Page 6 of Please, Sir

He shakes his head, stepping up into his truck, parked right out front. Before closing the door, he pokes his head out one more time, the brim of his hat nearly shading all of his face at this angle. “Parent information night is tomorrow, in case Jo Jo didn’t mention it. School gym. Six o’clock.”

I lift a hand to wave him goodbye, and head off to pick up my daughter from cheerleading.

I drummy fingers along the steering wheel, in time with the quiet beat of the old country song wafting from the speakers. Jo Jo huffs out a pointed sigh, her way of telling me that I am doing something that annoys her. I turn the music up, and stop drumming my fingers.

Despite the fact I’m picking her up from cheer in the field house and heading to a cheerleading meeting, I don’t bother asking how cheer went. I’ve had my head bitten off the last few nights by foolishly inquiring about it when I pick her up. I already know it’s goingfineandgoodso I decide to bring up something I saw in the paper this morning. Do I want to talk about Hudson’s flavored milk? Not really, but I want to talk to my daughter. I want her to want to talk to me.

“I saw in the paper this morning that Hudson’s gonna have root beer flavored milk at the market this weekend. Should I pick up some homemade vanilla ice cream and we grab a pint and make shakes? Sounds pretty good to me,” I say cautiously, without bringing up all the times she and I made floats and shakes together when she was young. It was one of the many things we did together. And we didn’t justdo everything together because I’m a single father. I could’ve had a nanny. A live-in someone. A maid, an au pair. I could’ve had it all. I didn’t want someone else to raise my girl. So I did. But these days it feels like I was absent her whole life and she’s angry with me for it.

“I don’t want to go to the market this weekend,” she says casually, her fingers skittering over her smartphone keyboard as she most likely text messages someone.

My chest aches, and I swallow heavily. “C’mon now, the market is great.” It’s our thing.

She faces me, the setting sun casting shadows one one side of her profile, illuminating the other. Sometimes I see Janie so clear and pure in Jo Jo’s face that it nearly steals my breath. This is one of those times.

“You sure are beautiful like your momma, you know that?” I say softly as the radio DJ alerts us to a commercial break.

“Dad,” she says irritatedly, like that one word itself is rolling its eyes.

“C’mon,” I nudge, reaching across the seat to poke her knee. “Root beer shakes with Dad. Could be a nice little Saturday night.”

She sighs, stuffing her phone away in her bag like I ordered it and she’s angry at me. “I’m not going to the market. I don’t even like milk anymore, Dad. Saturday night I’m going to my friend's house.”

“Cass and Pey?” I ask of her two best friends, the Brownstock sisters. They live here in Bluebell, and while their parents are from Oakcreek, they’ve been in Bluebell since the girls were two. Jo Jo has been in their class since pre-K.

“Jasmine and Alexa,” Jo Jo corrects, “they’re trying out for cheer, too.”

I scratch at the back of my neck, but I’m still as uncomfortableas ever. And a little lost, too. “Never heard you mention them,” I reply. “Hope you didn’t cast Cass and Pey aside once you?—”

“Do you really think I’d do that, Dad? Do you really honestly think I’d just stop being friends with Cassidy and Peyton just because I’m trying to be a cheerleader? I wouldn’t. God. That is so annoying that you just asked that.”

By the time her arms are folded over her chest and her face is turned as far away from mine as possible, we’re at the high school gym and I put my truck in park.

I let out a sigh. “I don’t know how to talk to you, Jo Jo.”

She doesn’t turn her head, but I spot the reflection of her eyes in the window. Glassy and wide. She’s upset and I hate it. I hate that I think I caused it and I don’t even know how. “I’m not going to the meeting. I’m waiting in the truck.”

“Jo, I bet your friends are in there. You don’t have to sit with me. You can go off with them.” I reach out and put my hand on her knee. My eyes burn when she pushes it off.

“I’m staying in the truck.”

Being backin this gym as a thirty-eight year old man makes the place seem tiny. Everything that happens in this space, though, feels so momentous. Dances. Pep rallies. First kisses. I know what Dean’s saying about high school, how hard it is and how teens are just looking for their place. I get it. But why does finding her place in high school make Jo Jo hate me so much? That part I just don’t think I’ll ever understand.

But I’m patient. And I’ll be here when she grows out of whatever this is. Because I’m hopeful in addition to beingpatient, and I choose to believe that this is just an unfortunate phase.

Parents are scattered about the bleachers, half of them in business clothes and shoes that shine under the gym lights, the other half looking a lot like me, in worn jeans and filthy cowboy boots. Everyone looks tired, the fatigue of a full day of work, making and packing meals, and ushering grouchy teens around written in every crow’s foot and dark circle. But happiness is there, too. Heads coming together to share a whisper, laughter echoing through the walls as people discuss the quality of their day with their loved one, the squeak of sneakers against shiny hardwood as the teenagers who had to come with their parents wrestle and horseplay on the gymnasium floor. Times like this, I feel alone.

I got friends, and I got Jo Jo. And I’m rarely alone. But I’m lonely as hell.

At school functions when I’m surrounded by families, I feel both alone and lonely. I just pray that Jo Jo doesn't feel either of those things. I want her to feel supported and loved, and I want her to know that I have her, and no matter what, I’ll always have her.

Wonder if she feels that sitting alone in the truck in the parking lot.

With leaden legs, I climb the stairs and take a seat on an uncomfortable wooden bleacher, groaning as I settle in. I set my eyes on the paper I picked up on the way in, reading over the financial requirements of Bluebell football and cheer, and the hours required in community service, along with the GPA requirement. I’m thumbing through the fine print when a shadow drops over my paper, and Hudson Gray takes a seat next to me. We’re wearing the same hat, and he tips his Cattleman to me.

“Nice hat.”

I smirk and extend a hand. He shakes it. “Hudson Gray, how are ya?”

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