“I’m not really sure because I don’t gamble. But from what I know, once a person becomes addicted—to anything—they no longer have a choice. It’s like a brain disease. I guess your dad has to gamble to make himself feel normal. Otherwise, he feels crazy.”

“He said he was a day trader, whatever that is.”

“I guess he was, though not very successfully. And maybe that’s just another kind of gambling.”

I kick the coffee table with my good foot. The cups rattle. “I feel so stupid! Paige knew and I didn’t.”

She nods sympathetically. “Paige’s father has been a loyal friend to your dad. He’s tried to help him, but I gather he’s finally given up.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so hard on him.”

“Hard on him?”

“Yeah! You were always nagging him. Picking on him. Maybe you drove him to gambling.”

Mom frowns. “I know it’s hard to hear these things about your dad, Katie. But blaming me isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Maybe not,” I tell her, getting off the couch. “But it might explain a few things!”

I storm out of the room and up the stairs to my bedroom.

Later, when I hear Mom shut the door to her bedroom, I go back downstairs and turn on the computer. I check for messages from Dad. Nothing. I check to see if Joel is on the chat line. He’s not.

I pour myself a glass of milk and sink into a kitchen chair. I’m feeling a twinge of guilt about the things I said to Mom. But how could she say those things about my dad, her own husband? She and Paige are wrong about him. They have to be. He’s invested the Gotcha money in something good. I know it. Won’t they be surprised when they find out how much money I’ve made.

Maybe my last e-mail never got to him. That happens. I decide to send him another one and test him.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Subject: $$$

hi dad so whats happenin with the investment? it looks like i’m gonna need the $ sooner than later. fetterly is makin us quit playing gotcha & im sposed to return everyones $$$. how soon b 4 i can get mine back?

my ankle is starting 2 get better. i can put some weight on it now. i hope everything is ok w/ u. pls write 2 me soon!

luv, katie

I wrestle with my blankets all night. Mom is wrong. I know my dad better than anyone. He’s the soft-spoken guy who used to help me turn the living room into a campground on rainy days. We’d build a fire in the fireplace and nestle in our blanket-and-broomstick tent playing board games, giggling, making jigsaw puzzles and reading together with flashlights. We didn’t even bother getting dressed or brushing our teeth. I smile, remembering.

But then I remember how these afternoons ended. Mom would come home and fume when she saw the mess we’d created, our breakfast and lunch dishes still lying on the kitchen counter, or on the coffee table, which was our picnic bench. I dreaded the sound of her car in the driveway because that meant the fun was over.

Dad is not a gambling addict. He just got tired of living with a cranky wife.

I alternate between doing homework and playing games on the computer all day Saturday, and I check for e-mails about
every ten minutes. I try hard not to think about how quickly Dad got back to me when I told him I had some money, or how fast he showed up at the door.

Sunday arrives and I become even more fixated on the computer. Mom passes behind me and says ever-so-helpful things like “A watched kettle never boils.” Dad memories are flooding my consciousness. I slip into their bedroom and open the closet. His clothes still hang there and I pull a shirt to my face, inhaling the lingering scent of his aftershave. I yank the shirt off the hanger and crouch in the closet, pressing it to my face. I can hear his tenor voice belting out love songs, and I imagine him downstairs, flipping pancakes in the kitchen. Then I hear my own squeals, and I squirm, remembering his whisker rubs against my cheek. He’d plunk me on the bathroom counter, and I watched while he applied shaving cream and then used the razor to scrape off the white foam. When the job was done, he rubbed his smooth face against my cheek.

I use his shirt to dry my eyes and wipe my nose.

Dad hasn’t given me a whisker rub in years. We gave those up with piggyback rides and games of I Spy. Now that I think of it, as I went from being a little girl to a teenager, Dad went through his own changes. The whiskers didn’t get shaved so often, and instead of hanging out or playing games with him, I’d have to tiptoe around him as he lay dozing in his housecoat on the couch each afternoon. I haven’t heard him sing a love song in years.

Late Sunday afternoon, as I sit staring at a screen showing an empty in-box, I finally allow the truth to sink in. Dad is not going to write to me, and he’s not writing to me because the money is gone.

Pieces of the puzzle that I’d never dared examine before start to slide together. The late nights. The fighting. I’m beginning to see a complete picture.

I run a bath and sit in the tub, allowing the tears to fall. My dad was my rock, the solid foundation of my life. I could always count on him. Now that the rock has crumbled, what can I believe in? Who can I count on? Dad loved me above all else. Why did he do this to me?

Neither Mom nor I speak during dinner. Mom slices her roast beef and shoves huge portions into her mouth. I try not to notice, but the noise of her chewing is making me sick.

By the time we’re finished, I’m mad. Furious. My dad used me. Me! His only daughter. He knew I trusted him completely and he took advantage of that. And then he left me here. With her.

I’m also desperate. I’ve lost the Gotcha money. Now I have to win the stupid game. There’s no other way out of this mess. I cannot tell my entire class that I gave away the money. Look what they did to me at Tyson’s party. I can only imagine what this would set off. The photo Fetterly showed us of the girl with the lacerated face haunts me, and so does the image of Stephen in his wheelchair.

Back at the computer, I check the Facebook group page but it’s gone. Odd.

Taking a deep breath, I dial Joel’s number. He answers after a couple of rings.

“Hey, Joel.”

“Katie.” His voice is flat.

“Did you get your bead?”

“I did. And Conner’s too. I’m up to four.”

“Hey, way to go. And all on your own.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s your next victim?”

There’s a long pause. “Guess.”

Oh no. I put the phone to my other ear. “Me?”

He laughs. “No. But I guess we better talk about what we do if that happens.”

“Yeah.” Phew. He’s beginning to sound more like his old self. “Who then?”

“Tyson.”

“Are you serious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh my God.”

“I know. And he’s got lots of beads, so this is going to be so sweet.”

Something tells me it’s not going to be sweet at all, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

“So what happened to the Facebook group page?” I ask.

“Warren decided it had to go. If Fetterly found out about it, we’d all get nailed.”

“Good plan.” Once again I’m surprised by Warren’s thinking.

“But I hear there are only twenty of us left.”

“Huh.” I might actually have a chance at this.

The line goes quiet.

“So,” I say, feeling shy all of a sudden. “Are you still going to help me get Warren’s bead?”

“You’re feeling better?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Girl stuff, you know.” Paige once told me that you can get a lot of mileage from that excuse.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Paige also said that the boy would just say “oh” and drop it. She was wrong. “I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t explain why you pushed me away, Katie.”

“I said I was sorry. I really am.”

He sighs. “You have a way of shutting me out, Katie. It makes me feel lousy.”

“And I feel lousy about what I did.”

There’s a pause, and then he says, “Okay, you’re forgiven this time, but don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” I really hope I can keep that promise.

“Do you have any ideas about how to get Warren’s bead?” he asks.

“I do,” I lie. I’m just so glad he’s changed the subject. “Can you come over for a while?”

“I can. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

I check my reflection in the mirror and plant myself at the door, waiting for him to arrive. Mom is watching me from the kitchen. “You look like you’re expecting someone,” she says.

“I am.” I haven’t been able to make eye contact with her since Friday night. She hasn’t spoken of our conversation, and neither have I. She’s clearly more forgiving than I’d be, I’ll give her that.

Joel arrives and we go into the living room. We’re there less than thirty seconds when Mom appears in the doorway with a plate of cookies. I roll my eyes but Joel gives her his most charming smile. I’m beginning to think he shares some of the same attributes as Warren.

“Thank you so much, Miriam,” he gushes.

“You’re most welcome,” she says, smiling. I get the feeling she thinks he’s here to see her.

Joel takes a second cookie. “Would you consider giving me the recipe for these?” he asks.

“Of course,” she says. “Do you like to bake?”

He looks embarrassed. “I usually just use that frozen cookie dough stuff,” he says, “and the problem with that is I’m tempted to eat it frozen. Well, not just tempted. I do. In spoonfuls. And then there’s no dough left when I want to make cookies.”

She makes a face. “I’ll write it out for you,” she says. Joel laughs at her reaction and she finally leaves.

“So?” he asks, his eyes smiling at me. “What are those bead-snatching plans you referred to?”

I think fast. “Well, as you can see, I’m getting around on my foot a lot better than just a few days ago.”

“Yeah, you are.” He reaches for a cookie and takes two.

“But Warren doesn’t know that. He still thinks I’m totally crippled.”

“Right.” He shoves a whole cookie into his mouth.

“So maybe I could phone him up and ask him to take me somewhere, or bring me something.”

Joel studies me as if he doesn’t quite get what he sees. “You think he’s going to fall for that?”

“He’s not the brightest light, you know that.”

“Maybe not, but he’s totally aware of who is still in this game and who isn’t. I don’t think he’s going to get sucked into that trick.”

“You’re probably right.” I know that, but I had to come up with something, seeing as I told him I’d thought it through. “Have you got any ideas?”

Joel shrugs. “Unfortunately, Katie, we’ve reached that stage in the game where we have to take extreme measures.”

“Such as?”

“Well...for example, you could find a way of getting into his house and be there waiting for him when he comes home.”

“You mean, like, breaking and entering?”