Page 12 of Most Valuable Player
“You’ll relish it, because it means he’s tolerating your bullshit.” Dad scoops my plate up and brings it to the sink like he hasn’t just roundhouse-kicked me in the neck.
“Whatbullshit?” I demand.
“Your personality.” He shrugs and adds, “The fake parts. And your abysmal behavior.”
I’ve been gagged. Where is this coming from? I want to throw something pointy at him, but he gives me a sudden, cutting glare that brings my boiling blood down to freezing temperature.
“You hit someone, Cameron James,” he says darkly. “I thought we raised you better. How many times do I have to tell you to drop the macho act you’ve been playing? You pretending to be someone you’re not is hurting others.”
Hearing his voice drop to such a low, irritable tone causes my intestines to twist into painful knots. I’m sure he’s been hanging on to this since last night—waiting for me to cool down before confronting me. And the thing is…
He’s not exactly wrong.
“Sorry,” I mumble. Cam Morelli doesn’t speak softly, but I guess I can be Cameron for the moment. It’s just Dad.
“Use your fists again and you’ll have to do a hell of a lot more than saysorry.” He’s glaring at me with unyielding intensity. “I don’t know what’s got you twisted up lately—”
“That party.”
Dad’s brows quirk. The words slipped out before I could chew on them.
“It…When he hit me, I remembered that party,” I whisper. Even mentioning it causes my limbs to seize and my chest to pound. The air thins rapidly in my lungs, but if I don’t persevere and choke it out, Dad is just going to push until I crack open anyway. “From eighth grade. I realized I didn’t have to take it. Like back then.”
I’m not going to let him question me further. Besides, if I linger, he’ll find new ways to insult me, so I lunge upright, hitch my backpack, and head to the door.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I call to him. “I’ll be back—”
“Do you still think about it? That night in eighth grade.”
I falter, his voice cutting through my attempt at indifference. “Huh?”
“What happened.” Dad’s expression is neutral, his voice level and cool. “How often do you think about it?”
Clearly he’s not willing to let it go. But I’m not going to indulge him when I’m already about to endure the shittiest Saturday in all of history. “Not often” is all I say, before pushing through the front door. The gold morning sun is weaving through the trees, though the warmth doesn’t reach my face.
I drop into my car and toss my backpack aside, then plug Mason’s address into my phone.
The route is scenic at least, not that driving along the lake makes my situation more acceptable. The waves seem extra frothy and gray today—a sure sign of impending doom. I zigzag through run-downroads caged in by looming trees, then creep through a midsize subdivision. The sight of similarly colored houses makes me wrinkle my nose. Places like this, with their perfectly curated lawns and identical slanted rooftops, remind me of the town we narrowly escaped.
I pull into the driveway of a beige house with a porch wrapped around the front, furnished with a swinging bench. There’s someone sitting on it. A pale middle-aged man in a faded T-shirt, black scruff climbing his cheeks. A cigarette dangles from his lips, causing wispy smoke to trail into the air. Frantically, I pull Mason’s number up and call him.
“Good morning, Cameron.”
Even the sound of his sweet, mellow voice makes me want to projectile vomit. “Water boy,” I snap. “I’m here, but there’s a creepy man on your porch.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, “That’s my dad.”
“Tell your dad that blinking is healthy,” I order.
“You’re early. Like twenty minutes early.”
I don’t feel like mentioning that I was desperate to escape my father. “And?” I ask coldly. “What, should I have shown up tardy like some hoolig—”
I choke on the rest of my words, my heart skipping. What am I doing, sounding like a responsible, eager, bright-eyed pupil ready for studying? Cam Morelli should’ve shown up a half hour late. And he sure as hell wouldn’t use the wordhooligan.
Thankfully, Mason doesn’t question it. “I’ll see you at our scheduled meeting time,” he says, and I can hear him smiling through the words. “Goodbye.”
I choke on my dismay. “You’re going to make mewaitfor twenty wholeminutes?”
