Page 54 of DadBod
I sure do. She means she thinks she’s going to win this battle. The war? Well, that remains to be seen.
“If you insist on doing this every outing day…”
“Outing day?” she spits. “That’s a ridiculous name.”
Whatever. I keep on truckin’. “If you insist on doing this every time we go out and about…”
“Out and––”
I hold up my hand to stop her from finishing that sentence, and cut to the chase. “You’re not only going to lose your phone and internet, but there’s also nothing stopping the man from removing your door.” Placing my hand over my heart, I say with the utmost sincerity. “I don’t want that for you. I remember how important privacy is for a teenage girl.” I don’t. Not really. Three brothers and a tiny two-bed, one-bath house, there was no such thing as privacy. Luckily, the basement became my brothers’ domain, or we would have killed one another.
I digress.
“He’d never do that.”
Opening the drawer to the left, I pull out the brand-spanking-new screwdriver still in the packaging. “He just bought this.”
Ryann’s eyes double in size. Her mouth opens and closes several times, resembling a fish out of water. In a low rasp, she mutters, “He wouldn’t.”
“I’m afraid so.” I shrug. “We can either make this work or…”
Her eyes, the ones that were round with surprise a minute ago, are now slits. Angry, terrifying slits. “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to like it.”
Why would I expect her to like anything? “Gotcha.” Sure, I sound a little blasé, or is it aloof? Either way, I do my best to keep my cool. The last thing I want to be is bitchy. That’ll get me nowhere with this girl. “Be ready in thirty minutes.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.” Jesus, this is a risk, but Rome said this might be what they need. The therapist, the one they’ve been seeing once a week for the last three weeks, suggested they do something “bigger than themselves.” I came up with this.
Ryann stomps her way back to the stairs, growling, “I hate surprises.”
I gasp. “You hate surprises. What about Santa?”
Looking back at me, the glare she gives me would win an award, if there were such a thing. “And the winner of the dirtiest look ever given by a teen is…” Envelope please. “Ryann James.” Cue a raucous round of applause that dies suddenly because the winner glares at the audience.
“Well, then.” I sigh. “See you in thirty.” I want to add “with bells on,” but I think I’d better stop right there and consider this a tiny victory. Very tiny.
* * *
“Elizabeth?”Calvin says in an excited voice. He started bouncing up and down on his toes the second we got to the park. “Are we getting a dog?”
Shit.Maybe I didn’t think this through.
To me, “bigger than themselves” means volunteering––helping someone else. That’s why we’re here at Grant Park this morning for Pet-a-Palooza, an animal adoption event put on by one of Chicago’s biggest no-kill animal shelters, the Pet Project. The thing I like the best about them is they take in many special-needs dogs and cats. Animals that aren’t easy to care for because they have health conditions or disabilities.
I look down at the little man and smile. “We’re here to volunteer.”
“Vol-un-teer?” Ryann says the word slowly with venom. I swear it takes her a full thirty seconds to say the entire word.
“Yep,” I quip.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not volunteering.”
“Yes. You are.”
“Elizabeth?” I hear my name come from behind me, I turn to see the guy who works at the pet rescue and the organizer. He’s one of Jeriann’s friends.
I wave my paw; I mean my hand. “Hi, Bernie.”