Page 93 of Just Trouble

Because of that, I tell her.

“Okay, when I was in high school, we were supposed to play team sports. I didn’t mind soccer, but I hated hockey.”

“They can take your passport away for that,” she deadpans.

“God, don’t tell anybody then,” I reply and we grin at each other.

She comes to lean beside me. “Why didn’t you like it?”

“I like my teeth right where they are, thanks, and my brains unscrambled. I like hockey when it’s not about enforcers, the way Gretzsky played.” She nods agreement. “But I had this coach who really wanted me to play, who insisted on it, so I composed a letter.” I have left out the bit about always getting thumped on the ice, either by a Cavendish or a friend of a Cavendish. I was targeted and no one intervened.

Is there a more lonely place to be?

Is there a better way to learn that you can’t rely on anyone but yourself?

I doubt it, and I don’t want Sierra to learn that lesson.

“A letter? How is that bad?” Sierra frowns and shakes her head, not understanding.

“Well, it wasn’t just any letter. I stole some letterhead from Cavendish Enterprises and I wrote up a letter as if it was from someone else.” I raise my voice as if quoting said letter. “To whom it may concern: My son, Luke Jones, is hereby excused from the playing of any team sports, including hockey, by my express stipulation. If he is compelled to do so, I will ensure thatall co-op education opportunities between the school system and Cavendish Enterprises are eliminated immediately. I will also embark upon legal proceedings as appropriate. Cordially, Patrick Cavendish.”

“You didn’t?” Sierra says in awe and I nod.

“I did. It was a really good copy of his signature, too.”

“He’s your dad?”

I nod again.

“What happened?”

“What didn’t happen? Everything went boom. There was a lot of yelling. I was expelled for a term and when I came back, I had to play hockey, after all.”

“What did you think would happen?”

“Well, I was fifteen, so I didn’t know crap, but I thought maybe if I called him out, Patrick might contribute something in terms of support.” I also leave out the bit that he married another woman, when my mom was pregnant with yours truly. “You see, my paternity was the great unspoken secret. Everyone knew he was my dad, but no one talked about it, and he never admitted it. I was tired of being invisible.” I take a breath. “And I was tired of the way people talked to my mom. It takes two to make a baby.”

“Huh.” She thinks about this. “Was it worth it?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t say it, but I loved pissing off Patrick. It didn’t make any difference in the end, but I am—or was—sufficiently petty that I enjoyed that bit.”

She considers me for a long moment. “Do you think it’s worse to know who your dad is or to not know?”

“I don’t know. Both suck.”

“Dad’s breakfast,” she mutters. “Days when we talk about our parents’ careers. Days when parents come to school for whatever. Graduations. All those times that you’re supposed tohave two parents, not one. They all suck. At least if he was dead, you’d have that.”

I get it. “So, okay, a non-dad can step up, if you like.”

“Really?”

“Really. Been there and done that. If I can make sure you don’t have to, that’s all good.”

“Even though you’re not my dad.”

“A non-dad kindred spirit.”

She snorts but there’s a glimmer in her eyes that means I’m wearing her down. “How does that work since you’re not staying here?”

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