In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(3)
“He’s home early. That’s…that’s what the weirdness was for,” I say just loud enough that my mom and sister can hear, my head hung low as I try to figure out what face I need to make to keep my mom happy and my father calm. I glance at her with empty eyes, and her face falls and her head tilts to the side. That’s her nonverbal: I’m sorry. She hates it when we fight; so for her, I’ll try to avoid confrontation.
“What are you here for? Do you need money? Did you decide to get a real job? Or are you still living in fantasyland?” It’s like he picked up right where he left off the last time we spoke. That conversation was more than twelve months ago, and it happened almost exactly the same way. I dropped by to see Mom, and he came home early.
“I was just wishing Mom a happy birthday. But I have to go now, so how about you spend your energy doing something nice for her, huh?” My words come out cruel and sharp—I don’t mean to engage, but there’s this trigger he hits, and I can’t seem to stop it. I step into my mom and kiss her cheek, then turn away from him. I won’t look at him.
“You mean like provide for her with a good job that guarantees her future and uses my brain and real talent?” he pipes in before I can get too far.
I slow down, but I keep moving forward until my hand lands on the doorknob.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Math is a dream talent, pops. Way to follow your dreams. Now, I’m going to go back to following mine,” I say, shaking my head as I pull the door open. I walk through and nudge it closed behind me with my fingertips.
I almost make it to the solace of my car, but I’m a step or two too late.
“You’re wasting your life on that…what…music mixing? Jesus, you don’t even play an instrument. It’s not like you’re a prodigy. You have a talent, Casey. Your gift is numbers, and you could do so many things…”
That’s the thing with his lectures. They teeter on nice. But they’re not really nice. It’s like his words are disguised as kind and caring—with just enough bite to remind me he thinks I’m a loser. I fell for it most of my life. I’m done falling for it now.
“I play six instruments, Dad. Six,” I say calmly as I open the car door and put one foot inside. My hand flattens on the roof and I swallow hard, giving in to look up at him. He’s wearing his typical suit. The tie is off, but other than that, he’s exactly the same. He doesn’t change. “And that mixing thing, it makes me happy. Tell Mom I hope she likes her flowers.”
I pat the roof once and climb inside the car; I turn over the engine the typical three times before it catches and I can drive away.
My car is silent for the first few blocks, and I don’t pause at the stop signs long. I stay in this trance until I turn the corner and know I’m completely out of sight of him—not that he’s still looking. When I reach the red light, I let myself have one solid tantrum as I pound my fists against the steering wheel over and over again.
“Fucking f*ck!” I yell, pulling my hat from my head and throwing it hard on my dash. My hair falls down into my eyes; I hate that when I’m driving, so I pick the hat up again and twist it backward.
My AC is spotty, so the air pumping through the vents is doing little to cool me off. Or maybe I’m just on fire from being so pissed. It’s summer, and I’m wrapped up in a vest and pants like I’m getting ready for the family Christmas card. I unclip the seatbelt—while the crosswalk sign flashes a countdown—tugging the knit vest over my head, my hat getting caught in it and my hair flopping in my eyes again. Fuck it—I’m leaving it off this time.
When the light changes, I buckle up again and move into the intersection with just enough push to get me to the middle before the engine cuts out and my car dies; it coasts to a stop in the mini-mart parking lot on the other side of the street.
This has been happening a lot lately. That’s what I get when I buy my car for two hundred bucks on Craigslist. I start to laugh at my shitty day. All I wanted to do was wish my mom a happy birthday, maybe see her smile. Instead, I got the weirdness vibes of her anxiety, because she knew my dad was coming home, and I got another lecture, of sorts. And now, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to call Houston for a ride, because I have all of my shit in the trunk, and I have a gig tonight.
I pull my phone from my pocket and step out of my car, kicking the door closed with my foot while I dial my best friend.
“Yo, I need a ride,” I say the second I hear him answer. I tuck the phone against my shoulder and take out my wallet to see how much cash I have. There isn’t enough for mini-mart lunch, so I grab a cup for a drink and fill it with Coke.
“And I need lunch. What time do you work?”
He hasn’t spoken yet, but I hear the sigh.
“Hey, Houston. It’s Casey. How are you today?” he says, putting on that voice he uses when he imitates me. It sounds nothing like me.
I pause and blink, looking at the small bubbles bursting from my soda.
“That’s a ridiculous way to start a conversation. It totally wastes my time and yours. I just get right to the meat,” I say, snapping the drink lid in place and ripping a straw from its paper packaging.
“Ha, you mean you get right to whatever it is you need from me,” Houston laughs.
“Whatever, same thing—the point, needs. Blah blah, blah,” I say. “Dude, I’m at the mini on Fourth and June. I’m starving. The car is dead. Like…deeeeaaaad. And I have a gig, so can I borrow yours for the night? I’ll bring it to you in the morning.”