All of Us Are Going to Hell

ONE

6:12p.m.

Secret (English) adj., noun:

something that is known about by only a few people and not told to others.

One is a croissant filled with purple frosting.

    The Fibonacci sequence is spinning in my head as I see the house coming into view from the horizon. Dad is craning his neck beside me in the driver's seat to look, to see the house he'll be letting his eldest daughter stay in for the next three and a half hours. I see him raise his eyebrows from the corner of my eye—he's seen the house, an old but stately Victorian, and I'll bet he's doing the numbers on its expenditure. I bite the inside of my cheek until I almost draw blood.

    Two is a street sign, pointing to the library. I can feel myself wringing my hands after a few minutes as he swerves and banks the car into the drive, shooting a cursory glance at the other cars surrounding the perfectly manicured lawn that looks like something from a commercial. Turn around and take me back home, I almost say. Just say you won't leave me in this place and take me home.

    “Your mother will pick you up,”  is all I hear him say, in a baritone that lets me know he’d rather not come back here ever again. There was a tussle between both of them earlier, when I asked to come to the party. He almost didn’t let me. I wish he hadn’t let me.

    Stop saying that, Hadassah.

    “You have your phone with you?” asks Dad, shimmering brown eyes looking out the window, at anything but me.

    I nod. All memory of speech has eluded my brain. I breathe.

    “Call when it's over,” he says. “Don't stay too late. Nine, tops.” His eyes trail another invisible trajectory towards the house, possibly calculating each and every hazard that could endanger the life of a sixteen year old. When I catch him doing it, he clears his throat, a sound I know like my heartbeat.

     I climb out of the car after the silence of a moment, willing my feet and body parts to register the actions and move. Dad blinks and I see a frown dig into his face. “Hadassah.”

    I freeze at the mention of my name, my back becoming ramrod straight. He’s changed his mind. He’s taking me home. He doesn’t want to leave me, his daughter, at a party of kids who’d eat her alive.

    But then, he says, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

    I wouldn’t. He knows that. I want to say so, but I think better of it when he starts the car again. “What’s your weapon?” he calls over the revving.

    We’ve been doing this since I was six, but still, each time, I’m never prepared for it. I touch my index finger to my temple—my mind, that's my weapon.

    I see a smirk forming on his lips. “What’s your strength?”

    I touch the left side of my chest—where my heart is, because it’s been my strength since I lost that spelling bee when I was six. Dad nearly grins. He puts the car into ignition and says, “Never forget to use them. I love you.”

    “I love you, too,” I reply, tinier than a whisper.

    “If anything happens, call. I will answer.”

    I nod. “I will. ”

    “Have fun, brains.” He casts the house another disdainful look. “That's why you’re here. Say hi to Jabari for me.”

    Time seems to become fluid between us, because as I blink twice, Dad reverses with the speed of a fugitive, spins the car around and in a flurry of smoke, all I see is two taillights of a Camry Saloon zooming down the road. He’s gone.