What Happened to Goodbye(39)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“Gus?” I turned, seeing Jason standing in the kitchen doorway. “Fish guy’s on the phone about that rush order.”

“I’ll call him back,” my dad said.

“He says he’s about to leave for the day,” Jason told him. “Do you want me to—”

“Go,” I said, patting his hand. “Take the call, it’s fine. We’re fine.”

He cocked his head to the side, studying my face. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “I have to get home anyway and get ready for . . . you know.”

“The game,” he said, speaking the word for me.

“Right.”

He pushed out his chair, getting up. “Well,” he said, “it should be a good one. I have a feeling you might have decent seats.”

“I’d better,” I replied. “If I’m not on the actual bench, I’m leaving.”

“Of course,” he said. “How are you supposed to talk smack to the refs from anywhere else?”

“Forget the refs,” I replied. “I’m planning on telling Peter what I think about his offense.”

He gave me a rueful smile. It was weird to be talking about basketball again after such a long time away from it. Like we were speaking a language we’d once been fluent in, but we now had to struggle with verbs and tenses.

“Have fun,” he said to me. “I mean it.”

“You, too,” I told him. He smiled again, then started back toward the kitchen. Jason, who was waiting, pushed the door open, and my dad walked through, taking the phone as he handed it off to him. I thought again of how I’d seen them at the cooler earlier, working in tandem, the ongoing intricate dance of making this place somehow come together and perform. Through the open door, I could see the kitchen staff loading carts and chopping and cleaning, a blur of movement around my dad as he stood in the center, the phone at his ear. Always the calmest one in the chaos, even when all hell was breaking loose.

I was halfway out the door, headed homehen I realized I’d left my jacket upstairs. I doubled back, up the alley and through the kitchen door. As I passed my dad’s office, I saw him sitting at his desk, still on the phone. Opal was standing behind him, using the copy machine that was crammed in the corner. It was whirring, lit up, spitting out pages she took as they emerged, one by one.

“Sure,” my dad was saying. “A staff review doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’m just saying that the situation here doesn’t necessarily lend itself to HR formulas.”

The copy machine started making a clicking noise, which grew steadily louder. Opal pushed a couple of buttons. Nothing happened, other than the noise changing from clicking to grinding.

“Oh, I’m sure,” my dad continued, glancing back at her, “it will be enlightening.”

Opal tried another button, sighed, then stepped back, surveying the machine as the grinding grew louder. Behind her, my dad was watching as she furrowed her brow, then balled up her fist, whacking the machine hard in its center. BANG! BANG! My dad raised his eyebrows. The machine sputtered, then began whirring again, and another copy slid out into Opal’s hands. She smiled, pleased with herself, and I was surprised to see my dad smile, too. Then he turned back around.

Upstairs, Opal’s volunteer force of one—Dave—remained, sitting cross-legged by the model, working with a piece in the vicinity of Tracey’s old apartment. I watched him from the landing for a moment as he bent over it, his face serious as he concentrated on getting it attached in the right spot. I’d thought I was being stealthy until he said, without looking up, “I know my artistry is fascinating, but really, feel free to jump in at any time.”

“I wish I could,” I said. “But I have to go to the game.”

“The Defriese game?” he asked, looking over at me. I nodded. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Wait. Do you not want to go or something?”

“Not really.”

He stared at me openly as I walked over to get my jacket. “You know, there are people who would sell their souls for a ticket to that game.”

“Would you?”

“I’d consider it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “God, I just don’t get you non-basketball people. It’s like you’re from another planet.”

“I’m not non-basketball,” I said. “I just—”

“Would rather work on this model than get to be there in person for probably the best game of the freaking year.” He held up his hand. “Just don’t even try to explain yourself. You might as well be speaking Romulan right now.”

“Speaking what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”

I picked up my jacket, digging out my phone from my pocket. I had one missed call, and a text from my mom on the screen. LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU, it said. Formal, polite. WILL BE WAITING AT WILL CALL.

I felt a sudden bolt of nervousness, realizing this was actually happening. I’d be with my mom, and Peter, at the game in less than two hours. And despite my dad’s confidence that this was a good thing, it suddenly felt like anything but. Which was why I panicked, and did the last thing I ever would have expected.

“Do you . . . Do you want to come?” I asked Dave.

“To the game?” he asked. I nodded. “What, do you have an extra ticket?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “But I think I can get you in.”

Seven

I saw my mother before she saw me. And even though we were already late, and I could see her anxiously scanning the crowd, I took one last moment to study her, unaware, before she spotted my face and everything changed.

My mom had always been pretty. I look a lot like she did at my age, with the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and a frame both tall and thin enough to have slightly knobby knees and elbows. Unlike me, though, my mom had never wavered from her chosen path in high school, hitting all the marks that were expected of her as a popular southern girl: cheer team captain, homecoming queen, debutante. She dated the son of a congressman all the way from sophomore year to graduation—wearing a promise ring on a gold chain around her neck—volunteered in service league, and sang in the church choir every Sunday. In her high-school yearbook, she appears on page after page: group shots, candids, club photos. That girl in your class you can’t help but feel like you knew well, even if she never learned your name.