“Yes!” I squeal. For as long as I can remember, my dad has been taking me on what we call daddy-daughter dates. He tries to take me once a week, or at least once a month. Mom pretends to sulk and pout when we leave, like she feels left out, but Dad told me that, secretly, she likes the time to herself and she’s not really sad. She’s usually in a fluffy robe on the couch, watching TV and drinking a glass of wine when we get home. She smells like flowers from the bubble bath she uses, and she doesn’t look upset, so I think he’s right.
Dad and I usually go out to dinner (I always get chicken strips or cheesy pasta wherever we go; Dad gets steak) or a movie, then ice cream on the way home. We just finished dinner, where Dad even let me order a Shirley Temple, which Mom never lets me have because she says it’s too much sugar. He said it’s our secret. I can’t believe he’s still letting us get ice cream too!
I’m an only child and used to being the center of my parents’ attention. Sometimes my friends at school that have siblings ask if I get lonely and wish I had a little brother or sister to play with. But I can’t really imagine it. I like things the way they are. If I had a little sister, would she come along on daddy-daughter dates? I don’t think I’d like that. And boys are gross, so I really wouldn’t be happy about a little brother.
Dad laughs and turns the music back up. It’s dark outside, and we are on a winding back road. A car is coming toward us, the headlights shining brightly in our eyes.
But something’s wrong. The car is going too fast, and it’s crossing the yellow lines on the road. It’s coming right toward us!
“DAD!” I scream, just as my dad throws his arm across my chest, trying to protect me, and swerves to avoid the car. I hear a crash. I see the bright headlights of the car, then nothing but darkness.
Then I jolt awake.
“I knew I’d find you in here,” says Clara, standing over me, looking exasperated. I’m slumped over a book in the college library, a small puddle of drool collecting on the page I was reading when I must have fallen asleep.
I blink a few times, realizing I was having the nightmare again. Only, it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was real—that’s how my dad died.
But that was years ago. I try to shake off the dark memory and focus on what Clara is saying.
“Only you would be in the library the weekend after midterms,” Clara sighs, looking at me in disappointment. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Why didn’t you answer?”
I dig my phone out of the backpack on the chair next to me and hold it up for her to see. Sure enough, I have a dozen missed calls and text messages from her.
“Sorry.” I shrug. “It was on silent, because, you know…” I gesture around the library.
Clara looks around. “There’s literally nobody else in here but you,” she points out.
“Well, still, someone could come in, and I don’t want to be rude with a noisy phone… Plus, I need to concentrate,” I say.
“Concentrate on what?” Clara says in disbelief, placing her hands on her hips and looking stern. “You already had your last exam. Everyone else is going out and celebrating. What can you possibly be doing on the first night of fall break?” She snatches the books and papers spread out in front of me and starts shoving them in my bag.
“I’ve got papers due after break!” I protest, trying to block her. “It doesn’t hurt to get ahead!”
“Actually, it does,” Clara says matter-of-factly. “Look at you, when’s the last time you had any fun?” she peers more closely at my face. “Or a good night’s sleep, for that matter?”
When I was eight years old, I think to myself.
Clara has been my best friend since elementary school. She was there for me before, during, and after my dad died. She knows everything about me and is a true, loyal friend. I couldn’t have picked a better roommate. We’ve been together all through elementary, middle, and high school. Then we applied to the same colleges and rented an apartment together. I know I’m lucky to have her, but sometimes she can be incredibly irritating.
“I’m fine,” I say, stifling a yawn. Clara grabs the chair opposite me and sits down. I brace myself for a lecture.
“You’re not fine. You’ve been working way too hard, practically killing yourself for no reason. You need to let loose just a little.”
“I can’t! You know I can’t,” I say.
Clara rolls her eyes. “You need to learn moderation,” she says. “Just because you partied maybe a tiny bit too much freshman year, which, may I remind you, was three years ago, doesn’t mean you can’t have a beer or go to a party every once in a while now.”
“Partied too much” is a huge understatement. I was a train wreck freshman year. It was my first time away from home, away from the responsibility my mother had become after my father’s death.
After he died, my mom was never the same again. She fell into a deep depression. She drank too much, slept late all the time, and stopped doing all the normal things she used to do, like grocery shopping or cooking or going to work. We were okay financially because of my dad’s life insurance, but I basically raised myself and have been taking care of my mom since then.
I was perfect throughout high school, making straight A’s, participating in as many clubs and sports as I could, and rarely experimented with drugs and alcohol like my peers. I guess I felt like I had to be responsible and keep it together for my mom.
Then when I got to college, it was like a demon was unleashed from me. I went out almost every single night, got sloppy drunk, and went home with whatever guy would pay for my drinks. I felt like I could finally let go after years of being the perfect child. It was a really dark time for me. I almost failed all my classes that first year, and that’s when I realized I needed to get serious about my future.
In high school, the end goal was always to do well enough to get a scholarship so I could go to college and be free. It’s what pushed me to succeed and kept me out of trouble. Once I was in college, I wasn’t sure what my goal should be. But after nearly losing my scholarship, I knew I needed another goal to keep me on track.
The summer after freshman year I went to a therapist to get out of the downward spiral I was putting myself in. She helped me figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
The driver of the car that ran into my dad and me was intoxicated. Although my dad died almost instantly, his body shielded me from most of the impact. I had a few minor injuries, the worst of which left a jagged scar on the left side of my abdomen. I’ve been told a plastic surgeon could help diminish the appearance of the scar, but I want to keep it. I’m not exactly sure why, but I feel like I would be betraying my dad if I got rid of it. If he can’t get back his life, I shouldn’t be able to remove this scar. And it reminds me of him every time I look at it.
The drunk driver was completely uninjured from the crash.
My mom and I went after him in court, but all he got was a fine and community service. My father was dead and all his killer got was a few lousy hours of cushy volunteer work.
This wasn’t justice. I knew I couldn’t bring my dad back, but I had to do something.
Talking to my therapist helped me decide that I wanted to become a lawyer. The years of school and studying fit with my type A, high-achieving personality. Having a difficult goal to achieve would keep me out of trouble for the rest of college. And one day, I would be able to help other families who had suffered like mine get justice.