Dad and I are the type of people who are always moving. We fidget and tap. We fight and we hit. We run. We rarely slow and we never stop, because if we do, we might not start again.
Dad and I are the type of people who run, but that doesn’t mean that we’re always running in the same direction. Sure, sometimes we move like we’re a single person, steps so in line that not even the best spies in the world would be able to detect the two of us. It’s the other times that pull us apart. The times when we feel like we’re so hopelessly out of sync that we don’t stand any chance at matching strides ever again. Those are the bad times.
That night following Capture the Flag of my junior year was one of the good times. Dad and I may as well have been dancing together as I fell in line. “So… what’s for dinner?” I asked.
The two of us walked down that main hallway, surrounded by rowdy boys who had finished the debriefing and were now free to spend their Friday night however they wished. As he walked, I saw my father’s mouth tick up into a smile. “Food,” he answered.
I don’t think I’ve ever rolled my eyes so hard in my life. “What kind of food?”
“The kind you eat—Mr. Ross,” he called down the hall. “Please restrict the use of your training to rouge operatives and not the eighth graders.”
I looked to Roy Ross as he released a much smaller boy from a chokehold, staring at my dad like he was the biggest killjoy to walk the face of the planet. When my eyes found my father again, I tried to see if I could find the same thing—the man who stole joy. But I couldn’t. I only saw one who gave it.
Roy and the boys that followed him all turned, making their way to the rec room. Maybe they were off to take part in the weekly Ping-Pong tournament, hosted and commentated by Will and Bill. Maybe I would have joined them if not for Dad. Not even Will and Bill at a mic could stop me from spending some super serious father/daughter bonding time that would, more likely than not, end in some form of arm wrestling.
“I just put a Lasagna in the oven twenty minutes ago,” he told me. “So we’ve got some time to kill.”
“Lasagna,” I repeated, practically drooling. I could almost smell it baking, despite the distance of the kitchen. I could feel the warmth of the oven and hear the laughs in the air. “You haven’t made that since I was little.”
Dad huffed and I knew that he could feel it all too. That the memory was just as alive and well in his head as it was in mine. He looked down at me as if checking to see how tall I was against him, seeming more than a little disappointed by the fact that I reached past his knees. “The last time I had enough time to make lasagna, you only came up to here,” he said, putting his hand on his waist. “But you still insisted that you could kick my butt.”
“Well that’s because I could,” I reminded him, recalling the memory of the two of us in the living room. He was hunched over with his hands up, a smile on his lips. I was two feet shorter, but my confidence was a mile high. “If I remember correctly, I did kick your butt.”
He looked at me like I was still that little seven-year-old, dreaming up impossibilities and making up stories. “Only because I let you, young lady.”
Ahh, the classic young lady. Dad only pulled that one out when he thought that he had something to deny. I had him. “Oh, puh-lease,” I droned. “I got you and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”
“Wow,” he said, a full smile slipping across his lips. “You really thing that I got taken out by a seven-year-old, don’t you?”
“Not think,” I insisted, tapping my temple. “Know.”
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Dropping Like Spies - A Gallagher Girls Story
FanfictionBOOK 3 - It started with her mother, but it certainly didn't end there. A series of strange disappearances sends the Goode family scrambling. Who will be next on the list?
