As far as favorite people on the planet go, my dad is mine. I may not have a large circle of people around me in my life, but the universe did bless me with one of, if not the best, parent in the entire world. Not even Dad, parent. Because, well, he is both for me.
My mom took off years ago, and her face is a fading memory in my mind. Not that she didn’t keep in touch when her ego felt like it. Mom is a grade A narcissist, a woman more concerned with her physique and status in the social media rat race of fitness bloggers than her own offspring. She never cared about me more than how many likes my baby pictures could garner her on her website or in magazines, and when I was six, she took off on a yoga retreat and never came back.
But her grand delusion doesn’t allow her to just fully leave me alone; whenever she feels like I might be forgetting about her, there she is, popping back up with a phone call or a hurried visit. Not that she bothers to ask me any questions about myself during either of these, or take any interest in her only child’s wellbeing or development.
It used to sting, to stab at my heart that my mother doesn’t truly care about me. But then I remember that my dad is four times the parent of any other normal parent, and I’m at peace with it.
My relationship with my father is a bond stronger than anything, and other kids would kill to have this kind of love between them and their parent. We are each other’s partner in crime, best friend, and the person who makes even the worst of days better. We’re a mighty little unit, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
“Got our dinner.” I hold up the takeout bag after we get done hugging.
“Good, I’m starving. How was your first day?” he asks, pulling silverware and plates out of his bottom drawer.
I smile, because those items being there should be strange, but to me it’s second nature. “It wasn’t too bad. The last first day of high school, thank God.”
Dad chuckles. “You’re going to look back someday and regret saying that. Probably when you’re old and gray, like me.”
“You’re far from gray.” I roll my eyes, looking at his head of thick chocolate brown hair the exact same shade as my own.
As we dig into our Chinese, he asks about my classes and I ask about the project he was working on today. I tell him about how I think the student government meeting will go tomorrow, and then we discuss how the lo mein is doubly delicious tonight as it usually is.
“How about that internship during the spring marking periods?” Dad suggests, his voice taking on a naive quality as if he hasn’t asked me this question a billion times.
The turn in conversation is drastic, but I’m not surprised he’s asking this, as we’re sitting in his office.
I shake my head, a small smile painting my lips. “You know it’s never going to happen.”
He hangs his head in faux sadness. “A father can dream.”
Dad would like nothing more than for me to become an architect and work at the family firm. Unfortunately, I not only have zero interest in doing that, but my brain just doesn’t compute that way. I can’t draw to save my life; there are no creative juices mixing with speculating numbers or angles or whatever it is they do in here all day.
No, I’m much better at the job I actually want to pursue. I’d love to go to college and graduate with a political science degree and then go to work for a lobbying firm or on a campaign. I’m good at organizing both materials and people. Setting both of those things up to prosper, whipping people into shape, and subtly nudging them to do what I know will make them successful. The thrill of a campaign, or working with power players in Washington, pushing through my campaign or company’s agenda … that’s what I really want to do. If my position in student government has taught me anything, it’s that.
And if my summer in Haiti taught me anything, it’s that I can also will something to happen by putting in the work. Whether it’s through written proposals on Capitol Hill, or manual labor in impoverished villages, I can make a difference. I can help someone, or a bunch of someones, who were really in need of it. That’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.
“At least we have one child coming in to fulfill the legacy,” Thomas jokes from across the room at his sketch table, referring to Sawyer.
And that feels like a thorn in my side, because the only reason I would have for coming to work for my father and his business partner is to stick it to my enemy. It pisses me off that Sawyer genuinely wants to be an architect, that both of our fathers are so proud of him for wanting to join the family business. It gives him some kind of imaginary leg up on me, one he gleefully shoves in my face whenever he has the chance.
I try to push him out of my mind, to focus on the first day tradition with my dad, since it’s the last time we’ll be doing this before I go off to college next year.
But I still can’t get his words out of my head. They haunt me, his promises to keep me in my place.
No, they weren’t promises. They were threats. Except he still doesn’t realize I’m not losing his game anymore.
I am going to play, and I am going to win.
4 Sawyer
A whistle screeches through the air, followed by Glavin’s name echoed like a curse.
“Jesus Christ, Glavin, get your head on straight!” Coach Masters bellows, throwing his hands up.
My best friend jogs
