The Digits of Pie

Chapter 3

I slump on my window seat, flipping through old photos of Zoe and I; first day of second grade, gymnastics at Little Gymnasts, 5th grade graduation. It really isn't helping my why-does-the-world-hate-me mood, so I look out my window and spy on random people walking down our street instead. A girl about my age with wavy brown hair walks up to our door and looks at the HELP WANTED sign my dad hung up yesterday, then gets out her phone and calls someone. I'm a creep, so I open my window and listen to what she's saying.
"Hi mum! This rollerskating rink has a help wanted sign...yeah, I'd love to work there...sure, I'll text you the hours...mkay, bye!"
She looks up towards my window and I quickly duck down. I hear the bell on the front door ring, and pop up to close my window.
"India, come downstairs and meet Emma!" My dad calls. I let out a long, exasperated groan and trudge out of my room.
As I descend the stairs and through the Employees Only door, I hear my dad talking to "Emma."
"Where are you from?"
"Oh, I just moved here from England for my father's new job." She says. I lean against a wall and cross my arms because yes, I'm still in a terrible mood.
"Oh, this is my daughter India. She'll work the snack stand with you." Says my dad. I manage to summon a "hi" from the depths of my being and do a mental examination of Emma. She has an English accent and a smile with teeth so white they hurt my eyes. There's a ridiculously cute cat on her shirt that's saying "I wuv you!" in a heart-shaped speech bubble, and her pants have flowers in so many different shades of pink that I didn't even know some of them existed.
"Hi!" Emma says in an overly-cheerful voice, "We are going to have SO much fun working the snack stand together!" I bet she's expecting a response. Instead, I give her a cold glare and stalk away and into the bathroom. I didn't actually have to pee; the bathroom's my get-away excuse. That might sound strange, but just refer to chapter one paragraph 22 sentence 17: I'm weird.
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My dad's fork clinking against his plate is the only sound in our small kitchen/dining room. I glare at my microwave macaroni, willing myself not to look up at him as he clears his throat.
"India, the way you treated Emma was unacceptable."
I grit my teeth. We just had this conversation a whole 10 minutes ago, where I basically said two words: Mhmm, ok. That's how most of our "conversations" go. I finally look up at my dad, but his eyes aren't filled with anger anymore.
"Hey, what's going on with you?" He asks. After a long, painful silence, he breaks through my wall.
"I miss Zoe, and I feel like you're trying to replace her with Emma." I say. My dad is trying to say something, but now that my wall is broken, it's all coming down. "And why do I have to work with her? Why can't she work with Sabrina? They'd get along great."
"India, you're the best skater I know."
I hesitate. "Go on..."
"So there's no one better to teach Emma."
"Woah woah, teach her what?"
"India, Emma doesn't know how to rollerskate."
That hits me like a hammer. With a nail. Made of steel. Off a cliff.
"WHY THE HECK DID YOU HIRE HER IF SHE. CAN'T. ROLLER SKATE?! DOES IT OCCUR TO YOU THAT WE WORK AT A ROLLER SKATING RINK?" I yell (those aren't my exact words).
"India, lots of roller skate rink employees don't know how to skate. It depends on your job." My dad says.
"Ok, then why do I have to teach her? Because the pretzels and the Laffy Taffies are so far apart, you have to skate across the 5-foot-floor to reach them?"
Dad gives me a look; he doesn't appreciate sarcasm. "You are going to teach India how to roller skate because she asked you too. Rather, she asked me to ask you too."