16 Things I Thought were True Part 11

My phone beeps, letting me know a new text came in. I glance at it and frown. It's from my mom's phone. But how could she possibly send a text? She must have gotten Jake to do it. Or Josh. I glance at the message.

It's a picture of a man. I enlarge the image and look closer. It's a picture from a newspaper article. He's wearing a golf cap, but it's clear what he looks like.

There's a caption under the picture. Tiny. I enlarge it some more.

"Bob White wins the Golf Tournament, for the Victoria Blues." I recognize him from Google Images, one of the less offensive look- ing Bob Whites. We have a match. I suck in a deep breath. After all this time, this is it.

I peer closely and disappointment settles in. He's an ordi- nary person, this Bob White, just a normal- looking man. Not too tall. Not too heavy or too slim. Not someone I can look at and automatically hate. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. Just a man. It's hard to feel much of anything.

It was almost better wondering if he was dead. Or really tall and handsome. Or maybe a famous celebrity who would never acknowledge me as his daughter because it would ruin his career. Not some guy in a golf s.h.i.+rt who looks like he shops at

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e Costco and pays all of his bills on time. He doesn't look evil.

He doesn't look mean.

He is a man. But he's more. He's my dad. I try to imagine what his voice sounds like, what he likes to eat, if he has a new family.

Mostly I wonder why- why he never wanted to know me. I stare at the photo. I have to go. Now that I know. I have to see him myself. In person. I'll find a way to go to him and see for myself who he is, and why he didn't want me. Maybe, just maybe, if he sees me now, sees I'm not so bad...

I shake my head and stop that train of thought. I wonder if he'll be underwhelmed and disappointed when he looks at me for the first time. I wonder for the millionth time why he left me. "Morgan," I say, speaking for the man in the picture, "I am your father."

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chapter seven.

4. Likeability can be measured by how many followers you have online. #thingsIthoughtweretrue I 'm working in the gift shop, ringing up a woman's purchases, ignoring the shrieks of her unhappy baby. "Whoa," a voice says from the entrance of the gift shop after she leaves. "That took com- mitment." Adam walks in. "Ignoring a baby's cries." He walks inside.

I remember that I'm mad at him, so I fake a smile and act busy.

He never returned my call. He doesn't get off that easy. "So, your mom's operation went okay?" he asks.

I don't glance up. "Fine."

"So...?"

"She'll be home in a few days." I bend down to pick up a pencil I dropped on the floor. When I stand again, he's directly across the counter. Frowning.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks. He's holding a brown paper bag.

Of course he would bring a packed lunch. It's mature and sensible.

"Why would I be mad at you?" Call display, dude. He didn't call back. Text. Acknowledge my call in any way. I don't need to have things spelled out. He's my boss, he felt obliged to drive me to the sixteenthings.indd 71 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r hospital, and his interest about my mom is medical curiosity. I made up the connection between us.

"You have a break in a few minutes, and Theresa's on her way. Are you going to the staff room?"

"No."

He tilts his head. "Why not?"

"Break time," Theresa says as she walks in. "Hey. Is your mom okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." I don't move.

"That's good." She smiles at me then turns to Adam. "You find your phone yet?"

He turns to me. "Someone stole it."

"Contact your carrier. Maybe they can trace it?" Theresa says.

I sneak a look at him. His phone got stolen. That's why he didn't call back?

"I called. They couldn't trace it. I have to buy a replacement."

Adam turns to me. "I'm on my break too. I'll go with you."

"I wasn't going to go to the staff room," I tell him. I'd been counting down the time until I could go to the old abandoned washroom stall and catch up on my tweets. I grab my backpack and walk out from behind the counter.

"Don't worry," Adam says. "You can bring your phone."

"I know." I need to recalibrate. I can't be mad at him for ignoring my call since he didn't have his phone.

"Come on." He glances at my backpack. "You need to stop to buy something to eat?"

I shake my head. I took one of Josh's protein bars so I could have lunch in private. I hadn't planned on returning to the staff room

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e again. Ever. I want to slip off to the path that leads to privacy, but I'm too chicken to admit it.

When we walk outside, two pretty girls in yellow s.h.i.+rts run up to Adam. One smiles at me, but the other looks me up and down and blinks in slow motion before turning to Adam. "So, I need to get off early this Sat.u.r.day. Can I do that?"

"Talk to me later," he says to her and turns to me. We've reached the entrance to the staff room. It smells like dirty feet and cotton candy. It reminds me of my brothers when they don't shower after working out and try to cover their smell with cologne.

"Come on," Adam says, and we step inside. It's early for lunch, so there are only a few employees sprawled at one table. I avoid look- ing at the managers' table, closest to the far wall.

Some girls at the full table squeal with laughter, but Adam ignores them. "We don't have to sit over there," he says, gesturing to the manager table. "How about the couches?"

I shrug, kind of embarra.s.sed he guessed my feelings about sitting at the manager table, and follow him to the grimy- looking couches that semicircle the vending machines. He walks to a machine and plugs in some quarters. "You want a c.o.ke?" he asks me as he takes out a can.

I lift my shoulder and plunk down on a couch, trying not to think about how dirty it is. I put my phone on my lap.

"Sure, Adam, I'd love a c.o.ke," he says in a high- pitched voice, imitating me. He puts in more change and pulls out another can.

I turn on my phone to Twitter and scroll, but he stands right in front of me, holding out the can until I stop and take it from him.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r "Thanks."

"How about talking to me instead of your phone?"

I put my phone down but glance longingly at it.

"So everything's okay with your mom?" he says and sits on the couch across from me. I dig through my backpack and pull out my bar, nod, and rip the wrapper open with my teeth.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." I take a bite of my bar and pop open the can. Adam watches me as he unfolds his lunch bag.

"Did I do something to p.i.s.s you off?"

"Besides forcing me to eat in this place?" I smile even though it's true and take a sip of the soda. It's awkward. I'm angry about things, most of which have nothing to do with him. I'm being kind of an a.s.s and I know it.

He pulls a sandwich from his lunch bag and glances around the room, seemingly undisturbed by the other people or the mess.

"Where do you usually eat?" he asks. "Outside?"

I shake my head, trying to shake off my mood.

He holds up his sandwich to take a bite. "Isn't anyone allowed to be nice to you?"

I put the soda between us on the table and lean back on the couch, sigh, try to explain. "Sorry. It's just. Since the video..."

He smiles. "I get it. And by the way, in case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly Mr. Popularity around here." He bites his sandwich and shrugs. "At least you'll be seen talking to me in public." He smiles again to show he's joking, but I wonder if he is.

The confession warms me a little. "I have to figure out things

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e with my mom and my...birth father. And I usually use my break to get caught up with my friends, so I guess I'm a little edgy."

"Your friends on there?" He gestures at my phone and raises his eye- brows. "You have a lot of people following you. I have, like, twenty."

He has nineteen. But I don't say that out loud. And I try not to judge him for it.

"Stop me if this is a crazy idea," he says, "but I thought you might want to talk to someone, you know, in person."

I take a sip of soda and study the coffee table, trying to put my words together in a way that makes sense. It's so much easier to get things right on Twitter.

Adam watches me, his expression calm, not rus.h.i.+ng me or trying to fill in the silence.

"Last night, my mom finally told me his name. My father." I stop and look up, waiting to see his reaction.

"Wow," he says and leans back on the couch. "That's huge."