Dedicating Every Day to You

Chapter Thirteen

I spend my week of suspension at home with my dads. I do my homework, brought daily by Theodosia, at Keller's Diner while John works. The waitresses are super nice, and one named Sally likes to bring me milkshakes while I study my geometry. In the evenings, Alex comes home and we all have dinner together. Sometimes we watch a movie or play board games, or sometimes we all just sit on the couch together and then I fall asleep.

Tonight, though, Harriet and Theodosia are coming over for a sleepover. I've been planning all week, and it's going to be amazing. However, there's a little snag in the plan.

John stands before me, hands on hips. "Clean your room."
I flop onto my back on the sofa, where I'm sprawling. "Why? It's not that messy."
"Not that messy? Honey, it's a disaster area."
"That laundry is there for a reason, Daddy!"
"May I enquire as to what, exactly, that reason is?"
"I had all kinds of ballet clothes, and I'm waiting to wash them until Sunday."

John rolls his eyes. "Well, they need to be out of your room."
I gesture wildly at the TV he's blocking. "But I'm trying to watch Pretty Little Liars!"
"You're not supposed to be watching that anyway." He reaches behind him and turns the television off. "Either you go clean your room, or I call Aaron and Jefferson and tell them that Theo and Harriet can't come over tonight."
"Please don't do that!" I sit up.
"Please go clean your room."

I scowl and walk upstairs, storming into my room and flopping on the bed. My room really is kind of a mess. It looks like Chernobyl probably looked after the explosions. I have to start somewhere, but I don't know where.

I pull my window open and turn on some music. Singing along, loudly and badly, to Wicked empowers me and keeps me going. I pick up laundry and bring the hamper downstairs to Popular and Defying Gravity. The intro of Into the Woods gets me through making the bed and organizing drawers and papers.

Once I'm done, I spread newspaper out on the floor and dig out my paintbrushes and paint. I dip my brush in a cheerful cherry red and begin to write on my Gratitude Wall.
The wall is a rainbow of insane colors now. Some of the paints sparkle and some are plain, and every sentence is written in a different font, but it all comes together to make something beautiful.

I'm adding random things in turquoise and grey and lemon yellow. Long car rides. Bubble gum. Bubble tea. Bubble wrap. Bubble bath. I'm so absorbed in my music that I don't notice when John comes in. He smiles at me, and then smiles wider at the clean room.
"I knew you could do it."
"Be quiet. Your lack of faith disturbs me."
"You're my daughter, you don't tell me to be quiet."

I pick up my paintbrush, which is dripping Peachy Dream 1789, and tap John on the nose with it. He gasps silently, and then sticks his fingers into the jar of blue paint and wipes the hand on my hair.
I scream and then paint green dots over John's freckles. He picks up a giant paintbrush and dabs it into the cherry red. I pick up a handful of paint jars and make a run for it, careening down the stairs and into the living room.

I hear John stomping down the stairs after me, and hide under the couch. Unfortunately, he sits down on the couch, enveloping me in a plume of dust. I sneeze loudly and he pulls up the dust ruffle, revealing a cobweb-covered me.
John lifts the paintbrush and slaps it onto my forehead and cheeks. I look, I'm sure, like a victim from a slasher movie.

I shake my silver glitter paint and then fling the contents of the container at John. Most of the paint hits him, turning him into a glittery fairy princess, but some lands on the carpet and the couch.
I flee into the kitchen, yelping as John flicks purple and black paint at me.

We're both in the clean, pale blue and white kitchen now, jars of paint in hand. I fling some turquoise, and John upends a container of glittery gold on my head. I feel the liquid running down over my scalp and onto my t-shirt.
The gold, I reflect, actually looks good splattered on my shirt. It's a Miranda: An American Musical shirt that I bought online, black with the golden star logo. I'm obsessed with the music, and I really want to go see the show. Tickets are ridiculous, however, so I'm not going anytime in the next five thousand years.

The kitchen is no longer clean, or white. There's black and gold and green and cinnamon brown all over everything, and we're screaming and laughing and throwing things. I aim a fiery orange, but the container flies out of my hand and sends a plate crashing to the floor. It smashes, but we take no notice and keep sparring.

I raise a jar of White Christmas 7073 and get ready to throw it at John. I swing and send the gooey white liquid flying. It arcs through the air. I hear a door swing open, and the paint finishes its flight all over Alex and his new black suit.