Mirage Read Online Free Page B

dare.”
    â€œI didn’t dare you to do
that
.”
    I gather my chute, and when I look up, I notice my father leaning against the golf cart, his arms folded and face deep red, mouth set into a grim line. Instead of looking impressed, he looks . . . murderous.

Four
    â€œY OU WANT TO tell me what the hell you thought you were doing?” my father demands like a carnival barker in front of everyone who’s gathered around.
    I thrust my chin up. “I was being
precise
.”
    He shoves off the cart and is in my face immediately. “You’re lucky you’re not precisely dead! One problem, goddamn it! That’s all it would have taken. One! And you’d be in the ground, DOA!”
    â€œI wanted to show​—”
    â€œAll you did, young lady, was prove to me how reckless and irresponsible you are!”
    I fling my chute on the ground between us. “I showed I have the skill!”
    â€œBullshit. You showed you don’t belong on my DZ. I don’t need the job of shoveling your foolish ass off the dirt.”
    â€œGirl’s got balls, man!” someone yells out.
    â€œMore balls than you,” I say through clenched teeth. I know it’s a low blow. “You’re a coward, Dad. You’re too scared to give me a chance to prove myself. I’m invisible to you. What in the hell do I have to do?” I shove him in the chest, and even I’m surprised at the rage I feel toward him. The detached observer in me wonders if it’s the adrenaline.
    Dad steps back, catching himself from falling. He rakes his hands over his buzzed hair like he’s got to do something with his hands in order not to strangle me. His voice switches to a low growl, which is scarier than his barking lecture. “Get off this airport right now.” He throws himself into the golf cart and peels out, spitting dust at me in its wake.
    Dom and I walk back to the hangar in silence. I’m numb; I don’t even flinch when a snake slithers out of the sagebrush in front of us, crosses our path, and slips into the dry weeds. He puts his arm around my shoulder and stops me. “You gotta understand, your dad, he​—”
    â€œDon’t tell
me
about my dad!” I yell, shrugging out from under his arm. “Piss off.”
    â€œDon’t be a bitch to me. I didn’t make you do it, Ry. You managed to fuck up all on your own.”
    â€œOh my God! Hop aboard the Ryan-will-slap-you express!” I shove him, too. Not once, but twice, hard in his chest. His black hair covers one eye. The other narrows with anger. Whatever. If people don’t want to be attacked, why do they rattle my cage?
    Mom is standing in front of the hangar as I walk up. Dad’s hastily parked golf cart bakes in the sun next to her. She wrings her hands, waiting for me to approach. Her face doesn’t look reprimanding; it’s sad.
    â€œYou’re not going to lecture me too, are you?”
    â€œGo home, poppet. Check on your grandmother. I’ll speak to you later. In the meantime, why don’t you ponder the treasure that is this life, ’cause, baby girl, you spend it like it’s cash burning a hole in your pocket.”
    Â 
    On a normal day our house is cornea-stabbing white, but after I cry in the car for ten minutes as I drive home, it’s like staring into the face of the sun. I squint as I walk toward it: a study in straight lines and right angles. Modern rectangular boxes of gleaming stucco contrast with black beams and walls of glass. Mom often hoses off the sides of the house, trying to beat back the desert that surrounds us. I think she’s afraid she’ll wake up one day and everything in her world will have turned to beige.
    We’ve managed to create an oasis out of the three things that tolerate the heat of the Mojave Desert: palm trees, a flowering shrub called pride of Barbados (Mom loves that), and cacti.
    Cacti are creepy. Joe