The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [104]
“No.”
“Let me rephrase that, then.” His manner was Gruff Let-Down Dad, as if this were eighth grade and she’d skipped curfew again. “Please, my darling daughter, have a seat. I’ll make more coffee.”
“I have to work in an hour,” Pella said. “I don’t have time for a heart-to-heart. Sorry.”
She filled a baggie with ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a dishtowel, applied it to her finger.
“What’s that?” said Affenlight. “Let me see.”
Pella took some pleasure, however juvenile, in holding up her middle finger toward her father. An ugly finger too—fat and blood-stiffened, with a purple bruise spreading outward from the second knuckle.
“Oh my. Sweetie. What happened?”
“Nothing. I jammed it.”
“Well, keep ice on it. Maybe you should take the day off work.”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine? Pella. Look how swollen it is. I’ll call the dining hall and tell them you won’t be in. Then we’ll go over to Student Health to get that looked at.”
“It’s too late to schedule somebody else.”
Her father’s long, uninjured, academically pristine fingers dwarfed his espresso cup. “Don’t be stubborn. You can take one day off.”
“I’m thrilled to have your permission, El Presidente. But I’d just as soon do my job, thanks.”
“Really, Pella. I applaud your work ethic, but—”
“Who asked you to applaud my work ethic?” she said too loudly. “Are you my boss?”
Her dad looked taken aback. “Well, no,” he said. “Of course not. But your health is more important than a few hours of mindless labor in the dining hall.”
Pella cringed. She wanted her presence in the dining hall to be necessary. Was that too much to ask? Mike thought her job was slumming, because of who her dad was. Her dad thought it was a show of faux independence, and that she should be practicing Latin or whatever. Neither had said so, but she could tell. Unless she was just paranoid, living in her head again, but you always lived in your head and you had to go with what you felt.
“Who cares if it’s mindless labor?” Red flares snapped behind her eyes like they had on the library steps. “What’s not mindless labor? Writing papers? Ha! But at least that’s not an embarrassment, right? I’m the president’s daughter, for God’s sake. The last thing I should be doing is scrubbing pots with a bunch of immigrants—”
“Pella—”
“Don’t Pella me.” She yanked out a chair and plunked down at the nook table. The space underneath could barely accommodate their four legs, her father’s elegant suit-clad ones and her own flabbier, less majestic pair. “So,” she said sharply, “what did you want to talk to me about?”
“It’s nothing,” Affenlight said. “It can wait.”
“Why wait?” She laid her hand on the table and rested the towel-wrapped bag of ice on top. The pain was like a fuel. “You don’t like me spending the night at Mike’s house.”
“We can talk about it later.”
“We’d rather talk about it now. Here’s my position. I’m an adult. I’ll sleep wherever I like.”
Her father looked at her. Obviously she’d already hurt his feelings, not least by implying that he was some kind of tacit racist. But the flares were still snapping behind her eyes.
“Now you give your position.”
“Pella, please—”
“I’ll start you off. You think I’m being disrespectful. You think because I’m living here and not paying rent I should be subject to the rules I was subject to as a child. You think I’m a child even though I’ve been married for four years.”
Affenlight inspected the grains at the bottom of his demitasse. The room was silent. Then the refrigerator’s hum ceased, making it more silent. “See?” Pella said. “Isn’t this fun?”
Her dad closed his long fingers around the demitasse and made it disappear, an ominous-seeming kind of parlor trick. He looked at her sadly with his deep gray eyes. “Pella,” he said. “I love you. If you want my advice, and I realize that you don’t, I’d say don’t rush to get involved with anyone. Take a little time away from men.”
“This whole campus is nothing but men.” The I love you had done its trick; the bitterness washed out of her voice. “Really fucked-up ones.”
Her dad smiled. “Guilty as charged.