I haven’t heard from Milo since 8th period, yet here I am, sitting under his treehouse waiting for him to text or call or show up like he always did. Tuesdays were the days when Milo always hung out with me after-school; he would say it’s the only day of the week when he and Mollie don’t walk home together. It took me a while to finally understand Milo and Mollie’s friendship. When I first met Milo, I thought Mollie was his girlfriend since they always spent time together and she would get upset whenever Milo would hang out with me. Milo had to explain to me how Jennifer was Mollie’s oldest sister, so technically he and Mollie were family by blood. Their friendship was interesting, to say the least.
I looked down at my phone; still no message from Milo. I sighed and looked around some more. After a while, my phone vibrated on my lap. I thought it was Milo, but it was actually my mum asking what time I was coming home. I don’t answer right away because I don’t know when or if Milo was coming. I started to get worried.
I heard the front door of the house open, which immediately made me jump and get up from the ground and turn towards the door. Milo’s nan walked out and looked at me. I bowed to greet her. Sophie, this is America.
“Hi, Mrs. Mezzrow,” I said to his nan.
“Hi, Sophie; what are you doing here?” she genuinely questioned me. It didn’t come off as rude; she looked at me very confused to see me sitting in her front yard under her grandson’s treehouse.
“I’m sorry, I was waiting for Milo,” I answered.
“Milo’s not coming today, sweetie,” she answered back. “He had to stay after school for detention.” My face turned red. I wish Milo would’ve told me sooner, but it didn’t even click that his nan said Milo has detention. School just started a couple of weeks ago; what did he do?
“Oh, okay,” I said as I got my bookbag from the ground and place it on my back. “Sorry…” I nervously said as I walked out of the front yard. I wanted nothing more than just to forget the last 30 minutes of my life.
…
I dropped my bookag near the front door and took off my shoes. I heard my mum in the kitchen, possibly washing dishes. I walk into the kitchen and see her standing there against the sink. She has pink rubber gloves on with her kitchen apron over her outfit. She was most likely deep cleaning the entire house today; she typically would do that on her days off from work.
“Hi, mum,” I greeted her. She turned her head and smiled at me.
“Hey, Sophie; how was school today?” she asked as she scrubbed the dishes with the sponge. I stood next to her, helping her dry the freshly cleaned dishes to place them back in the cabinets.
“It was alright. We had a pop quiz in Trigonometry today,” I explained. My mum nodded her head, even though I know she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. She was never one to ask mundane questions; she kept all of her questions for things she either cared about, wanted to know, or appear present-minded. That’s where my mum and I were different.
“Did you see Milo after school today?” She asked. “You’re home earlier than usual on a Tuesday.”
“Milo had private practice,” I lied. I didn’t want to tell my mum that I waited half an hour for a boy that didn’t bother telling me he had to stay after-school for causing trouble. Of course, my mum nodded her head and didn’t question me further. She was definitely a little absent-minded today, more than she has been lately. She stopped what she was doing to look at me.
“Your father called today. He asked about you again,” she started to say. I know I should’ve told Milo I couldn’t go to Mrs. Kamalani’s studio for our band assignment last Saturday. I knew Saturday was one of the only days this month that my dad could freely use the phone for a longer period of time. All he wanted was to talk to me, but I’m simply not ready to talk to him.
“What did you say?” I asked my mum nervously. She sighed, more so annoyed than tired.
“I told him that you were in school,” she began. “He wanted to know if you’ve been keeping up with your violin lessons, which I told him that you were.” This time, I was the one nodding my head and becoming absent-minded. That’s one way my mum and I are the same.
“Sophie, I told him to call your cell phone number after 3,” my mom looked at me to say. My eyes widen and my eyebrows scrunched together shortly after.
“Why would you give him my cell number?” I asked, angry that she would do something like that without my permission. “There’s a reason why he didn’t have my cell number in the first place!”
“He’s your dad, Sophie,” my mom said, sternly. “He’s allowed to contact you when he can.”
“You gave him my cell number without my permission, mum!” I wanted her to understand that she did something wrong. She broke a boundary I set up so that I don’t let my father get close to me. She broke all the hard work I did and try to keep my distance from a person who broke my trust in almost everything and everyone.
“He hasn’t spoken to you in weeks,” my mum responded. “Every time he tries to call you, you make an excuse to not speak to him and I am not having that anymore.” I threw the dish towel on the counter and walked out of the kitchen. I can hear my mom calling out for me, but I don’t turn around.
I walk into my room and immediately start to cry. I was mad, sad, and anxious. I was mad that my mum would go out of her way and justify her actions by simply saying he was my dad and that I needed to speak to him. I was sad for being in the situation I was in with my family and felt like my father’s deportation changed our family’s lives forever. I was anxious because I didn’t know how I would react to seeing an unknown number come up on my phone and it was him on the other line. I don’t know my dad, and my dad doesn’t know who I am anymore. I miss him.
I look at my phone and immediately get nervous, thinking it was him calling. My heart felt at ease when it was Milo who popped up on the screen. I took a deep breath in and out. I closed my eyes while doing so. I answered Milo’s call with a smile on my face as if I wasn’t crying just moments ago.
“Hey, Trouble,” I teased Milo over the phone.
Letters From Liz. 