Beyond My World

Two

I stare at the computer for a long, long time, my muscles rigid.

Dad hasn't been home this early in... well, five years. Ever since that big project of his started, which I still don't have the slightest hint about.

I've never really thought about how easy it is to do things I shouldn't do while Dad is gone. But, now, my head is spinning with all the things I can possibly get away with. Heck, he's never home, so he can't find out if I raid the pantry or steal his fuzzy socks, right? I've never done either of those in my whole entire life, and I find this reminder of my freedom to be unnerving. 

He's less than a block away, and suddenly, I feel a weird sensation inside me. It makes my stomach flip, and an unfamiliar chant runs through my head: Do it, do it, do it.

Maybe the thrill got in my head. Or maybe I did what I did next because I heard the familiar but exciting ding of an email popping up in my dad's inbox. Whatever the reason, I find myself moving the cursor up and away from my emails and clicking the next open tab. 

Getting into Dad's emails isn't as great a feat as I first anticipated. It's actually quite easy, I came to realize, because Dad keeps two tabs open on our computer at all times: my emails and his. He says it's to check up on me and to make sure I'm not up to anything. That turned out to be a lie, of course. The real reason is that he's too lazy to log in and off each time, and he even admitted it once.

"It takes too long, and I would be late to work everyday if I wasted my time typing in passwords and all that junk," he had grumbled. "You stay in your emails, and I stay in mine. That's all."

I respect that. His emails are confidential? Ok, that's fine. 

But that ding. It's so... welcoming, so exciting. For some reason, it pulls me in with its invisible grasp now more than ever. So I click on his tab.

His emails flood the screen faster than I can change my mind, and my first thought is, What in the world? 

Truth is, there is only one email. Confusion hits me first, then realization.

 He deletes his emails after he reads them. Of course he does! He doesn't trust me and he doesn't rely on me to keep his secrets and he doesn't love me. This is what humanity has come to: hiding things from your daughter and disappearing to some classified job for the whole day, tricking her into believing that the future is hers and then, when she's not paying attention, deleting your emails, along with all your confidence for her. 

Everything's a lie these days. 

The only cure for the sinking feeling that follows the realization of being lied to: anger.

Anger makes my hand clutch the mouse harder, anger makes my finger glide the cursor on top of that one, lonely email. Anger makes me jab the mouse so violently that I can feel my nail crack as the email expands to it's full size. It says, "Report sent. Project AFTER01 SUCCESSFUL."

Just another one of his weird projects. Whatever.

Another ding, another email. This one says, "Congratulations, Nelson Arsenault, on completing Project AFTER01. We will see you in four weeks. From the staff at the Armstrong Space and Science Administration."

Even with all the anger and hatred coursing through me, reminding me, He doesn't trust you, he doesn't love you, I still had to lean back in my chair and reread that email. Armstrong Space and Science Administration. Woah.

So that's where he disappears to all day, every day.

The door clicks open downstairs, and I have a mini heart attack. Then I hear a door slam shut and a faucet turn on, and I relax a little in my chair. I don't have to worry about Dad finding out. I'm just about to go back to my emails when another email pops up. It's in all caps, screaming at me. "PROJECT AFTER01 HAS FAILED. DO NOT DISMISS MISSION. EMERGENCY MEETING. ALL STAFF REPORT TO HEADQUARTERS NOW." 

This one makes me regret opening up his emails. What have I done?

Heavy footsteps march up the stairs, and before I can get my instincts under control, I'm in the air and the chair is flipping over. I scramble to get to my feet, the chair legs scratching my shins, and I'm just about to throw myself at the open door when Dad walks in. Before I can stop myself, I barrel into him. He stumbles backwards, and my brain screams, Keep him away from the computer, AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER.

"Andi, what the... What are you doing?" His breath basically radiates beer, like the sun except scarier. The sun might burst one day, but Dad will definitely explode once he realizes what I had been doing.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." I give him my best I'm Your Sweet, Sweet Daughter smile, and his eyebrows drop down to their normal height. "Let's get some ice cream, you know, because you're home early." Because I'm going to pretend you aren't hiding anything from me.

"Okaaay," he says, dragging the word out like I'm crazy, "but emails first." He nudges me aside, but  I jump back in front of him. I'm really asking for it now.

"Why are you home so early, anyways?" I don't wait for an answer. I already know why. "Your emails can wait. Let's get ice cream. I think it's All You Can Lick Day."

Dad pulls at his beard in frustration, pushes me aside, and marches into his office. Where he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes are twitching when he turns back around to face me, his nostrils flaring.

"Why are you reading my emails?"

"I didn't... uh, what I mean is—" I stop abruptly as Dad's hand swings upwards. 

Instinctively, without much thought at all, I cower back and shield my face with my arms. When silence follows, I peer through the crack in my elbow at Dad. His hand has dropped back to his side, and his face is flushing with color. I've never seen anyone turn as red as he is at this moment, and it's terrifying.

"I wasn't going to..." Dad trails off and rubs his beard again. Then his eyes dart back to the computer,  which is now ding ding dinging furiously, as if whoever is sending them is in the middle of a crisis. He reads the email, the one in all caps, and curses. That's all. Just a few curses, and he's out the door before I could call him out on using profanity. Which I wasn't going to do in the first place.

"Dad," I call. He's tramping down the stairs, grabbing his briefcase, sliding into his shoes. "Dad, what's going on?" I ask this even though I have a feeling deep down that I know exactly what's happening.

"My vacation ending is what's going on," he grumbles. Then he grabs my shoulders and breathes," Don't move. Stay here. Hide." And just like that, he's gone, his car swerving farther and farther away from me. 

He's a meteor, much too angry and red to be regarded as a shooting star.