Saving Alice by David Lewis

weeks.
    I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for her to acknowledge me, taking in her room décor: postmodern teenage rebellion. I looked for a place to sit, then gave up. Her clothes littered the floor, where “they’re easier to find.” The dresser was cluttered with bottles and sprays, potions and perfumes, and a menacing-looking blow dryer. One of the walls was covered with posters of rock groups— who looked more like axe murderers—and the opposite wall was covered with shirtless adolescent boys. I’m not sure which was worse.
    Mixed among this devilish crowd were banners with slogans, irreverent statements of youthful defiance, including the poster of a gorilla holding his ears and closing his eyes: Pardon me? Who you ARE speaks so loudly, I can’t hear what you’re SAYING .
    Catching her eye, I gestured “phone” to my ear.
    “Sorry,” I said, after she scowled the headphones from her head. “I meant … I wanted to talk to you.”
    “So you lied,” she muttered.
    “Guess I blew it,” I said, hoping to slide over the first accusation. She frowned, probably wondering what I was referring to—either the tricky way I’d gotten her to remove her headphones or forgetting the party.
    “I mean … about tonight,” I clarified.
    “Oh.” She paused for a moment, and I could see the wheels turning. “So … you’re assuming anyone actually thought you’d show up?”
    Unsure how to respond to her sarcasm, I said nothing.
    “Too bad you reminded me. I’d already forgotten.” She put her headphones back on, giving me a quick headshake as if I was not worthy of consideration.
    I hadn’t expected her to make it easy for me, but I was surprised by the depth of her disrespect. Reaching over, I committed my second indiscretion within the space of one minute and pulled the headphone jack from her stereo, effectively removing a starving tiger from her mother’s milk. The room was suddenly filled with screeching guitars. I frantically pressed the off button and stark silence replaced the musical anger.
    Alycia came uncorked, ripping off her headphones and glaring at me.
    “Alycia, I’ve asked you—”
    She wound up, unfurled, and I flinched, but she wasn’t throwing them at me. The headphones hit the wall above her sound system, disintegrating into an assortment of pieces, leaving a generous dent in the plaster. My first thought, following the shock, was to wonder if Donna had heard it.
    Calmly, Alycia slapped her hands together as if removing residual dust, then gave me a mockingly innocent look. “All done, Dad. Sorry … I must have forgotten.”
    Let her get it out, I thought, deliberately choosing not to answer anger with anger. Frankly, I viewed it as a victory of sorts. The eardrum-puncturing headphones were gone. I suppose that’s how skewed my parenting had become, how marginal and incomplete the victories.
    Months ago I had lectured her with my own headphone horror story—how I’d sacrificed twenty-five percent of my hearing on the altar of Sergeant Pepper. But instead of being horrified, she’d been impressed, viewing it as a symbol of commitment, a scar of dedication. I’d argued my point— notice how I have to turn the TV so loud you always complain? —but she was too busy estimating her own dedication. To lose one’s hearing over music that defines your social alienation seemed the appropriate sacrifice. The hearing doesn’t come back, I’d finally said, to which she’d presented her soundest argument: “That’s the point!”
    At a loss for anything else to say, I decided to cut to the chase and risk total alienation. “I love you, Alycia, and I certainly didn’t mean to—”
    She raised her index finger.
    I sighed. “What do you want from me? I said I was sorry—”
    “How ’bout the truth, Dad? See … what you should say is: ‘I pretend parental affection when it’s convenient.’ ”
    That wasn’t true and she knew it, but I let it go. This had reached an