I had to play this cool, so I just shrugged.
“His daughter is being a bitch, and I’m sick of it,” I told him. “I needed something to shut her up. I’m pretty sure just the threat was enough.”
“Make sure you talk to me before you actually do anything,” Dad said. “I need some shit from him, and I don’t want you fucking him over until I get it.”
“No problem.”
I put my soccer stuff away and started digging around for dinner. Dad sat at the counter in the kitchen and watched me.
“Got any homework?”
Yeah…not falling for that one.
“Well, I have to pick up Nicole Skye on the way to school tomorrow so I can sign my name,” I said with a smirk. “Does that count?”
He laughed.
“Nice job.” He opened up his phone and started scrolling through the screen. “How was practice?”
“Good,” I said. “Cut a little short, but we’ll make it up before Friday’s game.”
“Hmm.” He obviously wasn’t really paying attention, so I got myself some food, finished it up, and headed up to my room without further conversation. Once I was up there, I locked the door and decided to quickly finish my homework. I was obviously going to have to make sure he didn’t catch me doing it, or there would be hell to pay.
As soon as I turned my eyes toward the room, I knew he had been in here.
There was a CD sticking out a little, and it definitely hadn’t been when I left. My pillow wasn’t straight on the bed, and the drawer to my nightstand was open just a tiny bit. My skin felt cold. Dad had obviously been in here, looking around—looking for something. What? What could he be looking to find? What did he suspect?
I went over to the nightstand and knelt down near the stack of Goal magazines. The one on the top was two months old. They were out of order, and they weren’t stacked up as high as they were before. I picked them up, started sorting them again, and discovered quickly what was wrong.
My sketchbook was gone.
I closed my eyes and tried to keep my breathing slow and steady. It didn’t work, though. I could feel the tension in my muscles and the quickening of my pulse throughout my body. My fingers were trembling, and I had to set the magazines down on the floor. I couldn’t stand that, though, so I quickly sorted them again and stacked them back on the nightstand shelf.
Maybe he only moved it.
I quickly scrutinized the room, looking for other changes. It was getting harder and harder to take a deep breath, and my chest hurt.
The bookshelf—I straightened out the six books that weren’t parallel anymore.
My dresser—two of the soccer trophies on it weren’t level with the others.
The leather couch up against the window—it was sticking out a little farther, and I could see the slight dent in the carpet from the legs. I moved it back into place.
What else? What else?
I couldn’t stand it. He wasn’t supposed to come in here, and he wasn’t supposed to touch anything. Everything was wrong now, and I just couldn’t handle the disorder. Nothing was right. Nothing. Nothing.
I needed my sketchbook back.
I opened the door and headed back down the stairs, trying desperately to keep my calm. I couldn’t ask him for it—there was no way—so I just had to find it.
I failed.
There wasn’t any sign of it in any of the trashcans—inside the house or outside.
I went back to my room, but I couldn’t stand to be in there. It was just wrong now. There were too many things to fix. I moved the clock back into its position on top of the nightstand, noting that it was nearly ten-thirty. I didn’t realize so much time had passed.
What else was wrong? What else was missing or out of place?