Page 72 of The Story of You
I folded around him as he toyed with my long hair. “We’re going to have haircuts tomorrow,” I told him. I might not have been able to leave Dad physically, but I was going to leave him in my head and that was a good place to start.
* * *
Silas
Ipoured Father’s coffee. He flicked fire-breathing eyes at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, but changed them when I returned with fresh cream. “So, this new look, why?”
“I think I’m outgrowing the rockstar hair don’t you, Father? If I’m going to be a doctor, I’ve got to look the part.”
I knew he wouldn’t be able to think of a single physician he knew personally with long hair like I had. The only ones I knew of were on soap operas. Which I admittedly followed—there was nothing else on during the day.
“I suppose you’re right. The other suited you better that’s all. Thank you for the coffee, it’s perfect.”
When he approved, my soul beamed like the clouds parting and my stupid insides stopped feeling like they were being scratched out for a while. Everything was shit. I took the prize, smiling my fake smile. I’d won the weird and secret hair battle. It was a good day. When Father left, I searched. I looked through the papers in his office. I checked in books. I looked in random places. It had been a year though. Any odd clue was probably gone. Swept away. I didn’t expect to find much, and I didn’t.
I began to give in to my darker thoughts. There was no sign. No trace. And Darius hadn’t called us, nor had he called Uncle Pax. Back then, we didn’t all have phones with every number programmed into them or the internet to use as a resource. But we did have the phone book. He could have looked up Uncle Pax there, assuming he could get his hands on a phone book. If he didn’t feel he could call home, why hadn’t Darius called Uncle Pax?
I had to wonder if Uncle Pax was in league with Father. I just didn’t know. I stopped trusting anyone but myself.
In late August, I got an answer to one of my many questions.
Oliver was just over two years old and therefore allowed to join classes at the local community center. He loved watching the “pretty ballabinas” (what he called them) on TV. I chose the tiny tots dance class. It was popular and had a waitlist. I was told I’d get a call Thursday to notify me as to whether he’d made it in.
I waited all day for the call. When it crept closer to closing time for them, I called a bit perturbed. I was getting Oliver into that class, dammit, even if I had to pay someone off with Dad’s money. “I was meant to receive a call today about the class?”
“Yes, Mr. Randall. We called a few times today. The number you gave us was out of service.”
My heart pounded. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I have a note here about it.”
“Is the spot still available?”
“It is. Would you still like to sign up?”
I enrolled Oliver, the whole time my heart in my throat, stomach flipping. No fucking wonder Darius hadn’t called.
Father changed our phone number.
I always called out—never in. I didn’t see my friends much, except for at the swimming hole in the warmer months. We didn’t call each other; we’d lost touch. When people called the house—people Father’d given the new number to—there was no reason to mention it.
I kept the information to myself.
* * *
Silas
Itoyed with the idea of looking for a home for boys like Father’d mentioned or at least I thought he’d mentioned. Foster homes weren’t off the table either, but where would I begin? I didn’t know much about the subject, but I knew enough to know they weren’t going to give information to a seventeen-year-old kid. I decided to begin by finding out if it was possible to get a child back from foster care. I assumed there was a process. I was right. But when I found out foster care involved a case worker, I panicked. There was either no case worker or Father dealt directly with the case worker. I doubted he was putting that kind of effort in and if that was the case, either Darry would be adopted at the end of fifteen months, or he wasn’t really in foster care.
I’m still amused at the thought of Darius being adopted by another family. He would have been a little horror for anyone who tried to give him a home. Not on purpose. He’s always wanted what he’s wanted, and woe betide anyone who tries to stand in his way.
“Baba. Baba.” Oliver brought me his tutu. He didn’t need it for the dance classes he was in. That was back when I still dressed him in the white t-shirt and black shorts required for little boy dancers—he changed that when he got to be four and more vocal about what he wanted—but he’d set his giant blue eyes on it when we were at the dance shop, and I couldn’t resist. Two-year-olds don’t do much in a dance class if you ask me but the shining joy on his face was worth it.
Someone should be joyful and if it was going to be anyone, I wanted it to be Oliver.
“You want to be a pretty ballerina, huh?”
“Ballabina,” he said.
