Page 10 of 4-Ever

My dad startled, then drew me in close and nodded. “I know Ronin’s been through a lot. His father leaving. And you’re a good friend to be concerned about him. But you also have to think about your future.”

“I know what I want to do. And I don’t like school. Writing and stuff is hard for me. Not like music. That’s what I love. The only thing I want to do. Why don’t you guys ever listen to me?”

My dad raised one eyebrow and I stopped talking.

I’d never been so vocal before.

Then, my dad surprised me and pulled me in for a hug. I felt so bad that Ronin would never be able to do the same with his father. It made me want to cry and scream on his behalf.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever talked back to me. And don’t tell your mother, but I’m so damn proud,” Dad whispered.

I hugged him tighter. I was worried about Ronin and I needed the feeling of home and safety.

“I’ll talk to your mom,” Dad murmured. “The testing is still a go, but if you really want to stay at your school, then maybe we should take that into consideration.”

I was never going to graduate with honors like my brother Rae. And I was okay with that. But I hated the guilt of disappointing my parents.

My dad’s cell rang. “I’ve got to take this. Once I’m done, we’ll order pizza for dinner, okay?”

He walked back to his office.

I pulled out my phone and texted Ronin.

Faise: You okay??

No response.

I waited for an hour and texted him again.

Faise: I’m NOT changing schools.

I wouldn’t. It wasn’t respectful to push back against my parents, but I was fourteen now. Didn’t that mean I had a say in where I wanted to go to school?

Ronin: It’s okay, boo.

I knew in my gut it wasn’t.

A few days later, I had my answer. About my learning disorder. But still none from Ronin. He ghosted me over the weekend.

By the time Monday morning rolled around, I told my parents I was sick.

I wasn’t, but I didn’t want to go to school.

At least I finally had a name for my poor performance. Dysgraphia. Basically, I had difficulty turning my thoughts into written sentences. So, no wonder I sucked at writing reports and essays and basically everything except numbers.

And part of my therapy was journaling. It was physically painful for me to write most times, but especially now. But I managed to write a few lines. Better than nothing. And I’d have a special tutor for three hours a week, every week for the rest of the year. Great.

“Faise!” My dad called out, knocking on my bedroom door.

I glanced at my phone. It was already noon.

“Yeah, come in.”

He opened it. “I have some soup for you. Do you think you can eat?”

I nodded, putting my phone aside. I’d been waiting all weekend for Ronin to respond and the longer the silence went on, the worse I felt.

“Also—” My dad’s comment was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. “Take this. I’ll be right back.”

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