A short story I wrote for class. The style is a bit different from what I usually write, so I hope you enjoy it. 

My father was never the type of person to apologize. In his eyes, the world was his kingdom, and we were his followers. He could never be wrong. If he did come to realize his actions were out of term, there was an abundance of pride that stood in his way. Instead, he solved his problems with unspoken apologies that needed no explanation. He'd send a wink at dinner to say all had been forgiven, or a holler across the house asking for help. That was his stubborn way of moving on.

One of the first encounters I had where I fully understood this was one summer afternoon. My lazy days of watching TV and playing with Barbies were relentless.

"Nicoletta, go with your father to the store and help him out." my mother said. She'd tell me it was a special mission, one that I couldn't decline. I'd go and make the most of it.

The game I played while I shadowed my father around the store was called Lava. The checkered tile became my obstacle course. I was allowed to step only on the black tiles, or else I'd drown in lava. It was an easy game and made my time a little more adventurous.

My father's flip-flops smacked the ground rhythmically, which kept me from getting lost, as my laser focus concentrated on the floor. I barely managed to dodge a white tile when I bumped into someone in front of me. The artificial light shined like glass on his bald head. I could see the lines on his forehead crease.

"Nicoletta, pay attention," my father said.

"Sorry, papà," I said, my body trembled just a little in hopes he'd let it slide. The stained Red Socks shirt and grey shorts were not the best look for him. He didn't even like the Red Socks, baseball, or any American sports. His features were intimidating, a dark Mediterranean tan, and hairy eyebrows that flared out. He was rough around the edges and had a resting mad face all the time.

Just as quickly as the moment came, it passed. His dark eyes scanned the shelves while his hands pulled cereal boxes left and right. He'd take one, put it back, take another, then shove it back on the shelf.

My father's agitation swelled. The whisper of curse words became frantic. Luckily, I knew what he was looking for.

"The Corn Flakes are behind you," I said.

His shark eyes scanned me. "You be quiet. I know what your mother wants."

"I do too. They're right behind you," I replied. I pointed across from him. "It's the box of Corn Flakes."

Dad reached over and took the box in both hands. He squinted at it, then tossed it into the cart.

"See, I told you that's what she-"

"Chiudi la bocca," he said.

I did what he asked and kept my mouth shut for the remainder of the trip. I continued my game of Lava and occasionally looked between the Corn Flakes and my dad. The green and red rooster on the box had its beak wide open. I couldn't help but think the rooster was mocking him.

***

When it came to unnecessary punishment, my father was notorious for disciplining me and sending me to my bedroom for the most ridiculous reasons. In many ways, he was like a thunderstorm. At first, he would release all his fury with repetitive cracks of thunder and lightning. Eventually, he would settle, and not even five minutes later, he was back into his regular pattern.

Still, this didn't keep away his screaming, the bruising, and threats to keep me in line. He was so strict that even my mother found it unnecessary, but to argue with him was to start a war.

It was my friends that made the situation sting the most. They couldn't wrap their brains around why I was grounded so much. On an unfortunate day when I was punished for something absurd, my friends would ring my doorbell, and my heart would drop.

"It's for you, Nicoletta. Open the door and tell them you can't play today." my mom said.

I didn't need to be told it was them. Their upbeat chatter was loud enough to hear from all over the house. I couldn't contain my embarrassment as I creaked the front door open. I wanted to hide away like a hermit in a shell and never come out.

"Hey! Can you come out and play with us?" Lilian asked.

"I'm grounded," I mumbled. I bit my lip to stop from crying.

They all were there: my best friend Lilian, her brother Samuel, their cousin Camilla, Jonathan from next door, and Tyler from the cul-de-sac. There was even Lenny, the homeschooled kid in the front of the neighborhood, who managed to convince his parents to bring his scooter and come out to play.

"Again? How did you upset him this time?" Samuel asked. Their scooters were all lined up like a motorcycle gang, their worn-out sneakers ready to ride on the cracked pavement. Sweat traced their faces and I longed to be among the pack.

"I tossed him the remote instead of handing it to him," I said. "I guess he didn't like that very much." My eyes were glued to the floor. This was only partly the truth. What I had deliberately failed to mention was my father throwing the Bible at me with a splurge of Italian curse words to follow. This started a screaming match between my religious mother and him, but not before I was sent to my room.

My friends laughed lightly.

"Yeah, so funny," I said. My toes dug into the welcome mat, my only taste of the outside world.

"So how long are you grounded?" Lilian asked. Her mournful eyes matched mine.

"Until he's not mad anymore."

They sent me their condolences, and one by one scurried to the street to play race cars and cop games. Lilian scooted closer to me.

"You know, your dad really sucks," she said. Lilian bounced on her scooter as she pushed down the driveway onto the street with the rest of them.

I didn't know how to reply. She was right.

***

It was the moments that brought us together I cherished the most. My mother said it was because of the planets.

"The planets must be aligned," she teased. "Because your father is in too good of a mood."

She loved to blame outer space for his happy moods, but as I grew up, I had my theories. I called it the eye of the storm. Because right when you least expected it, the front door would slam, and his poisonous sarcasm would infect the house like a plague. Each remark killed every positive moment and every ounce of happiness we built together. It was only a matter of time until we got back on the roller coaster, racing way up into the sky. Only God knew when we'd come down.

When we were lucky, some days were filled with genuine laughter. He'd pace the floor screaming on the telephone with his siblings. It was so loud I'm sure the entire neighborhood could hear him. The Italian words would flow right off his tongue, and no one could understand a single word. This made it extremely fun to mimic. I'd put on my best impression of his thick accent and pace with him.

On some occasions, he'd chase me around threatening to smack me. The biggest difference was his goofy smile and winks, which told me it was all for fun.

"You want to fight?" he asked. "I'm an Italian ninja." He'd pose and chop the air and attempt some horrible karate kicks.

I'd wave my hands and taunt him. "Come and get me!"

When he'd start running after me, the real game began. I'd yell and rush to my room. The adrenaline of beating him to my room and locking my door was both thrilling and scary, but all for fun. He was the best when he was carefree.

Most of the time, our laughing sprees came from his pronunciation of English words.

"Maria, make the ham boogers for dinner tonight. You know the way I like." He called my mom from the living room, not looking away from the soccer game. AC Milan was winning by one point, and the chances of him moving from his chair were slim to none. By the time I had real homework to do, the dining room became my desk. I stopped my train of thought and let my pencil drop.

"What did you just say?" I asked.

"Mother is making ham boogers, no?"

I could barely catch my breath from wheezing so much. "Mom," I cried, "come here. You gotta hear this!"

"What's going on?" my mom rushed out of the bathroom, her thin brown hair still dripping from her shower. Her face, when I tried to explain what happened, was a twist of confusion and delight.

"And then, you'll never guess what he said." I giggled some more; my belly began to ache.

"Ham boogers. That's what they are right?" My dad asked. "Oh, goal!" he yelled at the TV. His fists pumped the air.

Mom smiled. Her vibrant laugh made me crack up some more.

"Oh God, Vincenzo," she said, covering her face. "It's a burger. Hamburger."

He pretended to ignore us, but his wrinkled eyes and sideways smile told me everything I needed to know; he was holding back his laughter.

When the world revolved around my dad, he was a charismatic and playful guy.

***

There were many times my father found himself in an extremely foul mood. Work got the better of him, or doctors angered him. He was a rollercoaster ride of emotions my mom and I rode together. We spun around in loops that went backward and forwards. We got stuck at the top of steep drops for days on end. No one could predict the mood he'd be in or its severity.

It was my mother who would carry most of the burden. She'd come home from work unable to say a single word until her hands started on dinner.

"It's his culture," my mom always defended him. "He's so used to having home-cooked meals."

After thirty years of being in America, you'd think he'd get over it. But his attitude was worse than a child's. It made family interactions brutal. Dinner, by far, was his favorite time and most excruciating part of the day.

He'd lean back in his chair at the head of the table and spin his wine glass or crush a beer can. The news would be playing in the background, while metal clicked on plates and scraped teeth. My plate was organized, no food would mix, and all greens were banned from my plate until my father noticed.

"I'm full," I said.

"You didn't have any asparagus," he replied. The rising of his bare chest and flaring nostrils were a warning sign.

"I don't like them, papà," I mumbled.

He stabbed a fork full of asparagus and dropped them on my plate. "Mangia."

My eyes watered. I looked over at my mom across from me for help. She stayed silent. This was my battle to face.

"Papà, por favore, no mi piace." I begged.

"Eat. Now." He said. His eyes were cold and dark.

My fork poked a piece of the vegetable a few times, I felt his gaze on me like a raging fire. The green muck was latched onto my utensil, and I brought it to my mouth. I took one tiny bite, and immediately spit it out.

"It's so nasty!" I cried.

My father rose from his chair and squeezed my arm. I was lifted out of my seat.

"If you don't eat what's on your plate right now, I'm going to give you a nice slap on your ass. Do you understand me?" he exclaimed.

"Vincenzo, that's enough! Let her go." my mother chimed.

"Oh, you shut up. You're always defending her when she needs to learn." he pushed me back in my seat. "Now, you sit there and eat everything on your plate. You're not leaving this table until you do."

My dad watched me until every last spec of food was gone. No matter how much I pouted or begged to stop, he never caved. When I had finally taken my last bite, he nodded.

"Good. Now go clean the dishes. I'm done for the day." he said. Then, he hid away in his room so the monster could recharge.

***

My fondest moments were the ice cream runs. I'd speed home from the bus stop like I had ants in my pants and wave my report card around.

"Papà, guarda!" I'd say and toss my backpack across the floor. I'd hand him the paper with pride. He was usually relaxing on the couch exhausted from work.

He'd gasp dramatically and take the report card.

"Let me see," he said, the paper inches from his face. "History, A. English, A. Math, A. A, A, A! Of course, you got all A's you're my daughter!" he hugged me so tight and kissed me hard on the cheek. It was a fatherly passion that was both comforting and painful.

"Ti voglio bene, Nicoletta," he said, "after dinner, we get ice cream. Sì o no?"

"Ti voglio bene, papà. Sì, grazie!" I replied. It was the biggest motivation in my life to get his approval.

***

Everything was stable for most of my life and there was a routine we'd all follow. My father's patterns were more predictable as I got older, but eventually change caught up with us. Our lives took an unexpected turn when I was fifteen; my dad randomly decided to work two jobs.

"We need the money," he said when we'd ask.

I noticed a shift in my mother's behavior after that point. Her words became more deliberate and calculated, she marked everything he would do or say. Their fights were more frequent, and their disagreements had no end. And she prayed. She prayed more than usual. Most nights she'd fall asleep on the couch, the Bible wide open and her breath lingering of whiskey.

My father's first job was from five am to two pm, his second job was four pm to ten pm. He got little to no sleep, he was grumpy, exhausted, fed up, and arrogant. Still, my mom and I could never understand why he took a second job in the first place.

Until he left.

In hindsight, we should've seen it coming, but the reality is I never knew what to believe. Every word he'd say were bullets pushing from underneath my skin. My father knew how to hit us where it hurt, he was an instigator. As I got older, I learned to toughen up, every word he'd say would ricochet. My father's mood swings were not as scary as before. Instead, they irritated me and gave me headaches. I never took them as a warning sign, I didn't know I had to.

But when he'd go on a rant threatening to leave the country, I'd snort. "You're not going to leave; you're just being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" he repeated. "Okay, you watch and see."

Just threats. I thought. He's only saying that to get a reaction out of me.

But I didn't know the money he was hiding, the excuses he was making, the plans that he made. He worked so much, how could he have time to plan a getaway?

Or maybe, there wasn't a second job after all.

***

My dad didn't bother to say sorry before he left. He acted as if it were any other day. He was taking a shift at his second job on his day off, which he accepted voluntarily. My mom didn't have food ready for him to take on his lunch break. This unleashed the beast.

"You didn't tell me ahead of time, what was I supposed to do?" she explained.

"You lazy woman! You and your daughter. I'm leaving, ciao!" He exclaimed, his hands cursing at us aggressively. He slammed the door behind him.

From the kitchen, my mom and I rolled our eyes. This was the usual response we'd get when we asked for a little bit of slack.

His car didn't pull up fifteen minutes after ten. I didn't worry. Thirty minutes went by, and I knew he'd be fuming when he came home. After an hour went by, a queasy feeling bubbled inside me. I woke up my mom.

I remember our bodies curled up on the couch, the muted TV, dinner waiting for him on the table, and what felt like millions of our calls being declined. We even called his job to see if he was still there. They had no idea who we were talking about.

"Let's call the police. Something bad must've happened. I mean why would he lie?" I said. The anxiety of my father's absence was suffocating me.

My mom froze. All the color in her face drained, and my hopes started to deflate. She stood and made her way to their bedroom. She flicked on all the lights and rummaged through the closet and drawers.

My mother tore the room apart, searching every space where my dad kept his belongings. His side of the closet was bare, the drawers were mostly empty, his important documents were gone. My mom checked bank accounts; money was missing. My dad had disappeared.

The days continued, mom and I walked around like zombies, struggling to stay afloat and running on autopilot. I remember in class, the tightness in my core when I'd be reminded that he wouldn't be there when I came home. There was an emptiness in the house and the world seemed quieter. I couldn't keep food down or find the energy to move for weeks. We were abandoned and left to fix all the pieces; we stitched ourselves back together one day at a time.

Even years after,  the dust finally settled, and time created a larger gap between then and now, I know he doesn't regret what he did. When my father makes a move, he sticks by it to the end. It's one of his quality traits I admire most, he's not afraid to commit. 

As for me, there is a list of apologies I wish I could say, a collection of thank you's and memories I yearn to confess. Instead, all I can do is pretend he's somewhere in the world, sorry for everything, but too stubborn to admit it. I pretend that he thinks of me every so often and says, "Ti voglio bene, Nicoletta." That would be enough.