Page 58 of The Wrong Side of Kai
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Dad and I are in the Green McRusty, parked outside the Boyds’ house at ten on a Sunday morning. Dad’s wearing dress pants and a nice shirt, even wearing cologne, and he has tamed his unruly hair with gel for once. He looks. . . younger. It’s as though my father has come back to life. He’s still too skinny and his clothes still hang loose from his body, but already he looks more like the man he used to be back when Mom was still alive. He’s making aneffort, which is something he hasn’t done in two years.
I don’t quite look like myself today either. I’m wearing the clothes I used to wear to church a couple years ago when Dad first tried to drag Kennedy and me to weekly services in an effort to find peace with God after everything we’d been through. We all stopped going after a month, and this black pencil skirt and neat grey blouse have been lying in the back of my closet ever since. We need to look respectful in order to be taken seriously, Dad thinks. The more of an air of superiority we bring, the more likely the Boyds are to feel intimidated.
“I should probably mention that Mr. Boyd also owns a gun,” I say in a last-ditch attempt to persuade Dad to abandon this whole idea of redemption and forgiveness. “And I know because he’s already pointed it at me. It’s totally high risk for me to go inside that house.”
Dad looks over at me, blinks as though nothing I can say at this point can possibly faze him, and then gets out of the car. I groan and reluctantly step out too, slamming the door behind me. The streets are still covered in snow, but dirty and ruined with tire tracks and footprints now.
I follow Dad up the walk to the porch. Harrison’s truck is still jacked up at a slight tilt on the driveway, so the tires haven’t been replaced yet. I didn’t realize it would have inconvenienced him this much – I thought he’d have fresh tires fitted the next day.
“You remember what you need to say?” Dad asks as he lifts his hand to the doorbell. I nod, and he rings the bell.
My stomach is so tightly knotted as we stand on that porch, waiting and waiting for what feels like forever, that I actually begin to heave. I also realize it’s the first time Dad and I have gone anywhere together in months. It’s just a shame that our first father-daughter outing in forever has to be this. I pace back and forth, hands on my hips, gulping in deep breaths of air.
Then I hear the click of the front door being unlocked, and I nearly collapse on the porch from nerves.
Richard Boyd only cracks the door open a few inches and peeks out to see who his Sunday morning guests are. A couple strangers dressed in church attire probably isn’t what he expects to see. He snootily looks us up and down. “Are you doing charity work? Because if so, I’m not interested.”
“Actually,” Dad says, putting his hand on the door to stop Richard from slamming it in our faces, “my daughter broke into your basement the other night. You may recognize her.”
This is what gets Richard to open up the door fully. He steps forward, lingering on the threshold, and runs his eyes over me in disdain. I bet I look different now compared to how I did the other night – conservative clothes, no makeup, hair pinned back, expression dripping with guilt.
“Yes,” Richard says. “I recognize her. Why are you here?”
“We’d like to talk to you,” Dad says. “And your son.”
Richard looks reluctant to entertain our requests, but he finally huffs under his breath and motions for us to come inside the lavish house. It’s the first time I’ve been anywhere other than the basement, and I look around in fascination at their exotic and vintage furniture. The Boyds are totally loaded.
We are led into the living room and told to take a seat. Dad sits down on a plush, crushed velvet armchair, and I sit down on the edge of the matching loveseat. The house is silent – no sound of the TV, no sound of food being made in the kitchen, no voices. It’s like no one is home.
“Wait here,” Richard warns. He fixes us both with a threatening glare before he disappears across the house, presumably to get Harrison. “And don’t touch anything.”
Dad and I exchange a look and we both know we’re thinking the exact same thing – what an outrageous snob. We sit in silence, looking around at the luxurious house and inhaling the scent of citrus. It’s an intense wait.
Finally, Richard returns with a woman by his side and Harrison trailing behind them with his head down. Is that his mother? She’s gorgeous. Long, shiny blond hair that swishes around her shoulders as she walks in a way that reminds me of Madison Romy. She’s wearing a silk robe and her cheeks are pink with blush.
“What is going on here?” she asks, crossing her willowy arms.
“Perhaps your son should tell you,” Dad says coolly. He’s playing hard ball, refusing to let the Boyds make a fool out of us, all while I cower over in the corner.
Mr. and Mrs. Boyd both crane their necks to look at their son, who’s hanging back behind them like a dog with its tail between its legs. There’s a bruise on the edge of his jaw from last night and his parents stare expectantly at him, waiting for him to explain what’s going on.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Harrison lies. He looks on edge too, almost as anxious as I do, and I wonder if he knows that we’re here to set things straight. I have nothing to hide now –myparent knows the full story. It’s Harrison’s parents who are still totally in the dark about everything, and it seems he wants to keep it that way.
“Are you sure?” Dad presses, his voice firm. Right now, he reminds me of the man that he used to be. Strong and certain, determined and powerful.
Richard and his wife sit down on the other couch directly opposite me, leaving Harrison standing alone in the center of the room, all the pressure on him as the four of us listen for a confession. Although, Mr. and Mrs. Boyd don’t realize that it is a confession they’re listening for. They’re simply waiting for an explanation.
But Harrison stays mute.
“Your son,” Dad says, clearing his throat and turning in the armchair to look over at the Boyds, “was involved with my daughter.”
“Involved?” Mrs. Boyd repeats, her tone questioning. She gives me a look out of the corner of my eye as though she’s already judging me, like I’m not good enough even when I’m wearing these damn churchy clothes.
“I believe they had sex together.”
This is mortifying. Even Harrison’s jaw drops a little, like he can’t believe my dad is seriously discussing this. And with such a straight face too. I know it’s awkward for Dad, but he’s in cop mode, and cops aren’t allowed to be ashamed or embarrassed. They just have to deal with the situation in front of them. Meanwhile, I’m dying for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
