He had to call me. We were at the beach when my cell lit up with an incoming call from Dad. “Hey, Dad!” I chirped with an amount of excitement that astonished even me. I’m not exactly what you’d call perky, but suddenly I sounded like a cheerleader hopped up on cotton candy and Pixy Stix. “Hey there, kiddo,” he said. With his Chicago accent, it sounded more like “Ey dere, kiddo.” “Whatcha up to?” he asked. I looked around. Jeff lay on his back on our huge beach towel, napping. I traced the lines of his body with my eyes, admiring the muscles I was growing to know so well. He had that thing some super-buff guys get (I don’t know what it’s called, I haven’t taken anatomy yet) when a couple of their lower abdominal muscles make this sort of V shape that points directly to— Well. Anyway. That’s not the sort of thing you tell your dad. “I’m not up to much,” I said, turning my attention to my toes, which had been painted pale pink a few days before during a spontaneous mother-daughter pedicure downtown.
