Read Online Hooked by Catherine Greenman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Greenman
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learned.”
“No kidding,” he said, looking up at the sculpted bust of the headless, armless woman in the corner. He’d bought it at an antique show, and whenever I looked at it, I wondered if Dad secretly hated women. “I’m all for hobbies where you’re actually making something. People don’t make things anymore. But start your homework soon, okay? How’s it going? Any tests this week?”
I told him I got a B-plus on a geometry quiz I’d taken that Monday.
“Where does that leave you?” he asked, setting the watering can down and balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Where does that leave your average?”
“I’m in good shape, don’t worry.”
“You’re sticking with that idiotic plan of yours?” he blurted, his metal eyeglass frames catching the light as he flinched in disgust. I’d applied early decision to NYU, which had effectively snuffed out his dreams of my attending Wesleyan for good.
“My idiotic plan?” I asked, stopping what I was doing to glare at him. He was completely incapable of editing himself. It was like thoughts came into his head and he would vomit them out without thinking about how the other person might react. Mom said he had Asperger’s syndrome, that it just hadn’t been diagnosed.
“I’m sorry,” he said flatly, plucking a dead leaf off the rubber tree plant he’d had forever. “I’m just really, really disappointed.”
“NYU is a great school and it’s the perfect fit for me,” I said, borrowing lingo from Ms. Weiss, my college counselor at school. “If they ding me, then I’ll apply everywhere else. It’s a waste of time, pursuing other schools right now.”
“Well, I couldn’t disagree more,” he said, tossing the dead leaf angrily into the wastebasket by his leather chair. “You did yourself a huge disservice, not leaving your options open.” He sat down in his leather swivel chair and started opening mail, the sharp sound of ripping envelopes cutting through the thick silence. I focused intently on my hook, torn between explaining to him, calmly and coolly, how carefully I’d thought about applying to NYU, and telling him to go screw himself for being his usual jackass self.
I looked at the photograph of
Mixed Nuts
, his beloved sonar racing boat, on the bookshelf. Ever since I was a tiny thing, Dad had found countless ways to demean me via sailing. When I was four, he took me out on his boat and tried to teach me how to read the wind. “It’s there, Thea, you have to pay attention,” he said again and again, flailing his arms in frustration. “Pay attention.” But the wind was completely lost to me. I couldn’t see it, only the menacing August jellyfish dotting the water and our big, brown shingled house gone all Shrinky-Dink from afar. When I started sailing lessons, he bet me I couldn’t get to the nun in the harbor a half a mile from our house, so of course I had to try. I got to the nun easily, but getting back took hours. Every so often, Dad would emerge on the lawn and watch with binoculars, as passively as if he were watching TV. I sailed the boat to the end of the bluff, my hands blistering from gripping the lines, then diagonally back toward the house, over and over, telling myself I was making progress.
“Why couldn’t you get in the dinghy and help me?” I asked when I finally made it in, freezing from my still-wet suit yet burning with rage.
He lowered the paper he was reading and looked up at me, as if he’d just realized where I’d been. “You’re going to have to get in a whole lot quicker than that, kiddo, if you ever want to race with me.”
That’s how life was with him, I thought, seething as he crumpled up paper and tossed it into his basket. My potential was the only interesting thing about me. If there was something to be achieved—winning a sailing race, getting into Stuyvesant, getting a high grade—count on Dad to swoop in, demanding dedication and results. Otherwise, I wasn’t worth his
“No kidding,” he said, looking up at the sculpted bust of the headless, armless woman in the corner. He’d bought it at an antique show, and whenever I looked at it, I wondered if Dad secretly hated women. “I’m all for hobbies where you’re actually making something. People don’t make things anymore. But start your homework soon, okay? How’s it going? Any tests this week?”
I told him I got a B-plus on a geometry quiz I’d taken that Monday.
“Where does that leave you?” he asked, setting the watering can down and balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Where does that leave your average?”
“I’m in good shape, don’t worry.”
“You’re sticking with that idiotic plan of yours?” he blurted, his metal eyeglass frames catching the light as he flinched in disgust. I’d applied early decision to NYU, which had effectively snuffed out his dreams of my attending Wesleyan for good.
“My idiotic plan?” I asked, stopping what I was doing to glare at him. He was completely incapable of editing himself. It was like thoughts came into his head and he would vomit them out without thinking about how the other person might react. Mom said he had Asperger’s syndrome, that it just hadn’t been diagnosed.
“I’m sorry,” he said flatly, plucking a dead leaf off the rubber tree plant he’d had forever. “I’m just really, really disappointed.”
“NYU is a great school and it’s the perfect fit for me,” I said, borrowing lingo from Ms. Weiss, my college counselor at school. “If they ding me, then I’ll apply everywhere else. It’s a waste of time, pursuing other schools right now.”
“Well, I couldn’t disagree more,” he said, tossing the dead leaf angrily into the wastebasket by his leather chair. “You did yourself a huge disservice, not leaving your options open.” He sat down in his leather swivel chair and started opening mail, the sharp sound of ripping envelopes cutting through the thick silence. I focused intently on my hook, torn between explaining to him, calmly and coolly, how carefully I’d thought about applying to NYU, and telling him to go screw himself for being his usual jackass self.
I looked at the photograph of
Mixed Nuts
, his beloved sonar racing boat, on the bookshelf. Ever since I was a tiny thing, Dad had found countless ways to demean me via sailing. When I was four, he took me out on his boat and tried to teach me how to read the wind. “It’s there, Thea, you have to pay attention,” he said again and again, flailing his arms in frustration. “Pay attention.” But the wind was completely lost to me. I couldn’t see it, only the menacing August jellyfish dotting the water and our big, brown shingled house gone all Shrinky-Dink from afar. When I started sailing lessons, he bet me I couldn’t get to the nun in the harbor a half a mile from our house, so of course I had to try. I got to the nun easily, but getting back took hours. Every so often, Dad would emerge on the lawn and watch with binoculars, as passively as if he were watching TV. I sailed the boat to the end of the bluff, my hands blistering from gripping the lines, then diagonally back toward the house, over and over, telling myself I was making progress.
“Why couldn’t you get in the dinghy and help me?” I asked when I finally made it in, freezing from my still-wet suit yet burning with rage.
He lowered the paper he was reading and looked up at me, as if he’d just realized where I’d been. “You’re going to have to get in a whole lot quicker than that, kiddo, if you ever want to race with me.”
That’s how life was with him, I thought, seething as he crumpled up paper and tossed it into his basket. My potential was the only interesting thing about me. If there was something to be achieved—winning a sailing race, getting into Stuyvesant, getting a high grade—count on Dad to swoop in, demanding dedication and results. Otherwise, I wasn’t worth his
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