A Walk by Dragons

An Old Pink Phone

Yesterday, I lived in a white trash apartment in some Mexican suburb of Las Vegas playing 'whack a roach.' So forgive me, God, for standing on the edge of a New Hampshire estate staring at its yellow Victorian mansion as though I'd been spanked by a stranger.

My sort of long-lost dad took my ratty red suitcase from me and managed to not goober waddle up the stairs from its weight.

"I've got your room all ready for you," he said, all pep and circumstance. "I hope you like purple because that's the last color I remember you telling me you liked."

"Yeah." At least that got out. My vocal cords had more or less inflated to the roof of my mouth. I had never seen where my dad lived. We spoke two times a year if that, and when I mentioned where he lived, he only told me about the weather, the progenitor of all small talk.

My ancient, dog-chewed pink cell went off in my pocket with a jazzy five-second tune. I ignored it, and so did Dad.

A thick Persian rug in the foyer greeted me by attempting to suck in my feet. Everything was dark, polished wood, fancy detailed wallpaper, and out-of-a-magazine/movie décor, fit for a celebrity or freaking Jane Austin herself. Oh, and a chandelier. We ain't lit without that there big-ass chandelier.

And then there was me, dressed in my favorite pair of ratty jeans and a Pikachu shirt I'd had since sixth grade.

The jazzy ringtone went off again.

"It's up here," Dad said, climbing the stairs. "I picked the room in the turret with lots of windows. You came just in time for Autumn. You're going to love the colors; they're spectacular!"

"So you've told me." Like a million, bajillion times.

"Denise should be home soon, so you just tell her what you like to eat and she'll fix it up for you."

I froze, a foot above a step. "You're married?" I hated the way my stomach jerk-twisted. So what if my dad was married? It wasn't like he told me anything. Like, that he lived in a freaking mansion.

But he looked just as alarmed as me, hands flying up as though to waft away a bad smell. "No! No. No, she's the cook. I forget to eat when I get busy, and she came highly recommended. Had her for a few years now."

Well, jee, I'm sorry. If I had known I had to look at the weekly cover of 'Richest Damn People In America' to get updates on my father, I would have.

Another ring of blue jazz. Dad's eyes flicked back to me.

"Someone trying to get a hold of you?"

"It's just a text." And with a bit of warmth in my cheeks, I flipped out my phone and turned it down to vibrate. I didn't have to look to know from whom the ten unread texts had come.

Even so, my butt cheek got a massage up the stairs and through the equally lavish hall dressed in warm yellow walls and landscape paintings. I almost asked on a scale of one to Bob Ross how into said paintings he was, but I knew I wouldn't be able to say it without sounding just a tiny bit sarcastic. Or a whole lot sarcastic. Sarcasm was a reason he left my mom, after all.

"Here we are."

I thought the chandelier had prepared me.

My assigned bedroom was in shades of lavender and as big as the living room and kitchen combined at my old apartment. A full-sized bed against the wall screamed for face-first belly-flops, surrounded by silver and lavender curtains. There were two doors to either side of the bed, one into the walk-in closet and the other to an equally lavish bathroom. On the right side, where the walls curved along the edge of the turret, huge, vintage paneled windows seeped color through the sheer silver curtains. Sunlight glimmered off a TV and what could be a PS4 and a Nintendo Switch tucked beneath it on a modest entertainment stand. An empty bookshelf stood beside the entertainment center with only three or four games.

My dad gestured to the video game consoles. "I didn't know what you liked, so I figured we could, um, go shopping together sometime and pick them out. I put some of my favorites here for you to try. Your mother also tells me you like books so we can get some, that is, if none of the books in the library satisfy you, though I don't think you'd be much into business manuals. I guess you can say I just like textbook stuff. Did I miss anything?"

"Miss anything?" I stared up at the small crystal chandelier on the ceiling (of course, there'd be one here) and the green velvet, couch-sized bean bag in the corner.

And yet I couldn't help but think of the minuscule room I had back home, which I had shared with two sisters, one half, the other step, where there was only enough room to walk between the closet and doorway. The carpet had been stained and cigarette scented, the bunk beds broken, though we used them anyways, and the ceiling stained.

My throat tightened. An unborn wail pushed against my tonsils.

But, instead, I said, "You didn't have to give me all this nice stuff. I would have been happy with a couch or some spare bed tucked away somewhere."

He gave me a weak smile that perked up his ears and moved wrinkles up the sides of his forehead. His dirty blond hair, my hair, had been cut close to his scalp to the point it shone lavender from all the reflected sunlight.

"Don't say that," he said, all lightness, all cheer. "Or I won't have any excuse to take you out."

"Why would you need an excuse?"

Is that why you stopped taking me out after I was nine? Because you ran out of excuses?

"Because I have too much work, and I want to be able to tell my clients to bug off for a bit without feeling guilty. Besides, video games are awesome, and one of these days, I'm going to take you to this Mexican joint next to the college." He put on a comical look of bliss. "Mm, mm! Good stuff. And the lady there, my friend, she escaped a drug cartel and has the craziest stories, really makes you grateful for what you have."

From our rare talks, I had gathered that Dad had a lot of friends. If my memory serves me right, it wasn't hard to get Dad to like you. You just had to listen to him talk and then be exotic.

And I was plain vanilla.

"I'll take your word for it," I said. "Mind if I unpack?"

The smiling creases at the corner of his eyes vanished with what had to be a relief.

"Go ahead, though I need you to try on that uniform in the closet before dinner. They want a response by tonight on whether it fits."

He closed the door behind him, leaving me in my lavished corner of his castle. For who knows how long, I just stood there, breathing in the faint floral fragrance. The carpet beneath me felt squishy and thick, and I removed my shoes to better appreciate it.

Then I tipped my head back and started to cry.

Because, back home in Nevada, I had been terrified to ask for lunch money from my parents because of the screaming fights that would ensue. Even now, my stomach grumbled from a week of stale bread, carrots, and cereal. And yet my dad, my biological father, who was by no means cut out from my life by my mother, had this waiting for me all along.

And then had the gall to pretend that we were best friends.

Biting my lip to control myself, I took out my old pink flip phone. It had been my mom's, and when she got an upgrade, she gave this one to me. I flicked it open, and my gut cramped.

The texts were from him: the boy back home I said I'd love. Just as I knew they would be, and no one else.

I forced myself to drop the phone onto the squashy carpet, where the vibrations would be muffled. I hated myself for not being able to just turn the damn thing off.