“No, I’m not,” he insists.
I try to wrench my hand away, but he’s holding on too tightly. I start thinking about something my mom told me, about how boys are really sensitive between their legs and if you kick them there, they will leave you alone. But before I have a chance to test that out, we get interrupted by a string of angry Italian words and then my dad’s voice booming out, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING TO MY DAUGHTER?”
Gabe drops my wrist instantly. Dad is running over to us, and he looks about as mad as I have ever seen him. There is a big scary vein standing out in his neck, and his right hand is a fist. He looks like he wants to pick up Gabe and break him in half. And I’m pretty sure he could if he wanted to. I mean, my dad is really strong.
“I… I’m sorry,” Gabe sputters.
“No!” Dad waves his hand at me. “You say sorry to her!”
Gabe is just about to pee in his pants. “I’m sorry, Ada! I’m really sorry!”
Dad seems like he’s barely keeping himself from beating Gabe into a bloody pulp. He gets real close to him, and his dark eyes look terrifying. Mine are the same color, but they never look scary like his can sometimes.
“If you ever touch my daughter again,” Dad hisses at him, “you will understand what sorry really means. You understand me?”
“Yes!” Gabe cries. “I mean, no! I mean…”
He looks between the two of us, and then without another word, he runs away as fast as he can.
Dad looks really upset. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him quite so angry before. At first, he’s breathing hard, but then he calms down and gets this kind of sad expression on his face.
“Come on, Ada,” he tells me. “We need to talk. In the truck.”
Is he mad at me? I didn’t do anything wrong. Did I? I didn’t want to hold Gabe’s hand. But maybe he couldn’t tell that I was trying to get away. Except he doesn’t really seem angry at me. He just seems… upset. Like, in general.
We have to walk all the way back to his truck, which he parked in the school lot. He must’ve parked and then walked around looking for me. He tells me to get inside, and when I start to get in the back, he tells me to get in the front.
But then when we are in the car, he doesn’t start the engine. He just sits in the driver’s seat, not saying anything. He’s looking down at my wrist where Gabe was holding on to me. The place where his fingers were has now turned an angry shade of red. I wonder if I will have a bruise.
“Ada,” he says, “that was scary.”
I nod. “It’s okay though. Because you were there.”
“That’s the scary part,” he says. “I was there. But next time, I might not be there. I will not always be there.”
I guess he’s right, but at the same time, it seems like he is always there. Every time I have ever needed him, he has been there. It seems impossible that there will be a time when I need my dad and he won’t be around for me. Like, Gabe was bothering me, and there he was—coming out of nowhere to scare him off and save me.
“I told my sister I would always be there,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “but then…”
I am named after my dad’s sister. Her name was Antonia, and she died before I was born. Dad sometimes talks about her and how much he loved her, but he’s never said how she died. It must have been something bad though, because she was so young.
“If a boy is bothering you,” he says, “you ask him to stop. You be firm about it. Make sure he knows.”
I nod solemnly.
“But there’s a chance he might not stop.” Dad’s dark eyebrows come together, and he gets a deep crease between them. “And if that happens…”
Dad is quiet for a second, thinking something over. Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out that pocketknife he always carries around. The one that his dad gave him, which has his initials engraved on it.
“My father gave me this when I was your age,” he says. “Now I give it to you.”
“Dad!” I cry. “I can’t carry around a knife with me! I’ll get in trouble!”
“You do not get in trouble if nobody knows,” he says.
I look down at the knife in his hands. Even though I shouldn’t, I’m itching to pick it up. I’ve always liked that knife because it reminds me of my dad. I figured he would give it to Nico someday, but instead, he’s giving it to me.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “You carry it with you, but you never use it. Only if you have to.”
“But…” I stare down at the knife, still in his hand. The blade is retracted, but I bet it’s sharp. “You really think I could…”
“Only if you have to, Ada,” he repeats. He touches an area to the right of his belly button. “You put the blade right in here. And then…” He jerks his wrist. “You twist.”
I stare up at him. “Did you ever do that?”
“Me?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no. This is just… cautionary.”
He holds the knife out to me again. This time, I take it from him.
SIXTY-SIX
Step 4: Start to Suspect the Terrible Truth
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m in the kitchen, trying to decide if I want a snack before dinner, when Nico slips in through the back door.
I haven’t seen him since the morning. That’s not unusual these days though. I used to spend practically every second of the weekend with my brother, but now he’s either at Little League or locked in his room. I managed to catch him a few times to walk to the bus stop with him, but it didn’t help. He didn’t want to talk.
