The Fleeting Happy

Seven

The entire school week that followed Sunday, I was finding it harder and harder to stay focused on my studies. I was worried about plenty of things. Mostly, I was worrying about my dad, because he was alone in a big city, full of selfish people.

See, my dad's not like everybody else. He's got a big heart, but despite everything that he's been through, he still thinks everyone else is just as kind as he is. If there's anyone I know that's too nice for their own good, it's my dad. It's very easy to take advantage of him, because he assumes the best in just about everybody, and I know that there are plenty of cruel people out there in the world who are waiting to prey on people like him. It's sick.

The last time my dad went on a business trip, he got mugged and robbed of all his money. He was left in a dumpster in Manhattan and found unconscious the next day and taken straight to the emergency room. When I found out, I was struck with the worst pain I've ever felt in my life. Somehow, it hurt even more than if someone had hurt me.

I remember crying and yelling at him and asking him why? Why had he stopped to help the man in the alley? Anyone else would've been more wary. Anyone else would've been more cautious. Anyone else would've called for help instead of wandering alone into the dark alleyway in the middle of the night.

"I thought he needed help," was all my dad had said. "So I went to help."

"That's not how it works!" I had wailed in response. "Dad, you have to protect yourself! Please! I can't always be there for you... I can't always protect you... and when you get hurt, I get hurt. Don't you understand that? Your wound's my wound. That's why we have to look out for each other, but we also have to look out for ourselves. Don't make me carry all the weight."

He had stroked my hair and secured me in place next to him in his hospital bed. I could tell at the time that he had wanted to say something, but couldn't figure out how.

And so he didn't say anything at all.

He hadn't been on any business trips since that one, until this Atlantic City tour. And now, it took every ounce of my strength not to call him every ten minutes to check up on him. For all I knew, he could be lying unconscious in a dumpster somewhere. And where was I? Writing about ecosystems in a redundant classroom full of baboons.

I was also worrying about my date with Greene, which was scheduled for this Saturday. Greene refused to tell me anything about where he was taking me, which only heightened my anxiety, but he didn't seem to understand that.

I knew his intentions were good, but I couldn't help but also feel annoyed.

The worst part about it was, there wasn't really anyone I could talk to about my growing fear of Saturday. My dad was busy in Atlantic City and could only talk on the phone for a few minutes every night. Montana and Stef were both more excited for the date than I was, so I wasn't ready to burst their bubbles and tell them that I wasn't really all that excited.

They were so eager about the date that on Wednesday after school, they tricked me into going to the mall with them by telling me we were going to Severn Valley's record-breaking smallest botanical garden in the country.

We rode in Stef's car.

Stef drove a banana yellow jeep with a bunch of ironic political stickers slathered across the back windshield. Her car was not nearly as messy as either Carter's or Diego's, but she played her music louder than them both and yelled at you if you so much as shifted your weight on her spotless leather seats.

Montana sat in the front, and when I realized that we weren't going to the world's smallest botanical garden-- promptly the moment we pulled into the local mall's parking lot-- I began to argue with her.