Kiss And Blog by ALSON NOËL

SoHo, where I disembarked at the Broadway and Lafayette stop and adjusted my eyes to the darkness as I climbed the stairs into the night.
    Then I trekked the few blocks to my dad’s apartment, pushed the buzzer, held my breath, and hoped for the best.
    But instead of saying, “Who is it?” like a normal person does when they get on the intercom, my dad goes, “Winter?”
    And just like that, I know I’m in trouble.
    “I think you better come up,” he says, right before buzzing me in.
    And by the time I get my bag and myself safely inside the vestibule, he’s already on his way down to get me.
    “What the hell?” he says, grabbing my stuff and shaking his head at me. I swear that’s how he talks, like he’s still in high school or something.
    “Who told you?” I ask, following behind, unable to gauge just how much trouble I might be in.
    “Autumn eventually noticed the missing ticket,” he tells me, opening the door and motioning me inside. “And by the way, in case you were wondering, your mom is blaming me.”
    I watch as he sets my bag on the hardwood floor, then I take off my jacket and drop onto his comfortable leather couch, realizing I was so hyped-up about getting here, that I never really thought past the landing at JFK part. “Sorry,” I say, gazing into his brown eyes that are just like mine, while trying to remember why I even decided to come here in the first place.
    He hands me a bottle of water from the fridge behind the bar. “Does this have something to do with the tryouts?” he asks, sitting down beside me.
    Oh, yeah, that.
And then, like the completely uncool, total loser, retard, lame dork that I am, I drop my head in my hands and start bawling my freaking eyes out.
    And when I finally calm down, having reached the point of involuntary shoulder-shaking aftershocks, he goes, “I gotta tell ya, hon, I’m a little surprised by all this. That pom-pom pep rally stuff really doesn’t seem like your scene.”
    And when I look at him, I think,
Maybe he’s right.
    I mean, even though I’d somehow convinced myself that Ireally did want all that, and spent countless nights lying in bed, imagining myself all glammed out in my cheerleading garb, flirting with Cash Davis (who of course would fall madly in love with me just seconds after I’d made the squad), I’m now starting to wonder if maybe, what I actually wanted to be, was someone else.
    Anyone else.
    As long as I didn’t have to be me.
    But I don’t tell him that. I just shrug and take a sip of my water.
    “I should call your mom,” he says, reaching for the phone. “So she’ll know you got here safely. Or maybe you feel like telling her that yourself?” He looks at me, holding the receiver and waiting.
    But I just shake my head, curl up on my side, and after that, I can’t remember.
     
    The next morning I wake to the sound of the front door opening, and the sight of my dad struggling with two large coffees, a bagful of bagels, and a copy of
The New York Times
for him and the
New York Post
for me.
    “Here, let me help,” I say, grabbing the coffees, and helping him get the table all set, smearing cream cheese across my bagel, and sipping my coffee, like this is our completely normal, everyday routine, and that I’m not really his firstborn daughter who’s currently on the lam from school, not to mention life.
    “So,” he says, removing his black framed reading glasses, and peering at me. “What do you want to do today?”
    I peek at him cautiously, wondering if this is actually for real, and if he’s truly more interested in entertaining than punishing. But unable to draw any kind of conclusion, I just shrug and wait to see what he offers.
    He gazes at me for a moment, then runs his hand throughhis longish hair. “Well, I need to stop by the gallery for a little while, so why don’t you come by around twelve, twelve-thirty? I’ll show you this great installation before I take you to lunch.”
    Then he gets up, grabs