Free Learning Not to Drown by Anna Shinoda Page A

again. The empty beer can still in his hand. “You’ve grown up quite a bit since I last saw you.” His eyes travel down my chest to my legs.
    Definitely not one of Luke’s good friends. Skeleton’s bones are rattling, rattling. Too afraid to turn and run, I look up toward the clearing. I see Dad. He’s so far away. But I have to try.
    â€œIf you know Luke, you must know my dad. I’m sure he’d want to say hi. HEY, DAD! OVER HERE!” I shout and wave, see my father look my way, his hand shading his eyes. He drops his bag and walks toward me, a speed walk that borders on a jog. Luke’s friend takes a few steps back.
    â€œHi, sir. Name’s Dan. I’m a friend of Luke’s.” He puts his hand out.
    â€œI know who you are,” Dad says, wrapping his arm around me instead of shaking Dan’s hand—which drops, then travels to scratch his head.
    â€œI was just helping your daughter out here.” Dan drops the can into my trash bag.
    Dad pulls me close.
    â€œLuke out of the slammer?” Dan smiles wide. Dad clenches his jaw.
    â€œSoon.”
    â€œGreat. Tell him to come say hi when he’s out.” He pauses. When we don’t say anything else, he adds, “Well, I’d better continue on my hike.”
    As Dad watches him stroll down the trail, he says, “I think it’s clean enough here. Why don’t you and Drea work with me around the bonfire.”
    His hand on my back steers me to the clearing. I want to thank him for coming to get me, but I don’t say a word, and neither does Dad. It’s better that way. Then neither one of us has to admit that maybe I was in danger, and neither one of us has to admit we’ve been in danger before. A memory starts to surface, starting with a vision of a broken window—but I quickly push it away.
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    After the clearing is clean, we drop Drea off at her house and return home.
    Dad opens the back of the truck and drags out a medium-size box.
    â€œGet the front door for me, will ya, Clare?” he asks.
    â€œWhat’s in the box?” I prop the door open with my leg as he struggles to bring it in and plops it on the coffee table.
    â€œFire safe,” he says, slicing the top of the box open. I hold the packaging as he pulls the safe out. It’s rectangular and small enough to just barely fit into my backpack. Dad unlocks the door with the key and stares inside. I’m impressed by how thick the walls of it are. It won’t hold a lot. It seems like a waste of money. We really don’t own much that is considered valuable.
    Mom joins us just as I sink deep into the couch, enjoying how the soft cushion feels on my tired body.
    â€œWhat are you going to put in here?” I ask.
    â€œValuables. Important papers,” Dad says. “In case of fire,” he adds.
    Mom looks at the safe and then at me. Her lips thin out.
    â€œYou didn’t make your bed this morning,” she says to me. She’s still pissed. It doesn’t matter to her that I have no cell phone; no car; no rights to the TV, computer, or land line; or that my back is aching and I have the scent of stale cigarette butts and beer stuck in my nose from picking up trash for the past two hours. “Go make it now.”
    â€œCan’t I relax for a second?” I can’t hide the irritation in my voice.
    â€œIdle hands,” Mom says. My brain immediately completes the sentence: . . . are the devil’s playground. Her favorite saying.
    â€œBut why do I have to make my bed? I’m going to sleep in it in a couple of hours.”
    â€œDon’t argue with me, young lady.”
    I push off the couch and stomp to my room.
    Forget that. I shower, eat dinner in silence, and go to bed, reveling in how messy it is. But that small victory is short-lived because I can’t stop thinking about the guy in the woods—I try to lie on my