No Time Like Now (Lesbian)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Should have opted for prison time instead of spending all my time holing up in my room.

In prison I can get a decent meal, comfier bed, and multiple opportunities to fight bitches who cross me. I'd get a roommate with decent shank-crafting skills, and I won't have to get a job if I don't want to. It's not as if I have bills to pay while serving my time.

Prison's also less lonely.

Mom, for the past two days, has been acting like there's absolutely no way I can function just fine on my own. No shit, she sat next to me and looked over my shoulder to make sure I was applying for that stupid program at Mr. Ashby's company. She would have signed us up for homeschooling if Dad hadn't intervened.

To further punish me, she called the school administration office and asked to add me to a sixth-period class. Fortunately, we were too late in the semester to make that kinda change. But I'm not gonna stay connected with Mom for the rest of my life, no matter how hard she'll try to stay in touch. What if she reschedules my wedding because the date isn't to her liking?

I didn't get yelled at by Jeremiah for 'ignoring' his texts this time, thank God. Other than planning to visit a bar (for Jeremiah) and getting a poison ivy tattoo (for Ikra), I haven't talked to my friends much. Spring break's coming soon, but finals are sooner. The good news is the local library got a lot of visitors in the past couple weeks.

Speaking of finals, Mr. Shadler's been breathing on our necks to get the study guides done and turn in one last assignment for the college unit -- a summary of what we learned from it. I suspect Josh tweeted again about screwing the teacher over; three students turned in their summaries. The rest are taking their sweet ass time writing their overdue assignments.

I have suspicions to believe Josh plans to screw Shadler over with the finals, too. But because I don't know when or if he's gonna strike soon, I put the recordings as audio files in a USB drive shaped like a regular tube of lipstick. Can't be too careful having evidence around.

I've scavenged and reread all of the books in my room. Along with the mesh of story lines I have playing continuously, I have a ton of new information from reading through all my textbooks. Getting on my laptop to surf the Internet is risky as hell; Mom assigned herself to hourly room check-ups, yet another punishment.

So, can you blame me for sitting down and making detailed plans, relying on Dad's old Encyclopedia books for research? And did you know your skin can melt onto the bottom components of a train if it hits you straight on?

Dad doesn't think it's that interesting when I tell him.

He closes my door behind him. Looks at me. Sighs. "We need to talk."

"About what?" I ask as he takes a seat on my bed.

Clasping his hands together, he takes a second to say, "Why England? Out of all places for college?"

Bringing my knees to my chest, I rest my chin. I don't say anything.

Dad sighs again. "Long story?" he guesses.

"And complicated," I mutter.

Looking at his watch, he informs me, "I have time. Take as much as this story needs."

So I do. From sitting in Mr. Timmons' office back in September to now, I tell him everything. Most everything. The parts about the fake IDs and other illegal shit are edited out. Aspen's brought up, but I don't say how I met her.

Dad doesn't stop listening. The one time he interrupts me is to clarify that Jeremiah was the one yelling at me, not Ikra.

The story ends with a happily never after. He doesn't say anything for a while. Call me crazy, but an invasive thought suggests there's a recorder hidden on him. Given that he's wearing a T-shirt and shorts, I doubt it.

The thought isn't satisfied with logic, and keeps persisting there's something hinky going on.

"Well?" I prompt.

Yet another sigh. "I agree with your mom that you should've told us," he says.

I hold my breath.

"But only because this is a big process for one person. Going to college in another state is one thing. Going over the water to attend is another."

No shit.

He plays with his hands as he continues, "You sound like you're sticking to it no matter what. So... I should be involved. Help you get a student visa. Search for housing with you."

Okay... I didn't expect that. Is he laying out a trap?

"Why?" I drawl out. "What's the catch?"

"Well, for one thing, don't go drinking at the bars there all the time when you should be studying," he answers. I must have been confused; he adds, "I know the drinking age there is eighteen. You like to rebel."

"Only if Mom's rules are stupid," I mention.

"I -- well, they're there for a reason."

"Yeah, a stupid one."

"Niamh."

I put my hands up in defense. "Okay."

"As I was saying," Dad goes on, "if you're going to England, you should be as thorough as possible so you can make this happen. I don't want you living in a crack house while you're there."

The thought of me studying in one run-down room while addicts shoot up in the next room is funny. I don't know why. But I keep myself from grinning.

"So, are we okay?"

I shrug. "I guess. Just don't search housing in jails."

"Hey, jail is safer than a crack house."

I doubt it. I've heard a lot of shit happening in jail, regardless of the location.

Dad stands up. "Since you don't have plans tomorrow after school, why don't we start with finding your passport? I don't know if it's still valid."

"Isn't it in Mom's safe?"

He pauses. "That's what she wants you to think."

"Are you serious? She can't be bothered to tell me the truth about that kinda thing?"

"I know. I guess it's her way of keeping you from running away to Canada when you have enough."

I shudder at the idea of being that close by. We only live a few hours from the border.

I'll admit right now, the idea of... what, an ally, an actual parent? Any support isn't what I expect, and I'm already cool with this idea.

"Does this mean you'll leave Mom?" I ask, suppressing any signs of hope.

He laughs as if I cracked a joke. "We're not going to talk about that."

The door closes behind him as he leaves.

In a moment, I slowly stretch out my legs. Absentmindedly, I reach for my phone to text my friends what just happened. A second and third opinion can't hurt.

And then I remember the phone's with Mom. Damn it.