Another Little Piece Of My Heart

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Feeling rude for barging in like this, I dig my toes into the cushy carpet. “April told me you’re selling the house. Is that true?”

My dad looks up sharply. Then he beckons me toward his desk and reclines in his chair. “This isn’t news at this point. I’ve been working on the arrangements for two weeks now.”

“It’s news to me.” It’s always news to me. I should be used to being the last to know things around here, but really, I’m not sure you actually can get used to that sort of treatment.

“I’m downsizing,” my dad says. “I’m looking at condos.”

I nod dumbly, too stunned for speech. My dad’s voice is mostly devoid of emotion as he tells me his plans. He’s either approaching this as he does everything, like a simple business decision, or he’s trying to hide how much it bothers him. I suspect it’s the second. My dad does not do downsizing any more than my sister does non-designer purses. Although I knew things weren’t good since his company folded recently, it had never occurred to me how bad it could be. Or how much of my dad’s money might be tied up in his company’s investments, from what it sounds like.

Trying not to outwardly freak, I put on my best unconcerned face and regain my wits. “Yeah, sure. We’ll adjust. And since I’m going to college in the fall, you and April will be even less cramped. It’s not like three people need all this space.”

My dad’s mask slips a little. His cheek twitches. “Actually, Claire, sit down. I’ve been putting this conversation off, but we need to talk about college.”

My eyes open wide. On second thought, maybe now is precisely the time to freak.

So I sit, and from the depths of a leather wingback chair, I learn a valuable lesson. I learn there are worse fates than having your ex-boyfriend write a chart-topping song that turns you into the most infamous Miata-driving girl in the country.

For example, your ex-boyfriend could write a chart-topping song about you, and your dad could have invested your college money in a fund that has since run dry.

Did I say worse fates? I meant far, far worse fates.

Minutes pass. The clock on the far wall ticks obnoxiously loudly, and my dad keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word. I feel sick to my stomach, and all I can do is think that I’m living a bad country song. You know, the one about how your mom died, your college fund left you and not even your red Miata can drive you out of utter loserdom. That one.

I have three weeks until graduation and suddenly no longer anything to look forward to.