I clear my throat again. “Because I’m moving out? Planning to do that. Today.” Ten minutes ago, ideally. His eyes return to mine. “Do you think this is the best choice for you?” Classic Nowhere Man. Moving out was hardly my choice. His ultimatum, in fact. The only “best choice” I’ve made lately was to stop drinking. Etc. But Pop likes to tack and turn, and no matter that this was his order, he can shove that rudder over without even looking and make me feel like shit. “I asked you a question, Tim.” “It’s fine. It’s a good idea.” Pop steeples his fingers, sets his chin on them, my chin, cleft and all. “How long has it been since you got kicked out of Ellery Prep?” “Uh. Eight months.” Early December. Hadn’t even unpacked my suitcase from Thanksgiving break. “Since then you’ve had how many jobs?” Maybe he doesn’t remember. I fudge it. “Um. Three.” “Seven,” Pop corrects. Damn. “How many of those were you fired from?” “I still have the one at—” He pivots in his chair, halfway back to his desk, frowns down at his cell phone. “How many?” “Well, I quit the senator’s office, so really only five.” Pop twists back around, lowers the phone, studies me over his reading glasses. “I’m very clear on the fact that you left that job. You say ‘only’ like it’s something to brag about. Fired 3
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