SHELTERED
Having people over has always been kind of an issue because of Dom. There’s always the chance that you’ll come in after school and he’ll be wafting incense into his face at the kitchen counter while watching the Oprah Winfrey Network, or doing half-naked yoga on the floor in the family room. Ruth was used to him and she was about as far as I got in terms of after-school playdates. Only I’m pretty sure you don’t call them playdates once you’re sixteen. Plus, I’ve never had a boy over.
I remember once saying goodnight to Dom when I was like eight, and asking him if he thought this boy Steven Daniels liked me back. Dom didn’t know anything about Steven—it was the first thing I’d ever said about him—but I was young enough that I still thought Dom shared all my thoughts, that he and I had some kind of ESP that only went one way.
And of course Dom acted like he had all the information. He said of course the guy probably adored me, how couldn’t he? I was wonderful. It didn’t seem like a true kind of answer because it wasn’t based on anything real. It meant Dom liked me, not the boy, and Dom had to because he was my dad.
“But how do you make a boy like you for real?” I pleaded. “I mean, what do you do to make it happen fast?”
I was hoping for some kind of ritual—a magic séance or a trick I could play to get what I wanted. Dom just smiled at me and promised that it would happen someday, when it was meant to, and without any effort on my part.
“I’ll have to be a different kind of dad then,” he added, seeming sad. “You won’t like me as much.”
When I open the front door I try to be really loud so Dom’ll know I’m not the only one here. “Hello?” This is starting to feel like a big mistake for a lot of reasons. Once I came home from school and Dom was literally in his bathrobe, pretending to ballroom dance with dead Mother Peanut Butter because he knew I was coming and wanted to make me laugh. Also I’m starting to wonder if Dom is going to get genuinely riled up about a boy being over, especially since he was already a little weird about me hanging out with Davey. And, like, maybe I should have considered that before I made it seem to Davey like my dad was all laid back and totally normal and made great Jumble, or whatever.
Davey shuffles in behind me. “Hello?” he calls, mimicking me—and I elbow him in the ribs to be quiet. In the other room I can hear Ralph’s video game beeping.
I glance up at Davey. “Just so you know my neighbor Ralph Johnston is over and he’s pretty much my second best friend. He was a few years above you in high school. He’s great.”
Davey shrugs. “Cool.”
“Kippy, is that you? Welcome home!” Ralph calls. “My MMO buddy, Daugon, is sick or something. Do you want to be my second player?”
“Daugon?” Davey asks.
I smile way too big. “Oh, it’s one of his online role-playing games,” I whisper. “I hardly ever play.” I just remembered Mother Peanut Butter’s on her favorite chair and I definitely need to hide her before Davey sees and thinks we collect dead things. “Um, Davey, why don’t you go way over there real quick to the refrigerator and get yourself a glass of milk or something—”
“Kippy?” Ralph calls. “Are you coming, because I’m sort of raring to go—is that all right?”
“Ralph, I’m kind of busy now because I have a guest!”
“Oh, I’m sorry—hello, guest!” More beeping. “No worries—I’ll get in touch with Alagos, then. Or Goatfist27.”
I glance at Davey, searching his face for signs that I might be a weirdo.
“It’s cool that you’re friends with your neighbor—I don’t know any of mine.” He smiles. “I’ll pass on the milk, by the way, but where’s the bathroom?”
Good, I think—Davey’s being in the bathroom will give me some time to find Dom and prep him and make sure things are normal.
“Is that my Pimple?” Dom calls down the stairwell.
“Go!” I hiss at Davey and shove him toward the bathroom. It’s just in time because right then Dom comes down the stairs wearing only his bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around his head like how ladies do.
“Dom, you have to put some clothes on,” I say quickly. “I have a guest and you can’t be naked.”
“Oh!” Dom mouths, and steps backward up the stairs. “Who’s here? One of the girls you were hanging out with yesterday?”
“No, um. One sec.” I run into the living room, leaping over Ralph’s prostrate form to grab Mother Peanut Butter. “Who’s here?” Ralph asks as I hop back across him.
“Listen, we have to be normal, okay?” I tell him. “I have a boy over.”
“Miss Popular!” he calls after me admiringly.
I slide across the hardwood in my socks and thrust dead Mother Peanut Butter into Dom’s arms. “Here,” I say. “Put this—her—somewhere. And go upstairs and put on some normal clothes.” Dom has mostly all normal clothes but for some reason I’m not sure he’ll know what this means, so I tell him, “Your dark khakis and that gray sweater with either your brown shoes or your reddish penny loafers.”
“Very fancy,” Dom whispers, and makes his eyebrows dance. “Who’s the boy?”
So he heard me. Not like I was going to be able to hide it for long anyway. “Davey.”
Dom’s smile fades. “Kippy.”
“Dom, please be cool, please,” I beg. “I never ask you for anything.” I make my eyebrows dance, too, trying to make him smile again. “Please?”
He turns around without answering and retreats up the stairs.
“So Davey!” Dom is frying hot dogs in mayonnaise and butter, breaking up white bread into a bowl with his free hand. “Long time no see! When do your folks get back? Kippy never told me they were gone or that you’d been unchaperoned this whole time including when she went to visit you.” He glares at me.
Davey shrugs. “I’m actually not sure when they’re getting back, sir.”
Dom forces a smile. “We’re all friends here. You can call me Mr. Bushman.” He fluffs his apron—one of Mom’s old frilly ones. “So, you’re in special ops—when do you go back, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I roll my eyes. What a stupid question. Davey’s knee is bouncing a million miles per hour. I almost wish Ralph would come in from the other room so we could talk about video games or computers or whatever.
“Never, sir—I mean, Mr. Bushman,” Davey says. He raises his bad hand. “Not really going back at all.”
Dom smiles. “I was just wondering because we would have gladly driven you to the airport.”
“Dom!” I roll my eyes again.
“What? I’m just telling him that we’re here to help.” Dom stares at Davey. “You look swell, kiddo.”
Swell? Kiddo? I have to stop myself from groaning. Dom should have said, “You look good.” Or else nothing at all.
“Ork?” Ralph shouts. “More like dork!”
“You look . . . swell, too,” Davey says. He’s paging through some pamphlets on the counter. “So, uh, are these from your work?”
Dom beams, looking genuinely friendly. Finally. “Yes, sirree. Area support groups. Good stuff. People coming together helping people.”
I reach over and grab a couple from Davey. Alcoholics Anonymous. Unemployed (and Unashamed). STDS ARE NOT A CURSE!
Then I see an old, familiar pamphlet—Non-Violent Communication Group (NVCG): Learn How to Speak Giraffe—and turn bright red. NVCG was my support group after Mom died—back when I was so convinced everyone was going to die that I kept accidentally hurting people. I’d hold on too tight or forget not to use my nails when I hugged. Throw myself at people. Knock them down. It was a complicated mental process that Dom has since explained to me.