the dinner table and announced, her arm raised like a statue, that she would be taking a week-long trip with the co-op to Nova Scotia. It’s a very unusual opportunity, she told us, to learn the basics of Japanese carpentry. We will be constructing wooden hinges that take the place of nails, she said. She poked at the mound of potatoes on her plate.
My father was eating very slowly, something he usually did when he was irritable. Streaks of gray flashed through his hair.
How’s the fish? she said.
Fine, he said, pushing on his mouth with a napkin.
Rose, Mom said, turning to me, I’ll only go if you’ll tell me you’ll keep an eye on everyone.
Sure, I said. I’ll check on Joseph. Can I do the grocery shopping? Who’s going?
About half the co-op, she said. We’re trying to refresh our approach. You’ll call every day?
Sure. Can I use your car?
With an adult, she said.
Dad slid his gaze over to me. Along with watching TV together, driving around in the car with my learner’s permit was another good father/daughter activity from the manual. I was a couple years older than most learner’s permit types, but I’d been slower to the car than my peers.
Okay, I said.
Thank you. Mom smiled at me, warmly. It’s really a special chance, she said. I appreciate it so much. One day I’ll make you a cabin, in a forest, she said, with hinges made only of wood.
I took a bite of the mashed potatoes. Northern California, a well-run potato farm. Mom’s giddy excitement about the upcoming trip, paired with her usual spiral of smallness. I ate it on the side of my mouth. No need, I said, swallowing. I prefer nails, I said. And cities, I said.
My father glanced up, for a second, as if someone had called his name. He reached out an arm, as if to ruffle my hair. Since my hair was not anywhere close, his hand hovered in the air.
Rose, he said. Is so grown up! he said.
She left on a Wednesday. Her car was just sitting in the driveway, so I took it to school anyway, trolling around town after classes ended. Eddie saw me in the school parking lot and asked if he could get a ride to his friend’s house. I let him climb in and we rolled around and kissed on a side street for an hour, but I was in a quieter mood that day, having run into Sherrie in the halls with her arm strung through a new girl’s, and I didn’t feel like doing battle. What’s wrong? he said, after trying to shove his face into mine. Where’s the tank? he said.
What tank?
You, he said, grinning at me. That’s what I call you in my head. The tank.
I sat up. Straightened my T-shirt.
I’m no tank, I said. Someone once said I was seaglass.
Ha! he said. Seaglass. Yeah, right.
He played with the radio buttons for a while. Freckles clustered around his ear and jaw.
So what are you doing after graduation? I asked.
He turned back. Me? he said. School, I guess. Baseball. Why? You want to keep in touch?
Nah, I said.
That’s my girl, he said, nodding. He touched my hair, newly reddish from the latest dye. Drew a finger down my nose. Nice nose, he said.
I sank a little, under his hand.
Oh, stop this sad bullshit, he said, moving closer. Come on! Bring out the tank!
He put his face right up close to mine again but I just didn’t have it in me. We kissed for a few minutes and then I pushed him away.
Time’s up, I said.
Fine, fine, fine, he said, patting down his hair. He checked his face in the side mirror. Can you at least give me a ride to Fountain? he asked.
One click opened the car doors. Tank says you can walk, I said.
In the evenings, my father and I ate dinner quietly in front of the TV together: Wednesday night, Thursday. Frozen dinners I’d picked out at the grocery store, greatest hits by my favorite factories. One of the best ones, in Indiana, prided itself on a no touch food assembly, which meant every step was monitored by robotic arms, ones that placed the tortillas into the dish, layered them with cheese, dropped dollops of tomato sauce on top, and shoved it all into the giant oven, thus producing an utterly blank enchilada.
After Thursday’s dinner, my father and I piled into the car and drove awkwardly around the blocks, him instructing me how to brake. I pretended like I hadn’t been in the car in weeks and he kept reaching over and putting his hands on the wheel to angle me out of an awkward position. You’re supposed to
Right, right, he said. Sorry. Turn left.
The afternoons were getting longer again, stretching. I stayed too long at a stoplight because the sunlight was so pretty, sifting through all the leaves on the sycamore trees lining Sierra Bonita, turning each a pale jade green. The jacaranda trees preparing for their burst of true lavender blue come May.
Go, said Dad.
Sorry, I said.
Two skateboarders crossed in front of us.
Is something wrong? Dad asked, as I angled up Oakwood.
With the car? I tapped the dashboard, lightly. Seems okay to me.
With you, he said. He kept his gaze forward. Page forty-three in the manual: father has heart-to-heart with his daughter.
No, I said.
He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. Fast, focused. They carried the same active enthusiasm as his wiggling feet in the TV room, on the ottoman. Our bonding had not progressed much beyond watching TV together, except for these weekly lessons in driving, which were 99 percent technical.
Boys? he said.
What about them?
Any problems there?
I tugged on the steering wheel. Not really, I said.
They get better, he said, hopefully. His voice trailed off. Or do you know what you’re interested in? he asked, after a pause.
No, I said. Most people don’t at seventeen.
That’s not true, he said. A lot of people have a little idea, he said.
Well, I said. I do not have a little idea.
I turned onto Stanley, then Rosewood. Deliberately ran a stop sign but he didn’t say anything. His forehead was crushed together with effort.
I ran a second stop sign.
Oops, I said. Stop back there.
Full brake, he said, scratching his eyebrow. No rolling stop or they’ll ticket you.
I turned onto Fairfax. Dad reached out his window to adjust the right-side mirror.
Why don’t you go on up to Sunset, he said, and then make a right.
Okay, I said, accelerating.
Is school all right? Dad said, pointing at the yellow light. Slow, he said.
I hummed at the red light. The car motor, humming.
Fine, I said.
You like it?
Not really, I said.
Why not?
I don’t know, I said.
I turned onto Sunset. Want a burger? Dad asked as we passed All American Burger.
No. You?
