Nor (Wattpad Featured Story, WriteAffair finalist)

Chapter 4: Dinner Disaster

I don't care what my father does. I don't care about his job, or what he does when he's at home in his room. I don't care what goes on in his life. Most of the time, he doesn't care about mine, but as I've said, every so often, he does check in on me. Play that Keisler piece for me, Nora. How are your grades, Nora? Tell me about the school band, Nora.

We hardly go out, but it does happen, like the occasional earthquake or hurricane. I'm sitting at home one evening, eating by the radio, when he calls and asks me to come down and see him on the sixth floor. I take the stairs; there's no one around in the pristine space of paper-pusher workspaces and textured walls. Slip past glass tables with aluminium bowl lamps, across the suction carpets and under the lighted cornices, past the empty receptionist's desk to the door with my father's name on it. So pretentious.

I knock, because he always blows up at those who don't, and he says, "Yeah."

I go in. He's sitting at his desk, squinting at today's newspaper. It's very bright in the room – too many lights. All his offices have too many lights. I think it's in line with his personality – discerning, shrewd, eager to know everything that goes on. Why do you think he spends tens of thousands of dollars on security and surveillance every year? I shut the door behind me, clearing my throat. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing," he says without looking at me. "I just thought we could go out for dinner together."

"I already ate."

"I'm sure you've still got room. You can have some dessert."

I do have a sweet tooth, but I'd willingly give up a triple Belgian chocolate mousse just so I wouldn't have to spend time with him. I sigh, going across to the side of his office that is nothing but glass. Frameless windows, a seeing plane to Kendall City. I have to admit, it's a nice view. All those lights, the traffic, burning under the stars. I think of Nelson's Academy, of Key Theatre, of my mother lying, decomposed, in a bed of earth somewhere. I shift, and instead of seeing my mother in my mind's eye, now, I am only looking at myself, a weak, filmy reflection. Neat, straight hair falling somewhere around my chin. Very white skin. Fierce gray eyes.

"So how was school today?" my father asks me, yawning as he flips a page. Other than that though, he doesn't look very tired. He never looks tired. He doesn't even look old, even though he's fifty-one. That's partly because he keeps all the white dyed out of his dark hair, and partly because he's thin and short, not much taller than me.

"OK."

"Any tests?"

"No."

"Soon?"

"Next week."

"What?"

"French."

He makes a face. He knows how bad I am at it. "You'd better study hard for it."

I don't answer. I glance at my Swatch. "Don't you want to get going?"

"Give me a minute, I'm almost done. Besides, I'm waiting for – "

A rapping on the door interrupts him. My father leans back in his chair. "OK."

I don't turn, not yet. I keep staring out the window as the door pushes open. I pay attention, listening to the footsteps that sweep towards my father's table. The rustle of a coat, the squeak of my father's chair as he sits forward again. Slowly, I move to glance over my shoulder. At the same time, Wes dances his gaze over to look at me. We don't say anything; we never do when we're both around my father. When Wes works, he works. That's why my father likes him, if that even is the right word to use. But it must be. Or, OK, he treats Wes better than how he treats most people.

I look away, pretending to be nonchalant as Wes shows something to my father and talks about some things planned for tomorrow.

I can hear my father going, 'Mmhmm, mmhmm' all the way, then an 'OK'. There's some shuffling, then Wes says, "Well, I think that's about it. Can I head out?"

"Sure. Have a good night."

"Thanks." Wes is walking out. I want to look at him, but I don't. Maybe it's because of my father. Or maybe it's because as much as I like Wes, I know it's not possible, and that frustrates me sometimes, puts me in a cold mood, makes me pull away.

His footsteps sound slow as they go to the door. No, I must be imagining it. It seems to take forever for my ears to get the sound of the door closing and him going away for the night. My shoulders droop. I didn't even know I was tense.

"OK," my father says after a minute. He gets up from his seat, kneading a muscle at the bottom of his spine. "Let's go."

There's a list of places my father goes to when he wants to eat, and he never strays from them. I know he used to try things he normally wouldn't while he was first going out with my mother, but that was a long time ago. She liked fast-food and Italian, things that were rich, meaty, whereas he's more into soups, seafood, sandwiches. The triple-S, as Wes says.

Tonight, he takes me to Okabu for sushi. Everything is actually OK until it's time for the bill. He gets into an argument with the waitress about pricing, claiming that he's been cheated. Everyone is looking at us. People are whispering. Some are chuckling. But do you think he cares? No.

"I want to see your manager."

"Sir, please – "

"I said I want to see your manager. Now."

I shrink in my seat as the poor girl goes off to call him. Or her. Sorry. Sexist world we live in. Well, I may not know the manager's gender, but I do know what's going to happen. He/she is going to try reasoning with my father first, that'll fail, then the manger will let it go, and we'll walk out of here with all eyes on us. I'll be mortified, but my father will be flushing proud. He's done this before, but never at Okabu. That's one more place where we'll be on the customers-to-watch list. Not that I did anything, but they'll still remember my face.

The manager is a man, proving my sexist-world theory. It plays out exactly as I thought it would, which is a bit of a disappointment. Someday, I'd like to see someone as stubborn and unrelenting as my father go up against him, just to see what will happen. Whatever happened to the policy of 'the right to choose who to serve'? It's not as if any of these places are going to lose half their yearly profits if they lose my father as a customer. Then again … he is Daniel Sullivan. He has too many connections he can use the power of word-of-mouth on. Plus he controls so much real estate here in Kendall City's East District. I bet he could buy over Okabu if he really wanted to.

As we trot out of the restaurant a minute later, I look back to see someone giving my father the finger behind his back. I wish I could tell them that I relate, that I'm with them. My father was always like this, money-faced and unforgiving over the smallest things, but I'm not sure when he started getting this bad.

We slip into his car, into that cold scent of leather and lemon. I say nothing as he starts the engine and gets ready to back out of our space. I hate being in the passenger seat. It's too close to him. This is where a mother's supposed to be. Not me.

That's when it hits me. That was when it started. He started becoming like this after October tenth last year, after she died.