gaze at the material he has beneath his oversized power tool. It’s a sheet of steel, which I’ve seen before, but the shade is darker. There’s a subtle ripple effect that only the sun catches, and a sparkling sheen that lies beneath the surface. These things tell me everything I need to know. “Where’d you get that?”
“Get what?” The old man turns off the machine, and wipes his hands on a rag that could use a spin cycle or two.
“That’s Titan steel.”
He catches my gaze and studies me closely. “It’s no such thing.”
“Is too. It’s got that ripple and sparkle and—”
“Kid, if you knew what you were talking about, you’d know this is much too dark to be Titan steel. Why don’t you skip on back across the street and keep going wherever it is you were going.”
He lowers his mask and stares at me like a serial killer.
I inspect the steel again, and my enthusiasm wanes. He’s right. It’s too dark.
Studying his cut lines, it’s obvious he’s off by three full degrees. Even if he does get the octagonal shape he’s going for, it’ll have unequal sides. I raise my chin. “I used to know someone like you, old man. Beneath all his grunting and frowning was a nice guy.”
When the man raises a hand and flicks it toward me, basically telling me to shoo , my face reddens.
“You’re off by three degrees.” I point to the steel. “Maybe more.”
Then I turn to go.
“You think because you do well in high school math, you know about building things that run?”
“I know a bad line when I see one,” I retort over my shoulder.
The man doesn’t say anything else. I turn back once when I’m a safe distance away and see him holding the steel up to the daylight, inspecting his cuts. I smile to myself, imagining I’m right.
If I kept a diary like my idiotic older sister, I’d probably leave today’s entry out. It starts on Sunday morning, at St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church. Arvin Gambini has made an appearance, and it has the entire congregation humming with equal parts excitement and disgust. The priest must have been given advance warning of our visitor, because he preaches with incredible zeal, waving his fists and thumping his Bible for emphasis.
Zara sits between Dani and me, and my dad sits to my left. Mom has squeezed herself in next to Dani, and I wonder if it’s to ensure her oldest daughter doesn’t flee halfway through the service. I don’t listen to most of the sermon. Instead, I concentrate on my father’s arm pressing against mine. It’s warm, dressed in a white shirt my mother ironed hours earlier. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, breathing in the scent of his Old Spice aftershave. He’s running his tongue over his teeth, displeased by whatever our overweight, sweating priest is trying to drive home.
I glance around the room at the other dads. Most that are sitting next to their kids have their arms extended across the back of the pew. A church hug, if you will. Not my dad, though. His hands are clenched between his knees.
I wish he’d give me and Zara the church hug. He’s got enough arm length to stretch behind the two of us. Biting my lip, I nudge closer to my dad. His eyes dart in my direction before moving his torso in the opposite direction a half inch. He probably thinks I want more room, but that half inch feels like a knife to the heart.
To shake things up, I turn my attention to the priest and actually listen to what he’s saying. Suddenly, I understand my dad’s tenseness. Father Tim is laying it on thick, talking about reaping the benefits of hard work. About how God loathes laziness, and awards those who toil for their Lord and family.
“Proverbs 13:4 says, ‘The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.’ ” Father Tim shows us his trusty Bible. “I say to you now, if you put your hands to work, be proud, for this pleases the Lord. But if you do not, I ask whether it is