“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know I have a huge Johnny Bananas crush.” I give her moon eyes, because I do.
“I’m Team Wes until I die, so I have no idea how you like that asshat. See you later, bitches.” She pulls her field hockey stick out of her locker and jets off to practice.
“Jocks.” Nate rolls his eyes. “You headed downtown?”
I nod. “You know me too well. Yep, off to have my annual first day dinner with Dad at the office.”
“You need a ride?” he asks.
I pull my keys out of my backpack. “Nope, got the license right before school started. Haiti wasn’t keeping me from the American roads.”
It’s a running joke between my friends that I was never going to get my license, because I just kept pushing it off and bumming rides. But after coming home from my volunteer work, I knew I needed to be even more independent. Dad promised me my pick of whatever car I wanted if I passed the test, and I knew how lucky I was. But when you are the only child to a single dad and you’re as close as I am to mine, we celebrate life’s milestones hard.
Nate and I walk out to the parking lot together, hug goodbye, and promise to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow morning. Then it’s twenty minutes to downtown Chester, which is really just a very long street of local shops, businesses, and restaurants bookended by fast-food chains and a Target.
The bell over the door rings as I walk into my father’s studio on Main Street. He and Thomas Roarke, Sawyer’s father, have been partners at their architecture firm since the first year after they graduated Princeton together. They moved to Chester and opened up shop, and have become widely successful for both their residential and commercial designs. Tom and my dad are an unlikely duo, but they’re each other’s best friend and their studio has been like a second home growing up.
Unfortunately, that means I still have to spend a lot of holidays, summer barbecues, and spare time not only interacting with Sawyer, but pretending I don’t want to gut him like a fish. When we were thick as thieves, that wasn’t a problem. We were each other’s best friend and loved all the time we spent together. Now, it’s an extra-fresh level of hell.
With its deep green walls and woodsy feel, their studio/office has a cozy but elevated feel. I’ve spent many an afternoon doing my homework on the sunken leather lounge chairs just in front of the plate glass window that faces out onto Main Street in Chester. We’ve had dinner near their drawing desks, takeout Chinese from Hunan Lion, or steaming cheese pizzas from Marianna’s Italian Kitchen.
And I am here, Chinese food in tow, to celebrate the beginning of the school year as my dad and I always have. We sit at his desk, discuss my entire day, and share lo mein and sesame chicken.
“There’s my girl!” Dad beams as I walk in, standing to come scoop me up into a giant bear hug.
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.