Snowflakes & Fire Escapes by J. M. Darhower Read Free Book Online

something else to eat.”
    “It’s fine,” I say, giving him another smile, but he doesn’t buy it.
    His gaze bounces between our plates before he lets out a deep sigh. “Look, I know it’s not perfect … frankly, I’m not Irish, nor am I what we’d call a good cook. I googled and thought I’d try to make you something special. You know, because it’s your—”
    Holden doesn’t get a chance to finish what he’s saying, and I’m grateful for it. His words are cut off by the loud bang of my car hood slamming closed. Seconds later, the engine of the Chevy roars to life, rumbling and hesitating, but it stays cranked.
    Holden shoves his chair back and stands, walking out of the kitchen. I hear the front door open and set my fork down, watching out the window. Holden approaches the man, the two exchanging some words, Holden’s New York accent back in full force. The car is turned back off and they shake hands, before Holden pulls out his wallet, handing over a big wad of cash to the man.
    I turn back to my food, slouching down in my chair, but I don’t eat any. Holden returns as the tow truck rumbles down the road, the man leaving, the job done. “So what happened to getting me a new car?”
    Holden retakes his seat across from me. “That’s still on the agenda, but it’ll take some time for approval to come through.”
    I know that.
    I do.
    They’re quick to pull you in, but once they have you, they start dragging their feet.
    “And the air conditioning?”
    “Same,” he says. “I’ve got a window unit to install for the time being.”
    “Too swamped to fix the problems,” I say, “yet they somehow found the chance to approve minor repairs.”
    Holden doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I know it wasn’t the government that paid for any of this. That money came right out of Holden’s pocket.
    “Call it a gift,” he says after a moment.
    “Friends give gifts. Family gives gifts. Handlers don’t give gifts.”
    “I don’t like that word.”
    “What? Handler?”
    Holden cringes. “It insinuates you’re something I need to handle.”
    “Aren’t I?”
    His eyes shoot daggers at me.
    Maybe he doesn’t think of me that way, I don’t know, but that’s how it feels. He does whatever he can to placate me, not realizing it usually just makes me feel worse. I’d rather be ignored than be humored. It’s condescending.
    Pushing my chair back, I stand up, picking up my breakfast. I scrape the food in the trashcan before tossing the plate in the empty sink and heading for the door. “Thanks for breakfast, Holden. I appreciate the effort.”
    ***
    Academy of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart . I never liked the name. I liked the school even less. I stood on the front steps after final dismissal my first day back, staring down at the sidewalk at the last person I expected to see standing in front of the ornate stone building.
    My father.
    He was wearing gray slacks and a white button down, the top few buttons undone. His hands were in his pockets, his gaze everywhere except for on me.
    I almost wanted to run back inside before he saw me.
    His presence tended to bring bad news. There was no reason for him to be there, which meant one of two things: either I was in trouble or else he was.
    He scanned my classmates as they rushed past, laughing and chatting, paying him no mind. It was an unseasonably warm fall afternoon, so most of the girls were taking advantage of it, their skirts rolled up to indecent levels, shirts tied in knots, showing their midriff. But there I stood, the picture perfect Catholic schoolgirl: knee-high socks, gray plaid skirt, white shirt and gray blazer.
    All I was missing were a pair of Mary Janes.
    A bewildered look covered my father’s face as he turned my way. He scanned me quickly, probably to ensure I didn’t look like the rest of the girls around there. I descended the steps toward him, knowing I couldn’t hide now.
    “What happened to the dress