Free Comeback by Vicki Grant Page A

enough of my honesty. He kisses me on the forehead and then starts manhandling me toward the cafeteria. I laugh as if it’s all fun and games, but I’m not sure how long I can keep up the act. The thought of having to do my Miss Congeniality thing for the entire lunch-eating population of Citadel High exhausts me.
    My phone rings just as we get to the burger lineup. Ms. Meade glares at me and says, “Cell phones. Outside.” Normally, I think that rule’s totally unfair, but today it strikes me as proof that God just might exist after all. I mumble “Sorry” and slip out the side door onto the parking lot. I can see Colin is torn between keeping an eye on me and placing his order, but he follows me out anyway.
    â€œHey,” I say into the phone.
    â€œHello, Princess.”
    â€œDad!” I smile for real. I can’t remember the last time I did that. “Where are you?”
    â€œGuess.”
    I don’t have to. Colin has already spotted him and is dogging it across the parking lot toward the biggest, shiniest old convertible I’ve ever seen. It’s turquoise and white and has these giant Batmobile fins on the back. Dad’s leaning up against it. He’s got his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one shoulder as if he’s auditioning for Mad Men .
    I have to laugh. “Where did you get that thing?”
    â€œThing?! I’ll have you know this vehicle once belonged to Elvis Presley.”
    â€œDad.”
    â€œSeriously! And Elvis always had a gorgeous redhead in the passenger seat. So hurry up, darlin’. The King’s waiting.”
    By this time, a kid I recognize from my English class has wandered over to check out the car too. Dad gives us the guided tour—the whitewall tires, the original upholstery, the engine, even the ashtrays. I don’t know anything about cars, but I can see it’s impressing the hell out of the two boys.
    Dad basks in the glory for a while, then tosses Colin the keys. “Okay, big guy, let’s blow this pop stand.”
    Colin looks at the keys, looks back at Dad, then yelps like a cowboy. He jumps into the driver’s seat.
    The other kid starts walking away, but Dad goes, “Whoa. Stop. You too. Get in.”
    The kid kind of laughs and says, “No. Thanks. That’s okay.” He tries to slink away, but Dad’s not taking no for an answer.
    â€œLife’s too short to miss riding in a gen-u-ine mint-condition 1962 LeSabre ragtop.” Dad points at the car as if he’s sending the kid to the principal’s office. “Now hop in, boy! I mean it.”
    The kid looks at me for help. I shake my head. What can I do? When my father wants something, he gets it.
    You can tell the kid’s worried there’s a hidden camera somewhere, but he shrugs and climbs in the backseat with Dad anyway. I slide in beside Colin. We take off with a screech.
    Dad doesn’t tell Colin to slow down and doesn’t freak out when he comes a tad too close to a parked car. He just reaches over the front seat and cranks up the radio. The wind whips my hair over my mouth and eyes. Colin’s hat flies off. People on the sidewalk turn to watch us. We’re all hooting and laughing. It’s so perfect. It’s almost like we’re in a commercial.
    This whole thing is Classic Dad. The surprise visit at the exact right time. The amazing car that may or may not have belonged to Elvis Presley. Letting Colin drive. Dragging a stranger along. Turning an ordinary Friday lunch period into something pretty close to a “life moment.”
    So maybe it’s a bit on the flashy side. What’s wrong with that? Dad’s right. Life is too short not to enjoy it. I’m only seventeen, and I get that. Why doesn’t Mom?
    I turn around and look at Dad. He’s making Tim or Tom—I don’t remember the guy’s name—sing the doo-wop part of some old rock-and-roll song. The