T. Goeglein - Cold Fury

I nodded, slowly lowering my fists.

“How much did you hear?” he said. “Tell the truth.”

“I heard Uncle Buddy threaten us. I heard you tell him that you’d kill him.”

“Oh God,” he said, dragging a hand over his face. “Forget it, Sara Jane. Forget what you heard and saw.” He put his hands on my shoulders and tried on a weak smile. “None of it matters now, sweetheart.”

“Of course it matters!” I said, pushing his hands away. It was that word, sweetheart , that set me off, like I was some kind of idiot girl. After his soul-rattling transformation from Dad to Evil Dad, and the horrible scene with Uncle Buddy, he was behaving as if a few reassuring words were all I needed to pretend nothing happened. I felt a small blue flame of anger kindle in my gut as I said, “You were about to tell me something important about our family. You can’t start a conversation like that, especially after what just happened, and ask me to forget it.”

“I’m not asking you,” he said, the smile vanishing. “I’m telling you.”

“To do what? Erase my brain? I saw what I saw and heard what I heard,” I said. “Tell me, Dad, at least about that notebook. Tell me right now.”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he said, unlocking the old car.

“You said I can handle it and more.”

“I know you can handle it,” he said. “I just don’t want you to have to handle it.” He gazed at the bakery and set his jaw. “Like I said, none of it matters anymore. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving where?”

He opened the car door. “Leaving Chicago. You, Lou, Mom, and me.”

“But. . since when?”

“Since now, Sara Jane. Things have changed.”

It was too much, too fast, and I stammered, “But I have school, and my friends. . this is insane, Dad. None of it makes sense. There’s no way we’re leaving tomorrow. .”

“Get in,” he said, starting the engine.

I shook my head. “Not unless you tell me the truth. About everything.”

His mouth was a tight line as he shook his head. “We’re done talking.”

Without another word, I turned and walked down the sidewalk.

He dropped the car into gear and followed me, saying, “Sara Jane, please.”

Silence-walking and looking straight ahead.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. I just. . please get in.”

No acknowledgment-still walking.

“Okay, fine. Walk if it will make you feel better. But come straight home.”

And then I watched him drive away, waving sadly.

He assumed the short walk to our house would put me only twenty minutes behind him. That assumption made me less angry than depressed, since he’d obviously forgotten that it was Friday night, the Fep Prep spring dance, and that he was to drop me off at Gina’s house. And that my dress was hanging in the backseat of the Lincoln.

He’d forgotten that I was meeting Max Kissberg.

He’d forgotten that today was my sixteenth birthday, and that the best gift I could’ve received was a date with Max.

I knew what a supremely terrible afternoon my dad had-it’s not every day that formerly loving brothers threaten each other’s lives. If my dad was at the point where he was prepared to flee Chicago in twenty-four hours, it was obviously much worse than I could imagine. Still, it was extremely disturbing how something so important to me could be so easily pushed aside. I’ve never been a person who needs a lot of attention from the outside world. But I grew up in such a protected way that my emotional core is centered within my family; I depend almost fully on them for attention, approval, and support. So if there’s one thing that sets off a flock of just-about-to-cry butterflies in my stomach, especially when it comes from my parents, it’s disregard-that lonely, empty sensation of not being thought of, or even considered. Those butterflies were moving now, and I wiped at my eyes and began the long trek to Gina’s house.

I was angry at my dad for refusing to tell me those important things about my family, but even angrier that he drove away without a simple “happy birthday.”

Much later, I would remember his sad wave.

I would wish that I’d waved back, since it was the last time I ever saw him.

Ten long blocks later, all I could think about was how late it was, how Max probably wondered if I would even show up at the dance, and how the dress I’d sweated and fretted over had driven away with my dad.

Also, how weird it was that Gina and I were going to the dance together.

Over the years, as she honed and perfected her gossip skills by knowing and talking to tons of people (and I pointedly didn’t), we regressed from hanging out regularly to sometimes to rarely. My mom’s warning had kept me away from her, and so did Gina’s ever-growing popularity, but even though we’d grown apart, we still had one of those original-friendship connections. We’d been each other’s first real friend, which never quite goes away, especially when you attend the same schools. So, whether it was out of nostalgia, curiosity, or the old challenge that lies between us-would she ever whisper to me a morsel of gossip so juicy that I’d actually want to know more? — we decided to go to the dance together. Days before, we’d found ourselves jammed next to each other in a crowded school assembly and chatted aimlessly until we arrived at the subject of the dance. She wasn’t currently dating anyone but planned on attending anyway, and I mentioned I was meeting someone there but basically going alone. And then we both sort of shrugged and decided to go together.

When I showed up at her house, sweaty from walk-running the whole way, she took one look at me, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Jeans, Cubs T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors again? For a dance? See, this is why we never hang out anymore. FYI, Sara Jane. . the general consensus floating around is that you’re a very strange kid.” She pulled open her closet to lend me whatever she had, except that I’m sort of tall and definitely on the thin side and Gina is genuinely curvy. I tried on a few skirts but they were too short, and a few tops but they were too airy. Her mom, who had been watching our sad little fashion show, left the room, saying, “We’re almost the same size, Sara Jane. I think I might have something.” She returned pulling plastic from a hanger, smiling ear to ear, saying, “I haven’t worn this since college.”

Gina looked at the dress, at me, and at her mom, and said, “Where’s it been, in a time capsule?” I stared at the dress glittering before me, knowing Gina had a point. The best way to describe it is to say that Farrah Fawcett would’ve worn it if she were working undercover, posing as a disco instructor on Charlie’s Angels .

“It’s a spring dance, Mom,” Gina said. “Not a Halloween party.”

“Well, Sara Jane, if you don’t want it. .,” Gina’s mom began.

“No, it’s great,” I said, mainly because it looked like it would fit and because we were more than an hour late. “I’d love to wear it.”

Gina’s jaw dropped. “You would? Okay, but I’m walking into the gym alone. I mean it. I don’t need it getting around that I associate with a disco queen.”

Nothing could’ve kept me from that dance.

I would’ve gone in a suit of armor.

And then, once I walked into the balloon-filled gym and took a look around, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Right in front of me, encircled by a golden spotlight, Max was dancing with Mandi Fishbaum. A swarm of her look- alikes cruised past me, one of them giving me an up-and-down inspection, saying, “Nice dress.”

I flashed a look at her and said, “Shut the hell up,” as a small, cold flame began to dance in my gut. It was a strange feeling, one that was scary and thrilling at the same time, and I concentrated the sensation behind my eyes. The look-alike froze, her own eyes wide and mouth slightly open, and then I blinked, and she scurried away like a terrified chipmunk. I stared across the dance floor, sure that the right thing to do was exercise my left hook on Mandi’s jaw. But then the flame subsided, the feeling passed, and I turned and hurried from the gym.