It is a fact, I think stubbornly. It’s true.
I can assemble all my evidence now, build my case.
If Daddy has some huge sum of money stowed away somewhere . . . If Daddy really loves me . . . then of course. Wouldn’t he do anything he could to make sure I have money to go to college? And since he’s in prison and he stole all his money, he couldn’t just mail me a check. So, duh, of course he’d set up some sort of hoax to funnel the money to me.
Hadn’t Daddy pretty much told the whole world he stole his money just to be able to send me to college?
Wasn’t it his dream as much as mine that someday I’d go to Vanderbilt? That I could have that glorious, prestigious college education he only pretended to have?
A fake full-ride scholarship contest would be easy for Daddy to pull off. Though, maybe from prison he would have had to use an outside accomplice. Maybe he’d paid a big bribe to get help from someone he used to work with, someone he’d never cheated, someone who got as big an adrenaline rush as Daddy did from fooling people. Maybe that person told Deskins High School he was Whitney Court’s father and he wanted to set up a scholarship in her name. Then Daddy and/or his accomplice just had to conduct the whole contest online and—ta-da!—eventually announce that a certain Becca Jones would win this year’s award.
Just for insurance, to throw off any suspicions, they would have set up the scholarship a few years early, thrown out token amounts of money to other kids in earlier classes.
Wouldn’t Daddy think like that? Doesn’t that last part about setting up the scholarship early have Daddy’s fingerprints all over it?
I put my hands over my face and discover my cheeks are wet: Tears are streaming down, rolling across the bridge of my nose, soaking into the couch. I have started sobbing and I didn’t even know it.
And I don’t quite know why I’m sobbing. Is it because I have proof now (well, almost proof) that Daddy loves me after all, that he didn’t go off to prison and leave me and Mom with nothing? Is it because I’m sure now (almost sure) that I will be able to afford an expensive college education, even with my father in prison?
Or is it because I’m angrier than ever with my father? How dare he! How dare he try to make me his accomplice, knowingly taking his stolen money. That would taint my entire college education. That would ruin everything. That would make me a criminal too.
Didn’t he think I was smart enough to figure this out?
The door is locked and the blinds are drawn and there’s no one else in the apartment, but I still feel too exposed, sobbing so openly on the couch in the living room. I stumble to my feet and careen into the bathroom. The next thing I know, I’m crouched on the floor, vomiting into the toilet.
Am I trying to throw up the part of me that’s furious with Daddy—or the part that desperately wants all of this to be true?
Still now—
for some reason, time doesn’t stop. It just keeps moving on
The phone rings while I am still huddled on the bathroom floor. I have stopped throwing up, but I haven’t been able to force myself to get up. The phone motivates me.
Maybe it’s Mom, I think. Mommy . . .
If it’s Mom, I will tell her everything. She will come home right away and put a cool hand on my forehead and smooth back my hair, just like she did when I was a little kid. And she’ll tell me, “Don’t worry. Mommy will fix everything.”
I want to believe that. I want to believe she could fix everything: She’d protect me from Daddy’s schemes and his tainting college for me, and somehow she’d magically (and legally!) come up with the money I need for Vanderbilt . . . I want to believe that she, at least, would act sane and sensible and courageous and save me from everything bad.
As if Mom has ever seemed sane or sensible or courageous at any point the past three years.
I also want to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. But it’s been more than a decade since I believed in any of those things—since I found out they were just my parents pretending to be all-knowing and all-wise and all-giving.
I trip walking toward the phone. But I keep walking.
Maybe it’s Daddy, I think.
And this truly is magical thinking, because Daddy couldn’t just call me up at the drop of a hat. There are designated calling times in prison, I think, and this probably isn’t one of them. And we all agreed three years ago that phone calls were off limits. And, anyhow, how would Daddy know that he needed to call, that this is the exact moment when I found out everything?
Still, I’m thinking about what to say to him.
I would say thank you, I think. Thank you for the scholarship. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for remembering me.
But could I say that? Or would that be like reporting Daddy’s latest crime, since the prison phones are probably tapped?
Do I want to report him?
I pick up the phone without looking at the caller ID.
It’s not Mom or Daddy. It’s Jala.
“What do you need help figuring out?” she asks breathlessly.
I actually pull the phone back from my ear and peer at it in bafflement. Oh, right. Jala’s calling me back. I called her after I talked to Mrs. Congreves, but before I knew what really happened to Whitney.
I put the phone back against my cheek.
“Oh, I don’t need help anymore,” I say. “Sorry. I just figured out everything on my own.”
I can hear the distance in my own voice—my tone comes with its own KEEP OUT signs.
But Jala is intrepid.
“What was the problem?” she asks. “What’d you figure out?”
“It’s . . . complicated,” I say. I’m hiding behind Facebook-speak. But I can’t tell Jala what I learned about Whitney. Everything’s too fresh. I can’t trust myself not to slip and also tell her about Daddy.
“That’s okay,” Jala says. “I like complicated. And it’d be nice to hear about somebody having a problem solved, instead of all the ones that seem unsolvable, like in my calculus and chemistry classes.”
“No, really, it’s too long a story,” I say. “And I’ve got tons of homework tonight—probably you do too. You say your calc and chem classes are really hard?”
If in doubt, change the subject.
“Not that hard,” Jala says. “It’s just . . . maybe OSU isn’t the right place for me? Maybe I’d do better at a smaller school? Oh, never mind.” She gives a halfhearted laugh. “I guess I just had a bad day. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
There’s an undercurrent to Jala’s words. No matter what she actually said, it’s like she’s begging me, Ask why OSU might not be the right place. Ask why I want a smaller school. Ask what’s wrong that I need help with.
But my face is stiff with dried tears, and my mouth still tastes like vomit. I have no room in my head for anybody else’s problems.
I pretend I don’t hear any hidden message in Jala’s words.
“Sure, you’ll be fine tomorrow,” I echo. “Anyway . . .”
All I have to do is mention my homework load again, promise to call her back sometime, and hang up. But somehow I can’t do it. Somehow I still need the comfort of holding the phone to my ear, of knowing that Jala is still at the other end of the line.
Even if I can’t tell her anything, she’s there.
Except now there’s just silence between us. Silence and dead air.
“Well,” Jala finally says. “Are you . . . are you going on that trip Stuart’s planning for fall break? To look at colleges in the South? Vanderbilt and Emory, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and it’s like my voice is coming from somebody else’s mouth—somebody standing a million miles away.
So that’s ruined for me too? I think. My chance for a visit to Vanderbilt, taken away because Stuart wants to go to Emory, too?
Emory is in Atlanta. No way could I ever go back to the Atlanta area. What if I ran into somebody I used to know?
&nbs
p; “Jala, I have to go,” I say, because suddenly I’m terrified that I’m going to start crying again.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, sure. Bye,” I say.
I stab at the button on the phone that turns it off. I stand there panting for a moment. I’ve won my race against the tears, because I’m not crying yet, not crying yet, not . . .
The phone rings in my hand. I drop it to the table. The ringing stops, and I imagine the voice mail Jala is leaving, the hurt tone undoubtedly underlying whatever trumped-up excuse she’s come up with for calling back.
Jala is a nice person and a good friend. It’s horrible that I hurt her.
Something else to blame Daddy for, I think.
Now I am crying again.
And then I’m mad that I’m crying, mad that I hurt Jala, mad that Daddy forced me into this position. My anger is like one of those fireballs you see in movies: There’s a spark and a flash and suddenly the whole room is engulfed in flame.
My whole body—my whole soul, my entire being—is engulfed in fury.
A fireball is always looking for the next thing to burn, and I’m like that too. I want Daddy to know how mad I am. I’ve got a phone, but I can’t call him. I’ve got car keys and a car, but I can’t drive to see him in prison.
The irony? I don’t even have enough money to make it to California, I think.
My fury burns hotter. I grab my laptop from the table because it’s something Daddy gave me. He gave me the Hello Kitty sticker on it too. He probably gave it to me because he wanted me to stay as cute and cuddly and adorably clueless as Hello Kitty.
And as silent as Hello Kitty, I think. Why didn’t I ever see how creepy it is that poor Hello Kitty doesn’t even have a mouth?
That does it. I was kind of planning to hurl the laptop to the floor, to delight in its destruction. Instead, I slam the computer back onto the table and begin typing:
“I hate you, Daddy.”
This feels good. I will not be silent. I will not be voiceless. I will write down everything and let Daddy know just how much I hate him.
I will make him feel as bad as I do.
I put my hands back on the keyboard, to keep writing. I realize that I’ve accidentally typed my words into a search engine, and the computer is offering me choices: Do I want “I hate you, Daddy” the poem? The song lyrics? The YouTube video?
I don’t want any of that. I want my own version. I open a blank Word document and start over.
I hate you, Daddy. How stupid do you think I am? Didn’t you know I would figure out the whole scholarship is a hoax? And how did you think I was going to feel when I figured all that out? Did you want to turn me into a criminal like you? Is that what horrible people like you dream about for their children? You’re like some drug dealer trying to get some new customer hooked. “Here, here, just take this full-ride scholarship . . . It’s free! I made it up just for you!” And then I’m hooked. Then I’m obligated. Then I’m just as evil as you.
I write and write and write. I write about how mad I am at Whitney for ruining her life, how mad I am at Daddy for ruining his, how devastated I am to think that he wants me to ruin mine, too. It feels like I am sobbing onto the page, like I am bleeding onto the page. I can’t stop.
Did you think, after everything that happened, that I’m still the little girl who worships you? Did you think that I’d just do what you want for me—that I’d march off to Vanderbilt like a good little student because it’s your dream school?
“Oh, God,” I whisper. “Is that what I’m doing?”
I’m not sure if I’m praying or cursing.
I keep writing.
How did you even know, back when you set this whole thing up, that I would make the grades and have the test scores to get in to Vanderbilt? Did you think I was just some wind-up doll you could program like a computer, like you customized my operating system, you could make me the person you wanted me to be?
I stare at those words, at the cursor blinking on the screen. My heart pounds. How true is that?
I remember orientation freshman year, when I decided to take hard classes.
Because of Jala! I remind myself. Because she was nice to me, and I thought I needed to be around nice people, not gossipy ones!
I remember how hard I’ve always worked in my high school classes, how I’ve always wanted the top grades.
Because I didn’t have anything better to do than study! Because Stuart was crazy-competitive way back in freshman honors English, and that made me want to beat him and . . .
I am so confused. I don’t understand. I’ve had such tight control over myself all through high school, I’ve barely let myself think about my father. But now I find myself remembering what he told me every time I brought home a report card in middle school: “This is fine, honey, for sixth grade (for seventh grade . . . for eighth grade . . .). But you’re really going to have to step up your game once you get to high school. That’s when it really counts.”
And I had good grades in middle school. They just weren’t perfect.
After everything that happened, am I still just trying to please my father? Trying to be what he wants me to be?
Why?
Just like that, the anger goes out of me. As I furiously typed away, I kind of thought that I would print this whole mess, put it in an envelope, and drive it to the post office right away. I typed up whole paragraphs imagining the pleasure I would get from dropping this letter into a government-certified mailbox, making it irretrievable, even if I calmed down later on.
But now I just scroll the cursor up to the top corner of the page, to the red-boxed X. I click.
Close.
My computer, ever cautious, offers me a chance to reconsider. Do I want to save this file? Not save it? Cancel?
I let the cursor hover between the three choices. Do I want to keep such a toxic document? Hold on to so much poison? Why?
To remember how mad you were, I think. Even if you never send this to Daddy, you need to keep it. It could help you decide what to do about this scholarship. Are you actually going to go ahead and apply or not?
I groan out loud. Maybe that’s why I was holding on to my anger so tightly: If I blame everything on Daddy, I don’t have to make any decisions of my own.
I click save. The computer asks me what I want to call this file. I feel a bitter smile creeping onto my face. I type four words:
“Whitney Court Scholarship Essay.”
Now—
continued
All that anger has wiped me out. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
I tell myself I don’t have to decide anything tonight—I don’t have to do anything. But giving myself permission to be floaty and vague just makes me feel that much worse. I’m like a ghost haunting myself. I need to eat dinner—that’s down-to-earth. That should be easy. But I can’t even decide between heating up leftover Hamburger Helper or boiling water for spaghetti. I spend fifteen minutes trying to decide if I want to spend fifteen minutes cooking.
I can’t decide, so I don’t eat anything at all.
I open my calc book to work on homework, but the formulas that made perfect sense in class today have turned into meaningless knots of letters and symbols. My eyes keep blurring them together, tangling them even worse.
I shut the book.
Just go to bed, I tell myself. Go to bed and do your homework in the morning, when your brain works again.
But when I lie down, I can’t sleep. My brain shifts into high gear, racing in circles.
I’m trapped, I think. I can’t dig too much into finding out for sure if the Court scholarship is Daddy’s hoax, because that might get him into even more trouble. And if I prove to myself that it is . . . then I really am a criminal if I take it.
But what if I’m wrong about everything? What if being Daddy’s daughter makes me see hoaxes and scams where there aren’t any? What if I act all high and mighty and refuse to even apply for the Court s
cholarship and miss out on my only chance of being able to pay for a really good college?
I flip over, then over again. I toss and turn, back and forth, side to side. The sheets tangle around my legs.
I haven’t stepped foot inside a church in three and a half years, not since the Sunday before Daddy was arrested. But before that I went to church a lot. (Duh—it was the South. That’s what people do.) So, whether I like it or not, I have all sorts of Bible stories floating around in my brain, along with Daddy’s lies. The story I can’t help thinking of now is about Jacob wrestling with the angel. I remember it the way my overcaffeinated third-grade Sunday school teacher Mrs. Grindley told it, with g’s dropped from the words “fighting” and “wrestling” and a drawl that got thicker as the story went along. It seemed poor Jacob was alone in the middle of nowhere, and suddenly some other man attacked him. And of course Jacob fought back, even though he didn’t know who the man was.
“And then,” I could remember Mrs. Grindley saying, her heavily mascaraed eyes growing wider, as if she was surprised by her own words, “the more they fought, the more Jacob started thinking that maybe it wasn’t a man he was fighting after all. Maybe it was an angel. Maybe it was a demon. Maybe it was God. Maybe it was the devil. He didn’t know, but he just kept fighting. He fought all night long without giving up! And he didn’t even know who or what he was fighting! He didn’t know what he was fighting against, and he didn’t know what he was fighting for!”
I can’t actually remember how it all turned out for Jacob after that—maybe some of the boys in the class started flicking glue sticks at one another, and Mrs. Grindley didn’t finish the story. That happened a lot in third grade Sunday school.
But I feel Jacob’s story in my bones right now. I don’t know what I’m fighting, either. Is it my conscience? Is it my fear? Is it Daddy?
Is it God?
Is this how Daddy felt, on the verge of his first crime? Did he debate and wonder and agonize and stew?