Page 20 of Swiped By My Dad's Best Friend
“Nice to see you too.”
My friends liked to give me shit about my father’s position as college dean.Must be nice,they’d say,getting the nepotism advantage.
Do you even have to pay tuition? Does he change your grades for you? I bet you can get in all the best classes. Bet you don’t have to put up with strict assholes like Professors Greene or Sheldon.
The truth was no. Having a father as college dean wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I didn’t get any preferential treatment—unless you counted being called out when I took a step out of line. My father invited me to his office now and then—to “discuss” my future plans, but in reality, it usually devolved into frustration for us both when I couldn’t give him what he wanted. I didn’tknowwhat I wanted from my future. I didn’t even know what I wanted from my present, other than the fact that this wasn’t it.
But this college was his pride and joy. How was I supposed to explain that I found it suffocating?
“Sorry,” Dad said. “That was rude of me. Join me for lunch?”
I hesitated. “Shouldn’t I go to class?”
Dad appeared to wrestle internally with that question. “No,” he finally said, “you’re an adult who can manage your own schedule.” He paused. “But, of course, if you want to go…”
There was a hopeful note to his voice. Ialmosttold him that the professor had canceled class for the day, but nah. He could suffer, simply for his immediate assumption I was skipping.
I might not love school, I might not have theperfecttrack record with attending class—not even close—but I did make an effort. It just generally wasn’t enough to make up for all the ways I fell short.
“Lunch sounds great,” I said to throw him a breadcrumb. “Let me grab a burrito.”
“The crap you kids put into your bodies,” he said with a sigh that I ignored.
By the time we were seated with our food, I regretted agreeing to stay. Now, I was in the hot seat, his brown eyes fixed on me while a frown creased his forehead.
“You know, Coop, I feel as if we’re always at odds. Maybe that’s my fault.”
I raised an eyebrow. That was a new one.
“I just worry about you,” he continued. “When you were younger, you were such a go-getter. You had this innovative mind that continually amazed me. Remember that summer you decided you were going to be an inventor?” He chuckled. “We had gadgets and wires all over the house.”
I took a big bite of my burrito, nodding, so that Dad would get to his eventual point. I’d wasted all that potential, I should be making more of my time in school, and so on. I’d heard it before. What he didn’t seem to understand was that my summer of inventions had been about the joy of working with my hands, of building things, figuring out how to make them work. It wasn’t something I could parlay into a college major. Engineering, architecture—all the potential majors Dad had suggested based on that early interest—required a crap ton of schematics, drawing, and mathematics that left me cold.
“I just don’t understand how we got here,” Dad finally said. “Is it me? Are you rebelling because you’re angry about your mother and me?” His voice grew steadily more frustrated as I didn’t answer. But I didn’t have any words that would make him happy. “Maybe I should have let you attend a college across the country. Maybe without me watching, you’d have figured out what you wanted to do with your life. And will youpleasesay something?”
I set down my burrito, my appetite evaporating. “I’m not rebelling, or acting out, or any of the other things you accuse me of doing.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“I’m also not Mom.”
“I never said you—”
“I don’t need to escapeyou,” I said. “That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then, what’s happening?” Dad asked. “Make me understand. Because I try and try to get you invested in school, and it never happens. You just won’t try!”
I shook my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Butwhyisn’t it?”
The thousand-dollar question. Why couldn’t I just engage in school the way he wanted? My life would be a lot easier if I could.
“I don’t know.” I pushed my chair back, standing. “I should get going.”
Dad tried to change course, imploring me to stay, but I didn’t have the energy to rehash a conversation we’d had so many times before.
