Ruby.”
My dad nodded, evaluating the name. “What’s her deal?” he asked, by which I knew he meant: Is she like you?
“I’m not sure yet,” I admitted. “But she’s cool. She’s in a band.”
“Good student?” My father was not impressed by extracurriculars and/or hobbies that did not directly lead to scholarships. Like rock bands.
“I think so, yeah. I don’t have her transcript with me.”
He gave me a look and took another bite, evaluating her as he chewed.
“Is she good-looking?”
Here we go, I thought. I knew, on some level, that his question was kind of (okay, fully) a creepy one. But I also knew to expect it. For him, good-looking and smart were the qualities that mattered in a woman. Though he’d never said so explicitly, I suspected he thought I could do better than Jamie—who, though striking, wasn’t the kind of pretty everyone agreed on. I knew he thought he was looking out for me; I knew he believed people wouldn’t give me as hard a time about dating girls if they were knockout beautiful, and popular, and decent students. And the thing was, I couldn’t really say he was wrong. People probably would treat me better if I dated Ruby. So I answered honestly.
“She is very pretty, yes.”
He grinned. “Good for you.”
I felt proud and sick and sad and happy at the same time. My stomach felt heavy with feelings, or else the lesser, non-chocolate pancakes. It was hard to be sure.
I gave my dad the rest of the bullet-point Quinn report: my soccer record so far, my grades so far, my best and worst teachers. He didn’t ask any more about Mom, but I told him anyway that she was doing great. I didn’t know if that was especially accurate, but I felt it was my duty to say it regardless. He accepted this information neutrally, like I was his doctor giving him his blood pressure reading. Not that he ever went to the doctor, now that Mom couldn’t make him. How was his blood pressure? I wondered.
My dad put his card on the bill Sara dropped at our table, and then he pulled four twenties from his wallet and gave them to me. I pocketed them eagerly, already thinking of things I could use the money for. Homecoming, I realized, was a little under a month away. Was there a world in which Ruby went with me, and I spent this money on flowers for her wrist?
“Thank you,” I said. He waved it off and signed the receipt, leaving his usual two-dollar tip on our twenty-four-dollar bill. When he got up to use the restroom, I removed a crumpled five from my pocket and tucked it under my plate. I met him at the front of the cafe, where we each took a crusty peppermint from the bowl on the register stand and popped them in our mouths.
“All right, Quinnie,” he said. The candy clacked between his teeth.
“Thanks for breakfast. And the cash.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So I’ll see you…?” In a week? A month? And how often, after that? I thought. I decided not to overwhelm him and left my question unfinished.
“Soon, I think,” he said. He opened his arms to hug me, and I stepped in. He still smelled so good to me: the generic-brand woodsy body wash and the dryer sheets my mom wouldn’t buy and Purell on his hands, applied religiously before and after every meal. We clapped each other on the back, and he squeezed me tighter before letting me go.
I vowed, when I got home, to go into the coming week with a renewed sense of purpose. I would ask Ruby to hang out, just the two of us, without homework or Sweets as a cover. I would catch up on my reading. I would even clean my room, maybe. And next Saturday, when our club team faced Albion, I would play the best soccer of my life, so good UNC would call me over the weekend to offer me a spot. Oh—there was an idea. I would invite Ruby to my soccer game. In my