The Fleeting Happy

Eleven

Today is Tuesday, I thought during my morning shower. Tomorrow will be Wednesday. Wednesdays are always better than Tuesdays.

I know it sounds dumb, but Montana's mantra seemed to help me calm down. Like, I'd be on the brink of a panic attack and I'd keep reminding myself of the day to come and then I'd calm down just a little bit. It worked for me.

Before heading to school, I tried to contact my dad again.

No luck. It went straight to voicemail.

I asked my mom if she'd heard from him and she simply shook her head. Of course. What had I been thinking? That she still talked to him? I was out of my mind.

At school, it was hard for me to pay attention. I nearly got knocked out during gym volleyball again, having been so lost in thought, I wasn't dodging balls like I was supposed to. Had Montana not swiped it out of the way with her forearm, I would've been clocked.

"You okay?" Montana asked me.

"Yeah," I said, brushing her off.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again," Montana declared. "I hate volleyball."

While we were changing after gym, my phone started ringing. At first, I didn't notice, because my head was stuck in the neck hole of my T-shirt again.

"Rory, your phone's ringing," Montana had had to tell me.

"It might be my dad!" I shouted. "Montana, can you pick it up? Please?"

As I freed my head from the neck hole, Montana's voice said, "hello?"

"This is Montana," Montana said. She paused. "I'm Rory's friend. Oh, hello. Yes." She laughed warmly. "Thank you. Okay, yeah, Rory's here. I'll give her the phone now, okay? Bye! It was nice meeting you, too."

When Montana handed me my phone, she was smirking. "It's your dad. You've mentioned me to him before, haven't you?" She raised an eyebrow.

I immediately blushed. "I may have just mentioned you once or twice, when talking about the party and stuff. Not a lot."

"Okay," Montana sang, giggling.

When I took my phone, I felt an instant sense of relief wash over me. "Dad?"

"Hey, Ror." His familiar voice reminded me again of how much I'd missed him this past week. "So, your friend Montana answered the phone. She sounds nice."

"She is nice," I said, glancing over at Montana, who was shaking her ringlets out of her ponytail and running her fingers through her gorgeous hair. She still wasn't wearing her shirt, which only made my cheeks flush even redder.

"How'd your date with Mitchell go?"

At first, I was wondering who's Mitchell? And then I remembered that it was Greene. "Oh, it went well. I think. He was nice. We went out for dinner. We talked." I decided to omit the details. Dad didn't need to know about Demonic Andy and Chuck E. Cheese's.

"How about you?" I asked. "How was your Atlantic City tour? Are you okay? When are you coming home? Shouldn't you be home by now?" Truthfully, I was brimming with more questions than I knew what to do with. The kind of questions my dad hated me asking:

Did you take your meds?

Did you have any down days?

Why didn't you call me more often?

Did you hurt yourself again?

"Relax, sweetie," Dad said, chuckling hoarsely. His voice sounded whispery and broken, like he'd overused it, which maybe he had, considering all of his speeches. "I've just been very busy this past week."