Broken

By Kelsey Billingsley

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“Olive!”

I whip my head around to see my mom smiling, waving at me from the sidelines, my baby brother on her hip. No dad yet. The game is about to start but I quickly dash across the crisp, green grass of the soccer field to my mom’s side.

“Is Dad still coming?”

My mom’s brow wrinkles and the corners of her mouth droop downward. I take that as a no. Placing my baby brother on a big quilt she had set out, she squats down next to me, placing her hands on both of my arms; she looks deeply into my green eyes.

“I bet he’s just running late. You know he wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She wraps me into a bear hug, “Love you. Go play your heart out!” She then nudges me back onto the field.

As I jog back to my teammates, I can’t help but think about the changes that have occurred in the past few months. First, my dad got a big promotion at his marketing job which really meant him missing family dinners, game nights, and now my soccer games. Then we moved into a big new house across town, and I had to start the fifth grade at a new school.

At first, I was excited by the new changes. I got a bigger room, and my dad was really happy about his new job. When he first told me, he went in depth about how he got his own office that overlooked downtown Lansing and how he got to be in charge of a whole team of people. He even took me to visit, and I got to look out his big window where I could just make out the pearly white top of the Capitol building. But he used to be at all my games; he was the loudest cheerer.

“Olive! Get to the goal! The game is about to start.” My coach motions toward the far end of the field. I realize I am the only one standing by the bench on the sideline, and I hurry and grab my black gloves as I run into the painted white goal box. With a screech of the whistle, the field is engulfed in motion and the shouts of “Way to go!” ring across the open field.

Blue and red jerseys weave in and out of each other. I shiver as a cool autumn breeze ruffles my red jersey. I hop back and forth to stay warm as the ball is kicked farther and farther downfield. I squint to try and make out who is in control of the ball. Even with all of the action I keep looking back to the sideline. Glancing first at my baby brother rolling onto his belly, my eyes move from my mom’s blue tennis shoes past her faded blue jeans up to her clasped hands. Still no Dad. Will he show? He hasn’t missed a game ever.

I hear the thunder of cleats digging into the dirt, and I look up to see a mass of blue and red coming towards me. Focus. I keep my eye on the ball as it zigzags back and forth across the field. I match the ball’s movement within the goalie box trying to make sure to be in the right position when the ball decides to fly towards me. A player in blue lands a solid kick, and the ball is launched to the far-right corner of the goal. Planting my foot, I jump into the air, extending my hands as far as they can go. The ball smacks into my open hands, and I pull the ball securely to my chest.

“Way to go!” My mom’s lone voice carries to me. Hmph. Still hasn’t made it. I kick the ball as far downfield as I can. For the rest of the game I go back and forth watching the ball and watching the sidelines. My mom’s eyes keep locking with mine and each time I can see the lines around her eyes deepen and her lips tighten. She knows I am waiting for him, and I hate that I am worrying her. I should just focus on the game. My chest tugs and tightens, and my eyes begin to sting. I shake my head and turn my attention back to the field where I see the ball flying back in my direction. My leg muscles tense as I squat down, and my hands fly up. I can’t let a goal in, or we will lose this game. Once again, the player in blue plants her foot and blasts the black and white ball right towards me. I leap into the air and the ball thuds as it lands in my waiting hands.

“That’s my Olive!” My head jerks to my right to see the familiar tall figure of my father in his white button up with his checkered tie hanging loosely around his neck. Immediately I break into an enormous grin forgetting about the ball still clutched between my two hands. He made it! I knew he would; he wouldn’t miss this. He never does. He was just stuck at work, like Mom said.

“Olive! The game!” My coach motions for me to kick the ball. We only have a minute left to play. I can feel my face become hot and flushed as I drop the ball, which connects with my awaiting foot. The game couldn’t finish soon enough. When the whistle blows, I rush to the front of the line for the post-game high-fives. I mumble “good game” as fast as I can and make a break for it after high-fiving the other team’s coach.

“Dad!” My feet fly underneath me as I navigate around the pot holes in the field. My dad turns away from my mom whose arms are crossed tightly in front of her. Launching myself off the ground, I jump into my dad’s awaiting arms. My nose is immediately filled with the smell of cheap cologne and fresh peppermint. I bury my head into his shoulder as he crushes me into his chest.

“You made it!” I pull away, as he drops me to the ground.

“I wouldn’t miss your game-winning save!” He flashes an ear-splitting grin, and his blue eyes light up. “How about we go out for some ice cream as a treat? Just you and me.”

“Ethan.” My mom’s face is strained and cocked to the side, as she hugs her arms tighter to her chest. The air hangs heavy between the three of us—my mom to my left, my dad clutching my shoulders. I beg her to let me go, just wanting to spend some time with him before he disappears back to his job. My dad’s arms tense around me, and I turn my head up to read his expression. His brow is pulled low over his eyes, and his forehead wrinkles.

“Fine. But don’t stay out too late. It is a school night,” she replies. Quickly kissing me on the cheek, she snatches up my baby brother from his blanket on the ground. Wrapping it around him, she marches off toward our navy-blue minivan. I wonder why she got so mad? Did she look upset when I ran over here? I couldn’t remember her expression.

“Well, let’s get going, Sport.”

I grab his hand as we walk towards his parked black BMW. He opens the door to the back seat, and I crawl in, snapping my seatbelt into place. My dad asks where I want to go as he slides into the driver’s seat, putting the key into the ignition and pulling the car into reverse.

“Scoopy Doo’s!” Of course, I add in my head. He glances into the rearview mirror and his eyes crinkle in response. As we drive, we chat about my day—how my mom took my brother and I to the park and then how we went to the grocery store to pick up a pre-game snack. He then asks me about the game, and I give him a detailed play-by-play. I make sure to edit out how often I looked towards the sideline to see if he had arrived yet. He laughs along to my energetic retelling of my final save and congratulates me again. By the time I finish my long-winded story, we have arrived, pulling into a parking space in front of the light blue building with its white framed windows. The small, black metal tables in front of the parlor are filled with couples and families enjoying the evening air. My dad comes around and opens the car door; I scramble out of the car and grab his hand as I drag him to the entrance.

As we walk into the crowded parlor, I am immediately hit by the sweet smell and blast of air conditioning. Red backed booths are filled with families to our right and the ice cream counter is covered in a checkered pattern. I walk up to the glass, my dad following behind, and peer through to examine the rows of bucketed ice cream.

“What flavor this time?” asks my dad. Hmm. The white labels stand out on the glass as I scan through the different flavor names. Cookie dough is always my go-to, but the bright blue of blue moon and the swirls of the fudge in rocky road catch my eye. I tap my foot as I weigh my options.

“I think I will stick to Cookie Dough.” I decide. “What are you getting?”

“Why don’t you guess?” His lips turn up at the corners.

I tap my chin and cock my head to the right. “Mackinac Fudge?”

“Bingo!” he replies. With that he looks up at the teenage girl behind the counter and asks for a double scoop of Cookie Dough and a double scoop of Mackinac Fudge. She picks up the scooper and dishes out two large helpings of each into medium sized bowls. Passing them to my dad, he hands me my ice cream and my mouth begins to water. The coldness seeps into my waiting palms as my dad pulls out some green folded bills from his worn, black wallet. I scan the room for an empty booth and see one in the back corner to our right. I look up at my dad and point to the booth, to which he nods his head. Waltzing over, I slide into the booth facing the front of the parlor as my dad takes the opposite seat. I immediately begin digging in, separating the bits of cookie dough out for later.

My dad’s phone rings, and he quickly picks it up. Motioning to me that he needs to take the call, he stands up and walks away from our table. Must be work, or maybe Mom. I watch him as he turns his back, one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other resting on his hip. The conversation doesn’t last long and soon he is back in the booth.

“Who was that?” I ask as I scoop a large glob of ice cream into my mouth.

“Oh, I have a friend from work who wants to join us if that’s okay?” He stares down at his ice cream. I cock my head to the side.

“Why?”

“It’s just some work business she wants to clarify, and she has some papers she wants me to sign. It’s easier if she just comes here. As long as it’s okay with you, Sport?”

“Sure.” My cheeks flush with heat, and I blink back stinging tears as I stir the cookie dough bits around my melting ice cream. He already missed almost all of my game because of work, and now he was going to bring it to our ice cream outing. I slump slightly, sliding on the cracking, red leather seat cover. My dad’s shoulders tense and the muscles in his jaw tighten.

“Olive—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He leans across the scratched table top, patting my forearm.

With a sigh, I sit up in my seat and give a shaky grin. “It’s okay. I’m fine.” I go back to separating out my cookie dough chunks. “Can you tell me about the time you and Uncle Nick made that cool bike ramp?” My dad’s shoulders relax and with a chuckle he launches into telling me about the bike ramp that he and my uncle built when they were ten. Soon we are laughing together as he recounts my grandma’s shocked face when she walked out after hearing a loud shout to see my dad in a heap of broken metal after he failed to stick the landing.

The tension had just left the air by the time the door jingled and a tall, dark-haired woman with bright red lipstick, big wavy curls, and black stiletto heels approached our booth. I stop mid-laugh and can feel my muscles tense as she places her perfectly manicured hand lightly on my dad’s shoulder. “Ethan?” she says. My dad turns at her touch and clambers out of the booth, exchanging greetings and a quick hug. She leaves a hand on my dad’s arm as he turns towards me. Her eyes stray from his face and rest on my quizzical, upturned eyes.

As he motions to me, “Rayna, this my daughter Olive. Olive this is Rayna, she works in my department at work.” I immediately drop my spoon and stick out my hand.

“Oh!” she exclaims as her eyes widen and the corner of her lip pulls upward. She removes her hand from my father’s arm and grabs ahold of my waiting hand, giving it two quick pumps.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” I say while scrutinizing her face, and my stomach seems to pull and twist in odd directions.

Her eyes bore into mine as she replies, “Same to you.” Turning back toward my father, she lifts up the suitcase she is holding in her left hand. “I have the papers you wanted me to bring.”

“Of course! Why don’t you sit down with Olive, and I’ll get you some ice cream. Then I can sign the papers.” He turns before Rayna can reply, striding towards the ice cream counter. Hesitantly, she finally drops into the seat that had moments before been occupied by my dad, dropping the suitcase on the table.

We sit in silence for a moment. “How old are you?” Rayna asks.

“Nine. My birthday is in a month though.” I sit up straighter. Rayna taps her fingers on the hard tabletop making a loud tap, tap, tap. Cocking my head, I ask her if she has any kids to which she explains quickly that she doesn’t have time for any. No kids—well that explains why she is so stiff. I wish she hadn’t come and ruined my evening with my dad. I ask if she works a lot with him. She nods her head and explains that they both run the marketing division together. With that, we fall back into silence.

“Here you go. Vanilla with hot fudge and caramel,” says my dad, sliding into the booth beside her, placing the ice cream in front of her. “Now I’ll just take those papers.” He grabs the suitcase from across the table.

“Oh, I’ll get it for you.” Rayna scooches closer to my father and reaches into the bag, pulling out paperclipped documents and a ballpoint pen and handing them over to him. I watch carefully as Rayna picks up her spoon and begins to scoop into her ice cream. The air between us feels tense and heavy, but I can’t place my finger on why. She is just my dad’s coworker. Right? I push my empty bowl of ice cream aside and place my crossed arms onto the table.

“You alright there, kiddo?” My dad glances up from his final paper.

“Yep.” I turn my eyes back to Rayna—the intruder of the evening. Placing the papers back into the suitcase, he turns to Rayna and they start chatting about work. I let my eyes roam the parlor as they begin to talk numbers and team members. One of the teen employees has begun sweeping the sticky floor as families begin to trickle out of their booths towards the exits. Looking back at my dad, his face has become animated and Rayna playfully hits his arms. Her eyes brighten the more my dad speaks. I let out a noticeable yawn breaking the spell between the two of them.

My dad looks down at his watch. “Well, it’s getting late. Probably time I got this one home and in bed.” Turning to me, he says, “Wait here while I walk Rayna to her car. Okay?”

I nod my head.

He grabs her by her elbow and guides her towards the door. My eyes tighten, and my stomach turns. As they walk out the door, I watch them through the front window. As they step down the steps, I notice that her hand slips into my dad’s. I feel the acid begin to burn the back of my throat. I crane my neck to see around the tree blocking my view as they reach the door of her red mustang. I see her turn her face up towards my father's, and my father responds with a peck on her cheek. Opening her door, she climbs in, and soon I can hear the roar of the engine. As she pulls away, my dad waves goodbye.

When my dad returns to the table, he breaks out into a wide-faced grin and reaches out his hand towards me. I wait for a moment before grabbing it as he pulls me out of the booth, and we walk hand in hand out of the ice cream parlor. As we walk to the car his palm feels warm against mine, warm from her hand, and my stomach does one final heave.