Allegra Read Online Free Page B

obviously haven’t heard me come into the house. They smile, and Dad gets to his feet, but I feel the tension in the room and note their stiff postures. “Hey, Legs!” Dad says, using the nickname he gave me when I was a little girl. He pulls me into a hug. I relax into his arms. The smells of the road cling to his sweatshirt—another musician’s stale cigarette smoke, the greasy fumes of coffee-shop food and the body odor from nights on the tour bus, sleeping in his clothes. He must not have done his laundry yet or showered. He probably slept all day.
    â€œHow’s your new school?’ he asks, pulling away but letting his hands rest on my shoulders. I notice his sleep-mussed hair and the stubble on his skin.
    â€œWell, it’s not what I expected. They have stupid rules, just like at Maple Creek, and the dance teacher,”— I pause, wondering how to describe her—“she’s kinda high-strung.”
    â€œAren’t all dance teachers high-strung?” He laughs. “You know what they say: those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” His hands drop to his sides.
    â€œJerry!” Mom says sternly. She loves teaching.
    He shrugs, still grinning. “I’m just repeating what I’ve heard.”
    Mom crosses her arms. “Those who can think for themselves do, and those who can’t repeat ignorant things that other ignorant people say,” she says, flushing. I look from one to the other, wondering what’s really going on here.
    â€œIt’s just a joke, Cindy,” Dad says, crossing the room and settling back into the couch, facing Mom. “Relax.”
    â€œNot a funny one,” Mom answers.
    There’s a long, awkward silence, and then Mom stands up. “I’ll get dinner started. I have to leave early for the theater.”
    She leaves the room and Dad and I sit across from one another. I’m acutely aware of the silence.
    â€œHow was the road trip?” I ask.
    Dad stretches, a full-body one. “It was good.”
    â€œHow good?” I ask, repeating something he often asks me.
    â€œPretty good,” he answers, now parroting my usual response. He grins.
    â€œBetter than the last one?”
    â€œI can’t honestly say.” He looks thoughtful. “I don’t remember anything about the last one.” He hesitates, then adds, “They’re all starting to run together in my head.”
    We sit quietly for another minute, but this time it’s a comfortable silence. Dad’s probably thinking about past road trips, trying to remember the details, and I’m wondering how I might get to know him better, how I might get him to talk about his experiences. He stretches again. “I guess I’d better shower,” he says. “Before your mom sends me back on the road. We’ll talk later.”
    I nod, and as I watch him leave the room I notice the slight stoop to his shoulders. He’s finally starting to show his age.
    I set the table while my mom tosses the salad and then spoons sauce over the pasta. I find a couple of candles in a drawer, place them in the center of the table and rummage around in another drawer, looking for matches.
    â€œSpecial occasion?” Mom asks, putting the food on the table.
    â€œYeah. Dad’s home.” I strike the match.

    After cleaning up the dinner dishes, I get changed and grab the car keys from the hook beside the door. A couple of months ago, when I first got my driver’s license, Mom began riding to work with another musician so that I could use the car to get myself to dance classes. It was a huge relief, as the bus late at night is sketchy. Besides, I hate getting on the bus when I’m all sweaty from class.
    I’ve just climbed into our Mazda when a little red sports car pulls into the driveway behind me. Looking in the rearview mirror, I’m surprised to see that the driver is a man. For some reason, I’ve