I realize what I’ve just thought, and I blink. Scream until you get your own way? It’s what I tried the night my father hired Dieter. It’s what I tried the next day when Dieter made a fool of me in class and in his car.
“What is it?” he asks, and I realize I’m staring into space.
I turn to him, chewing my lip. “What my father did you to just now, calling up and yelling at you, that was pretty ugly and selfish. Is—is that how you see me sometimes, as something ugly and selfish?”
He comes over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Babygirl, no. I could never think of you that way.”
I search his eyes for the truth. “But you don’t like it when I’m like that, do you?”
“Only because it means you’re unhappy and you’re too confused and upset to know what else to do. It makes me hurt for you and want to help you, not dislike you. Never dislike you.”
Tell him the truth. He wants you to, and you know you can trust him with the truth. He treats every word you speak to him with so much care. “Dieter, I want to get better and not do that anymore.”
He folds me in his arms and pulls me tight against his chest. “I know you do, babygirl. I love how brave you are.”
I tuck my face against him and give myself a stern talking to. He loves how brave you are, silly. That’s all he said. But what did he say on the phone? I turn my face up to him. “You have feelings for me?”
His serious expression relaxes into a smile. “Of course I do, babygirl. You think I can get to know someone as lovely as you and not see that you are very, very special?”
I grin and cover my face with my sweater sleeves, but I peek up at him. “Daddy, you’re making me shy.”
He chuckles, his eyes running over me. “Little one. Can’t daddy tell you how special you are?”
Hearing him refer to himself as daddy makes something delicious, like raspberry soda, stream through my veins. “Even though you got bawled out?”
Dieter shrugs that off. “Oh, I’ve been dressed down by people far scarier than your father. People with guns and medals who could blast me into next week if they wanted to. I’m sorry you got yelled at, though. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, especially because of me.”
I kiss him quickly on the mouth. “Nothing bad could ever happen to me because of you, daddy.”
Do I still have to write to my father, I wonder, even after this? Chewing my lip, I consider whether I want to. My father might be sentenced to prison for real in a few months’ time. As much as he makes me angry and as poor as our relationship is, I do love him, and if I walk away from him now we might never manage to reconnect. Some part of me resents the fact that I’m the one who has to be the bigger person. He’s the grown-up. But at twenty I suppose I’m a grown-up, too.
I think of how many months stretch between now and the trial, and a thought occurs to me. Looking up at Dieter, I open my mouth to speak, but then hesitate.
“What is it, babygirl?” he asks.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me. But...”
He raises his eyebrows, waiting. “But what?”
“But being a bodyguard is your livelihood.”
He kisses me. “Hey, I’m the one who gets to worry about you, not the other way round. You’ve had a hard day, babygirl. Why don’t you go put on your PJs and bring down some drawing to do on the couch?”
My heart aches with happiness. It’s exactly what I want to do, and I run upstairs to change and get my things. I still feel a niggling worry at the back of my mind about Dieter and what this might mean for us when he takes work elsewhere, but for now I banish those thoughts and pick up my sketchbook and pencils.
Chapter Ten
Within a few days I’m back to thinking about my plan to organize an exhibition to raise money for charity. It takes another three days for me to get the nerve to bring up my half-formed plan to some of my classmates. We’re sitting in the college cafeteria, empty sandwich wrappers and coffee cups littering the tabletop. Celeste, Janie and Michael are there.
“Hey,” I say, so loud it seems to startle the others. I’m frowning down at the straw wrapper that I’ve been twisting with my fingers for the last ten minutes. “I had an idea about something. I thought we could put on a show. Like an art show.”
There’s a short silence, and I look up. I know I’m scowling, but it’s not them I’m scowling at. It’s my nerves.
“But there’s a show at the end of the year,” Celeste points out with a smile. It’s not an unkind smile, though it’s puzzled.
“This one would be for a good cause. To raise money for a suicide prevention charity or a crisis center. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and it’s something positive I can do.”
There’s another silence and I feel myself turning slowly red as my classmates look at each other. They’re not laughing at me, but they’re not falling over themselves telling me it’s a good idea either.