Bluff.

Chapter 2.

The drive home was silent. My Dad and I, we don't quite see eye – to – eye. Before the death of Mom, we had not spoken for just over 10 years. Mom had been much older than him when they had me, she was in her early 40's and he was barely out of high school. They were dating for a while, but when she told him she was pregnant, she also told him to leave. She did not want him to have to give up his life for a child they hadn't planned, so she told him to go and live his life. He didn't put up much of a fight. He "tried to stay in contact" but by the time I was 5 there weren't even maintenance fees going in – he claims he "couldn't afford them" because of student loans, but I still hold resentment because Mom frequently had to work two jobs throughout my childhood, three at one stage when I was 10. He and I argue a lot about whether he could have put anything towards me. In the past few days, we just stopped talking altogether, fewer arguments ensued and as long as I was fed, neither of us felt like dealing with each other more than that. The car – rides were always awkward though.

We got to his house, he parked the car, and I got out of the car. The first few times I arrived here, I ran to the house in an attempt to escape to my room, but he always had the keys, so it just made for a weird look we both pretended didn't exist. Now, I just took serious interest in the details. It was bigger than the one Mom and I lived in, it was just outside New York, in a suburban area. The outside was wooden, painted over a light blue, with a white door. It had a stairs (I may be totally playing on the whole depressed/moody teenager thing, but Mom and I didn't have stairs so I have to fight the urge to run up them every day) The roof was painted white a long time ago, but now looked grey – ish that I feel ties in better with it. My father is not rich or anything, but he had savings that he used to 'deck out' my room with stuff any teenager would want. He is a contractor, builds houses for a living, so he built his own. More arguments come around this, my side relating to him having enough money at that point to help my mom raise me; his was that it had been so long since he had paid he didn't "want to disturb us".

We fight a lot.

He opened the door at which point I sprinted up the stairs. I tripped half way and I could feel him staring at me, trying to figure out whether to laugh like a friend or look out for me like a father. I decided to just mutter "I'm fine" and dust myself off. He muttered "good" in response, and we went into the kitchen, most likely for coffee. He drank a lot of that, more than Mom, and took it with two sugars. He drank it black in the morning but as the day went on slowly added more milk. I, at the same time, went up to my room.

My room was quite "spacious" as my Dad called it; it was a sort of rectangular room at the front of the house. My wardrobe was a weird sliding thing that look cool, and had huge mirrors for to me to look at myself if I so choose (which I haven't). My bed was a double bed, with a black headboard and footboard, with white covers. It was simple and elegant. Just like me. Dad laughed when I said that, way back on day one of NYC. He didn't realise I hadn't been kidding. There was an awkward silence after that. He hasn't laughed at me since.

I closed the door and dropped my bag onto my bed. I slipped onto the bed under a duvet and opened grabbed the bag before it fell onto the floor. The bag was the only thing I brought with me from Chicago – no memories necessary thanks. I pulled out an old note pad and started to write. The book was about a boy who, living in a war – torn first – world country, who was bullied, and considering suicide, but at the last minute turned into a murderer. The guy he killed was his bully, so I didn't feel much remorse for him, but my favourite character a murderer? It felt weird, considering my circumstances. I had writers block. I couldn't decide what to do after he left the scene of the crime. Tell his parents? Run away? I gave up and tossed it aside. For a few minutes, I did nothing but 'appreciate' what life had given me, until I heard my Dad call my name. I reluctantly left my bed and thumped downstairs. He had made 'Mac n' Cheese', he used a sachet but it was an attempt at a nice gesture – he somehow knew it was my favourite. Did he remember?

Maybe he is a decent human being.

We ate in silence. I asked for salt, he pointed at the centre of the table. I pulled the salt shaker towards me and started shaking it on my food. He looked at it questioningly – I had basically dumped it on my food in spoonfuls. I gave him no explanation, so he shrugged. I don't even like salt. I just wanted to make a point – salt adds flavour. It tasted disgusting after that and I regretted it.

After dinner I walked out of the kitchen and reached the bottom of the stairs before turning back and going back to the kitchen. I figured I owed it to him to be civil.

"Thanks for the food."

He looked at me in surprise.

"No problem. Anytime".

I ran out the door and ran up the stairs, proud of myself for being a good person.

I fell halfway up again, Dad laughed. I found myself surprised not by that – but by the fact that I was laughing too.

It sounded weird.