Delaney Blake's Guide to Detention

Step #4: Call In the Back-Up

I sink deeper and deeper into the passenger seat of the truck, seven stitches richer. The passing streetlights flash through the windows, lighting Dad up intermittently. His face is tight and I can't tell if he feels bad for me or is still hung up on the fact that I got detention in the first place.

The truck is too quiet, but I don't feel like talking either, but I can't just sit here not saying anything. The silence will kill me. 

"So, Jesse cheated on me," I say.

"I told you I didn't like that guy," Dad says.

Right. Ah, rebellion has served me well. Maybe if he pulled the whole cleaning a shotgun in the living room trope, Jesse and I never would've made it to a stage where he procured himself a side chick. 

"Good call, Dad." I sink lower. At this rate, I'm going to be lying on the floor by the time we get home.

"Why are we always doing this, Delaney?" Dad says. "If it's not one thing, it's another."

Arguably, if it's not one thing, it's always another, but I don't say that. That's attitude and, for once, I'm smart enough not to give it. 

"I don't know." I shrug. "I didn't mean to drop the stupid jar."

I look back into the side mirror at the glowing street lights behind us. Not me, though. If it wasn't so unnerving, it would be annoying. I probably look like hell in a handbasket and I can't even check to confirm.

"You did mean to pour milk on Jesse, though."

I hate how Dad leaves no room for arguing. I did not never sounds very persuasive. Been there, done that.

"Yeah, and I think the world at large punished me pretty good for that one."

"We're going to talk about this when your mother's off work," Dad says. Clearly, he doesn't agree with me on the whole already punished sentiment. More to look forward to. More to cement this day as the worst in history. 

As soon as the truck pulls into the driveway, I jump out of the truck before this not-lecture can go any further. Yeah, I fucked up. I always fuck up. Thanks for noticing.

I let myself in before Dad can gather up his work stuff and get into the house. My steps thunder too loud up the stairs, putting on a show.

Anger is flashy. It dangerous and makes people not want to get too close. It makes them not see that I don't need extra help to feel like a failure, and maybe, it would be nice to have the reminder every once in awhile that there is more to me than that. 

I storm into my room and throw myself onto my bed like a Disney princess. Everything is exhausting. Thinking is exhausting and I'm starving and hangry and loopy off the little bit of pain meds the doctors gave me to take the edge off the stitches in my leg.

I scream a muted scream into my pillows. My hand gropes for my phone, tossed somewhere onto the bedspread in my vicinity. I lift my face from my shams long enough to send a text message: need wendy's and expertise pronto

*****

Fifteen minutes later, Milo Choi taps at my open window before sliding in. It's a testament to his athletic ability that he can climb a tree and hold tightly to a bag of Wendy's simultaneously.

As Milo slides in, so does the gross, unexpected guilt that I haven't exactly been a good friend or neighbor for the past couple months, sitting with Jesse and co. Yet, here Milo is, presenting the fries and Frosty I desperately need, no apology necessary.