Page 6 of Linebacker
What the hell?
We had watched, grinning and cackling like a couple of evil witches waiting for the sign that Mars had fire down below.
We got nothing.
Well, apart from an odd flinch and rearrangement of his package, which is nothing new. Most blokes have their hands down their own pants at least a couple of times a day. It certainly didn’t affect his game. Much to our dismay. In fact, he’d played a blinder. Two interceptions and even took the ball into the end zone to score. In my eyes, he was the man of the match. “Maybe he’s so focused that nothing will distract him from the game.”
“Or he is insensitive to pain and that’s why he hits as hard as he does. The perfect defensive player.”
“Or his cock’s dead,” I snigger. “Fuck it,” I curse, fisting my hand and punching the side of the passenger door.
“Hey, don’t take it out on my car. It’s done nothing to you.” She chides. “We have to accept that this was an epic failure, but take comfort because we still have four more to get at and we will succeed.” Windy pulls the car into her usual parking place at the coffee shop, turns off the engine and twists her body towards me.
“Prom.” Holding out her clenched fist, she waits for me to respond. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Prom,” I agree, bumping my fist with hers. “I can’t wait.”
CHAPTER6
When I step through my bedroom door and out into the hallway, I can hear the whistling of the old stainless-steel kettle on the stovetop begin to subside. My father is up and I wonder what kind of mood he’s in today.
“Good morning, Father,” I call out as I move towards where he stands, pouring the boiling hot water into his favoured mug.‘I trust in god’s goodness. Rom.8.28’is embossed in thick gold lettering on the dark brown ceramic.
“Hope,” he says, angling the side of his face towards me. I stretch up on my toes as far as I can to place a reluctant kiss on his cheek, but with the height difference, I end up hitting the very edge of his jawline. I draw on all my resilience to not show the shudder that threatens to unleash at my display of affection, which goes against my true feelings for him. Today, I need him to be in a pleasant mood.
“What would you like for breakfast today, Father? Sausage, bacon? Or I could make you your favourite, eggy bread?” I ensure that I don’t call it French Toast, which I have done in the past just to get a rise out of him when feeling rebellious. He hates the French, Germans and the Americans. In fact, for a man who proclaims to be such a God-fearing person, you would think he would be more accepting.
“Eggy bread would be nice,” he responds as he pulls out one of the old wooden chairs from under the worn red-topped, melamine table. The tone in his voice is lighter than I’ve heard in a long while. Maybe there is a God, and he heard my murmured pleadings last night.
I pull out a frying pan and light the gas on the stove. With a tiny drizzle of oil to coat the pan, I place it on the flame to heat while I grab what I need from the pantry. I break the eggs onto a plate, season with salt and pepper, then carefully so as not to splosh over the sides, whisk them with a fork. Once the mix is slightly bubbly, I cut two medium thick slices of bread from a loaf. I lay one slice on to the mixture, leaving it for about half a minute. After I lift and hold to let the excess egg mixture drip back on the plate, I flip it over to coat the other side. Transferring the egg-soaked bread into the now hot pan, it sizzles as it cooks. After a couple of minutes, I brown the other side. Once done, I lay it onto a clean plate and repeat with the second slice. When both are ready to eat, I finish it with a small drizzle of ketchup across the now crispy French toast.
“This looks good,” my father acknowledges when I slide the plate, knife and fork in front of him. “Are you not having some?”
“I’m going to have yogurt today.” I’m not hungry, but I don’t fancy a lecture about how food is integral to communicating the biblical message and the rest. My lack of appetite could be down to nerves, but I grab a carton of natural yogurt from the fridge anyway and hope that it’s not gone past its sell by date. That would only spur on another rant from my father about waste and God’s starving children around the world. I wonder if he would see it the same way if the only starving children were French?
Hypocrite.
We sit in silence. My father chews every morsel of his food like it’s a sacred offering, while I almost gag on each mouthful of sour fermented milk.
“Father,” I singsong, finally plucking up the courage to ask the question that has me so on edge. “It’s the school prom next Friday and, well, all the other six formers will be going.” I’ve toyed with the idea of telling him that I’m needed at the coffee shop to help Windy with a deep clean. But that would be another lie and, to be honest, I’m sick of them. It’s time I start to stand my ground.
Despite the bunching of his eyebrows and the deep crease that has appeared between them, when he verbally responds to my request, his tone of voice is light and surprisingly has no sign of annoyance.
“Not all,” he replies once swallowing his mouthful of food. “Because you, my child, will not be attending.”
“But Father, teachers will be there to chaperone, so there won’t be any drinking or smoking. Just music and dancing and I promise I’ll leave early and be back by ten,” I plead, my voice pitching higher and higher with desperation. “I know I don’t have many friends at school, but it would be nice to have this last memory of my school years.” I would love to have the type of relationship with my only parent where I could blurt out the real reason I needed to attend, but that wasn’t happening, was it?
“Hah! The teachers at that school have no morals, and can’t be trusted,” he snorts before becoming more serious. “I will not allow a daughter of mine to gallivant around with a bunch of sexually deviant, young boys and promiscuous, immoral girls who have no respect for our lord or his teachings.”
“I’m eighteen now, Father and in the eyes of the law, I’m an adult.”
“In this house, I am the law, and I say no.” He shouts, his temper rising to a point where his face contours into something dark and scary. “That’s the end to it.”
“But Father,” I try again, knowing that I’m pushing my luck. The chair he was sitting on flips back and hits the floor as he jumps to his feet. He leans over the table; his hand snaps out and slaps me hard across the face.
I bite down on my bottom lip to hold in the cry that’s lingering on my lips, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain. My cheek burns and the side of my head throbs from the impact, but I clench my hands firmly in my lap, rather than using them to soothe away the pain.
“I said enough,” he sneers at me. “One more word and I’ll beat the defiance out of you with my bare hands. Now get to school before I make good on my threat.”
