Tara considered wearing a few little braids by her face. Jazz up her colorless hair that refused to grow long. But if she got into that—how she looked—she’d miss the bus.
Halfway down the stairs, she heard Brooke singing in the kitchen, “Never no more will I cry for him…” Their father liked Patsy Cline. Brooke, however, couldn’t sing. Really. She could not sing at all.
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After practically dying last night from drinking half a bottle of whisky, she was wearing a red t-shirt with the slogan: Take What You Get. Brooke had great hair, a glossy dark-brown cascade past her shoulders. And this when she’d slept with it wet, no less.
“I’m making pancakes,” she giggled. “To thank you. But also,” she put down the mixing bowl and laughed long enough that Tara stared at her, waiting. “I mean—pancakes. Who— ” She laughed again and had to force out her words, squeaking, “invented them?”
One…two…Tara turned around and Brooke’s eyes widened, her face drained, and she dashed to the sink, retching. But her insides were totally empty, thank God.
“You’re still drunk, Brooke. Better stay home,” Tara called as she closed the door.
Their dad sometimes woke up drunk, too, all fun-loving and fond of his girls. After an hour, however, he’d turn mean and crawl back to bed, cursing them. He lived in New Paltz, which was bigger and had a state university that employed him with fix-it jobs—his work at the bar being erratic. She couldn’t remember her parents living together but they got along fine when necessary.
Tara’s school district included five Catskill towns so her freshman class had two hundred kids. Tara, however, was in honors classes, which meant sitting for four more years with the same ten kids as in middle school.
The day started with Advanced History. The teacher was horrible. He reminded her of her father. They didn’t look alike; her father nose’s wasn’t hooked; his back wasn’t stooped. But they both spoke as if whatever they said capped a long-running and furious argument nobody else heard. With every other phrase Mr. Schinkle vanquished an invisible evil opponent.
Hearing the victory that was Mr. Schinkle’s alone as he passed out their schedule, “Complete each assignment as indicated,” unleashed a long-running, belligerent argument of her own. Age old, really, even universal, but Tara’s conflict was personal, between her and her father. His Catholic ideology belonged to another era. Even her mother admitted their father was “a religious bully.”
Tara and Brooke had talked about it after that awful Easter vigil he had subjected them to. Brooke didn’t really mind one way or another. But Tara did mind.
She should have announced, “Never, no more,” at Easter. But starting high school and hearing the horrible history teacher made it urgent. Mr. Schinkle’s every utterance triumphed over rampant but imperceptible threats. Within a few minutes the pounding sound of such authority was forcing her to fight for each breath. At fourteen, Tara had a right to live according to her own mind. And not her father’s doctrine. Or his priest.
So certain was she of her inherent right that Tara phoned her father during her lunch period. “Hey, Pop, is this a good time to talk?”
“I have a few minutes.”
“It won’t take long but I’ve searched my conscience and thought about it and even prayed that my mind would change. But it won’t. I don’t believe in God.”
“Well God damn you then. You freakin’ little bitch.”
Tara rolled her eyes at the September sky. (Good retort, Pops.)
“Tara,” her father’s voice shifted from bark to plea. She knew this would hurt him but what could she do? He’d get over it. “You and I need to discuss this.”
“No, Pop. Case closed. There’s enough fronting already.”
“Fronting? What’s that, hip-hop?”
“It’s what people say about misrepresenting themselves.”
“Do they? Well, we’ll see how high and mighty you are on Saturday. I’ll drive over about noon. And you better be there, Tara.”
“You can’t change my mind, Pop. I don’t believe in God.” Closing the phone, she whispered, “Never, no more.”
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