Chapter Text
It was the first day of school. The first day of ninth grade. I was no longer a middle schooler. I was a freshman in high school. I wish that was the least of my worries. I wish that I just went to school that day, only worrying about not seeing some of my friends the next year. Worrying about being one of the only new kids at the high school glee club. But no. My mother had to go to the sketchy part of town. Seriously? That’s how she went? Not some superhero-esque way? She was a complete drunkard and she went by manslaughter. “Accidental manslaughter” as the judge would say. Well, I didn’t know it was accidental because I was told to go to the office and sit there for an hour wondering why I was in the office. Apparently, the principal was trying to get more details to tell the student that didn’t have a father about her mother’s death. Why did she do it? It’s not like we had an amazing relationship anyways. We fought all the time, mainly about her drinking problem and how she should go to rehab for the fifth time in the fourteen years I had been on the earth and how she couldn’t go to rehab because then they would take me away and she “loved me so much!”. Well, I’ll tell you something. That’s. Complete. Crap. She didn’t love me as much as she told other parents she did. She only put me into dance, gymnastics, and glee clubs to either get me out of the house or for me to pay for her doctor's visits (which mainly went like “you have to stop drinking” “okay” and then as she was pulling out of the parking spot, she was also pulling out a flask). Anyways. An hour of sitting in the principal’s office. An hour of pure horror, excitement, and I don’t know what else. I wondered what he would tell me. Was I accepted into NYADA (only the best Arts college in America)? Was someone from Dancing With The Stars coming to tell me that I was an amazing dancer and that they wanted me to come be on the show? Was Barbra Streisand about to come in and tell me she wanted me to play her daughter in a spin-off of Funny Girl? I was all smiles. An hour later, though, I was not. Sadly, Barbra didn’t come in and tell me that all of my dreams were going to come true. It was just the principal.
“Kassandra, I’m so sorry to tell you, but your mother has passed away. She was on the East side of town and was shot in the heart. We have an officer here who says he found something in your mother’s pocket which you might want to see,” the principal said. Why couldn’t it have been Barbra? I couldn’t talk. I nodded and a police man took my hand. The policeman escorted me to my classroom and I got my backpack.
“Where are you going, Kass?” one of my friends whispered to me. I shook my head.
“Text me later. I can’t talk right now,” I said as I walked out of the classroom. The policeman and I walked over to his car in silence.
“So, I found a piece of paper in your mother’s pocket, and I was wondering if you might know what it means,” he said when we got to his car. He took a ziploc bag with a single piece of paper in it and gave it to me. I looked at the note. It was my mother’s handwriting, I could confirm. It said:
Kassandra, I love you. I know you hate me, but I love you so much.
You’re the best daughter someone could ask for. Since I know what’s
Going to happen, I’m giving you the name and phone number of your
Father. He isn’t dead. He isn’t some random person. But, he doesn’t
Know that you exist. Tell him that you’re my daughter. He’ll care for you.
Burt Hummel 473-7781. Lima, Ohio
Love, your mother (whether you like it or not)
I knew my dad’s name. I knew his phone number. I knew where he lived. I knew he was a real person.
“I have to call him,” I said. It was the first thing I had said in front of the officer and he seemed taken aback.
“You don’t even know him. What if he’s a criminal?” the officer asked.
“I have to call him,” I repeated, “he’s my father. I don’t care if he’s the most wanted man alive, I need to talk to him.” I took out my phone. I punched the number into it. I pocketed the paper. I heard a ringing.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
“Hummel Tires and Lube. Burt Hummel speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Kassandra Haynes. May Haynes’ daughter. She passed away this morning and all I have left of her is a note. She said at the end of the note that you’re my father. She gave me the phone number,” I said, trying to explain everything in one breath. There was a silence. Did I say something wrong? Did he think I was some stupid kid prank calling him?
“Oh my gosh. I can’t believe that you are an actual human being. Oh my gosh…” He was speechless.
“She said that you’re in Ohio. I live in Washington. I don’t have anyone here. I need someone. Something. Anything,” I said, pleading for something.
“Okay, calm down. Can you possibly get a plane ticket? Wait… how old are you?” He asked.
“I’m fourteen. There’s no way I could get a plane ticket. I don’t even have an I.D.” I said.
“Okay, I can come out there. I’ll get on a plane tomorrow morning. I’ll be out there by at least 5 p.m.. Do you have some place you can stay overnight?” He seemed rushed. He actually wanted to make an effort to meet me.
“Umm, I can stay at a friend’s house,” I said.
“Okay, just text me the address and I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he said, “I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you later,” I said, feeling less numb. He hung up.
The policeman came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.
“So, you’ve never met your father?” he asked. I ignored him. It was 1:44 p.m.. School got out in six minutes. I would wait outside for my friend to come out and ask her mom if I could stay with her. I would explain the whole situation for her. She would totally let me stay, right?
Six minutes passed. School let out. The very last day. I asked her mom.
“That’s your excuse to get away from your sick mother? Calling her dead? Jeez. That’s terrible. No, you’re not allowed to come over,” her mother said.
It’s not an excuse. Screw you. I sat on a rock on the outside of the school. Waiting for something. While we wait, let me tell you a story. When I was five, my mother put me in a dance class. There was a boy. His name was Elijah. He was six. Yeah, I had a bit of a crush on him. We were probably the best dancers in that class. We were also partners. Well, one day, Elijah didn’t come to class. Of course, I just assumed he was sick. Well, the next day, the day after that, and every day for the rest of the class and classes that came after that, he never returned. I had asked a teacher where he went. I was concerned. She told me she wasn’t supposed to tell me. I pleaded. She said that he moved to Ohio. He had no control over it (obviously not, he was seven) and that his parents just up and left. Well, thinking about that story made me sad. It made me miss the days that were simpler. The days when all I had to worry about was where my friend was instead of calling my missing father by getting his number from a note in my dead mother’s pocket. Reminding myself of Elijah made me cry. I finally could, at it was all coming out. I was sobbing (and not the cute sobs, I was ugly crying on a whole new level). It was like a floodgate was opened at it wasn’t gonna be shutting anytime soon. I heard footsteps behind me. I knew the footsteps. It was just my teacher.
“Kassandra, I heard what happened. I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, “I wish that I could help but I have to get to the airport.” My eyes lit up.
“Can you take me?” I pleaded. No one was going to let me stay with them overnight. Maybe I could just wait at the airport for my dad. “My dad’s coming from Ohio and I need a place to stay. I’ll just stay there!”
“Well, I’m not supposed to, but since you need a place to stay, let’s go,” she said. I trusted her. She was the guidance counselor's sister (I went to see the guidance counselor a lot so I knew things that the other kids didn’t) and I knew I could trust her. We got in her car and headed to the airport. We got to the airport surprisingly fast. I mean, it wasn’t like it took us 15 minutes, more like an hour and a half, but still pretty quick. The line to park your car was insanely packed, though. While we waited, she turned on the radio. The song? Good Grief by Bastille. I liked the song, and wanted to sing along so badly, but I was afraid that she would think I was insane for singing a song only an hour or so after I found out about my mother’s death. I just hummed along a little.
“I can’t believe you’re already a high schooler,” she said after the song ended. I nodded. I forgot to mention that she transferred from teaching middle school to high school, so I was stuck with her for a little while longer
“You know, you would make an amazing journalist,” she said. She had been my english teacher for three years.
“I’m not that good at writing,” I said, trying to push the compliment away.
“Really?” she exclaimed, “Then how do you have so many A’s in my class? How do you have A’s on every exam even if you’re not amazing at the subject? I’ve seen you so focused on writing that you completely block out all of the other noises in the room. You’re a great writer.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I want to do with my life, though,” I said, still pushing.
“Well, what other stuff do you like? Journalism could always be a fall-back career,” she said. Was someone genuinely interested in me?
“I like the Arts,” I explained, “I like to act, to dance, to sing, to perform like nobody's watching.”
“I’m sure you would make an amazing actress on an amazing TV show one day,” she said.
“No, I don’t want to act on a TV show. I want to act on Broadway. I want to be a live performer,” I was excited that I could finally tell someone my dreams.
“That’s cute,” she said. No. I don’t want that to be one of those things that kids say when you ask what they want to be when they grow up. This isn’t like “I want to be an astronaut!” and then I end up being a lawyer. I want to be an actress on Broadway. I’m gonna do something with my life. Trust me.