Drumbeats into My Heart

36. Jordi vs Internet Cats

When I get home, Dad is on the computer, laughing at the screen. "You have to see this cat."

I park the bike and join him in front of the computer, watching as an orange tabby clings to a screen door that the owner is sliding back and forth. "Hey, Dad? Can a friend come with us to the drum circle?"

"Sure." He clicks to another video. "Which friend? I didn't think Winnie was into that."

"She isn't. It's Seth."

That turns his head. "That polite boy that came over?"

"Yeah." I poke his shoulder. "The one who nearly peed his pants because he thought you were going to clobber him when he got here."

He chuckles and nudges me with an elbow. "Someone has to screen your boyfriends."

Boyfriend. Is Seth my boyfriend now? I'm not sure if it's too soon for such labels, but the thought makes me smile anyway.

Another burst of laughter from Dad pulls me out of my reverie.

"I tell ya," he says as he clicks on another video, "cats on the Internet are the greatest invention, ever."

"So, he can go?" I prompt, wondering why he's not quite paying attention to me. I mean, I know the world doesn't revolve around me, but he's usually a better listener than this.

"Yeah, he can go." He continues engrossing himself in feline antics, avoiding my gaze.

This is so unlike him. He always stops what he's doing to catch up with me and find out how my day went. He only does this sort of thing when something is bothering him but he doesn't want to show it.

I slide into a nearby chair. "Dad, is everything okay?"

He finally looks at me, but his smile is a bit tight-lipped. "Of course, why wouldn't it be?" Then his smile disappears altogether, and he purses his lips like he's contemplating what to tell me.

I study the lines on his face, more numerous than last year. "Do you have a problem with Seth?"

"What? No! I think he's fine." His brow furrows. "Why, has he done something?"

"No, Dad. And don't change the subject. What's up? You only watch this many crazy cat videos when you're upset."

His head droops, and he draws in a long, slow breath, as if inhaling courage. "You always could read me like book."

I snort. "Not a compliment, Dad. I have the reading comprehension of a fifth grader. Mr. Kabinski said so last year."

His forehead wrinkles with horror. "A teacher actually said that to you?"

I shrug it off. "It doesn't matter. But I do know you. Something happen at work?"

His eyes drift back to the computer screen.

"Dad?" I prod when he doesn't answer.

His mouth twists and he stares at the mouse pad. "I didn't get the promotion."

"What? Are they high? How many times are they going to pass you over? Who got it instead?"

"Lakshay."

"But he's only been there a year, right?" My hands ball into fists, ready to sock the paunchy middle manager who wronged my dad yet again.

He shrugs. "She's good."

I can't stop frowning. "Did they say why?"

He scratches his beard and avoids eye contact. "They said they like my work ethic and the way I deal with customers, but..." He clears his throat. "But I've been screwing up my paperwork."

My fists unclench. "Paperwork?"

"Yeah. Since the promotion would entail even more paperwork, they weren't sure I could handle it."

"Well, that sucks." I rub Dad's back with a sympathetic hand. "No wonder you need cat videos."

He nods silently.

"Paperwork is dumb anyway, who needs it?" I assert.

His lips twist downward again. "Well obviously they need it. But I guess I'm better off without it."

"Yeah, screw them."

A corner of his mouth lifts up and he pulls me into a one-armed hug. "Yeah. Screw them." Moments later, he pulls away to ask, "Mr. Kabinski... is that the guy who wears flat caps and tweed like some kind of Sherlock Holmes villain?"

I grin at him. "You remember?"

"Only because when you told me about him, I had flashbacks to when I was ten and my mom made me wear this itchy tweed jacket to a parent-teacher conference. Mrs. Schrodenberg." He shivers. "The kids called her Mrs. Shrew-denberg. Basically accused my mom of neglect just because I was failing English."

"You failed English?"

"Yup. I was the latchkey kid of a single working mom, and I liked school about as much as you do. So trust me when I say I understand where you're coming from." I open my mouth to express my surprise, but he cuts me off. "But don't me wrong. I'm still very much in favor of you staying in school."

I shut my mouth.

"You're going to find help, right?"

I pull away and fiddle with a loose thread on my shirt. "I, uh, haven't given it much thought."

He studies me a moment. "The only thing standing between you and a dead-end job is an education."

"That might've been true back in the day, but I don't think it's true now."

He glances thoughtfully at the computer. "You might be right, but I still want you to have your best shot. Lots of employers value those little pieces of paper."

"Maybe I'll start my own business," I say, lifting my chin. I have no idea what I'm talking about. I have no business aspirations beyond busking at farmer's markets, but I don't want him thinking I'm completely hopeless.

He smiles proudly at me. "I have no doubt you'd be awesome at it."

"Thanks, Dad."

I indulge myself by basking in his misguided confidence in me.

If only I believed it myself.

Jordi has no idea she's getting so many votes just by being herself.