Harry
Darcy refuses to eat her vegetables that night.
“You can’t leave until you finish your broccoli.” Harry states with what he hopes was a tone of finality. He’s never been too good at holding his stand.
Darcy crosses her arms and slides lower into her seat, a look of defiance flashing in her eyes.
“Why should I?” Darcy huffs. In maybe just a few more years, she’ll start the eye roll. Harry tells himself to appreciate the present, in which arguments are devoid of hormone induced tears and slamming doors.
Ever the optimist, Harry is.
“Because I said so.” Harry argues weakly, crossing his arms as well to add superiority. Darcy raises an eyebrow. She looked just like her mother with that raised eyebrow. Her mother used to do that all the time, especially in the weeks leading up to their divorce.
“Well, I say no.” Darcy counters. She stares at Harry head on. Darcy was usually a lovely child, really. She used all her manners in public, helped Harry with chores around the house, and pretty much charmed all their apartment neighbors. She was beautiful as well, with thick hazel curls and glittering green eyes. Her face was just like her mother’s, all sharp yet kind and rosy. However, broccoli was the one thing that never seemed to smooth over. And, she looked a little bit too much like her mother for Harry’s liking whenever she got in a mood.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Darcy. I am your father.” Harry raises his voice. Either he sounds just as unconfident in taking superiority as he usually does, or Darcy is more like her mother than Harry expected, and is completely unfazed by Harry’s demands. Probably a mix of both.
“But Mr. Tomlinson says I should do what I believe in. I don’t have to listen to someone more powerful than me.” Darcy recites. Harry’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Mr. Tomlin-wah?” Harry splutters. His composure is lost.
“Mr. Tomlinson, as in my teacher?” Darcy stares disappointedly at Harry.
“Yeah, yeah, but what did he tell you?” Harry says, getting right to the point.
“He said that I should do what I believe in, and that I don’t have to listen-”
“Shh!” Harry shushes frantically. “You can’t say that in public!”
“We’re at home.”
“Don’t say it at all!” Harry exclaims. Darcy knits her eyebrows together, confused.
“Why not?” she purses her lips. Harry opens his mouth, and pauses. Why not? Harry has no idea.
“Just… just don’t say that in public, Darcy. It’s for your safety.” Harry reaches across the small table and pokes Darcy’s nose. She scrunches her face, giggling.
“Papa, I’m eight! You’ve got to stop doing that!” Darcy admonishes, although that had about as much effect as Harry’s attempts in enforcing broccoli.
“Alright, alright.” Harry agrees, and then bops her nose again. Darcy pouts. Darcy looks back down at her broccoli, shrugs, and stabs one with her fork. Victory.
Harry furrows his brows, thinking back to the conversation just moments before, as Darcy chews her broccoli thoughtfully.
“What did you say your teacher’s name was?” Harry asks. Darcy swallows.
“Mr. Tomlinson.”
Harry hums in thought. The sound of Darcy’s fork scraping the plate fills the air.
“Is there anything… peculiar about Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry asks in what he hopes is a settle way. Darcy looks up in thought.
“Uhh, I mean, he has a funny accent.” Darcy shrugs, and continues when Harry looks at her questioningly. “He always says ‘me’ instead of ‘my’, but when we say it wrong, he always corrects us.”
And, okay. That wasn’t the kind of answer Harry was looking for.
“Any else… strange?” Harry presses. Darcy thinks again, gazing down at her plate. She suddenly has a eureka moment, and whips her head up with a smile.
“Oh, oh! I know! He has a bunch of tattoos.”
“I have tattoos.” Harry deadpans.
“I know, and you’re strange.”
“Darcy.”
“Papa.”
Harry sighs. He watches as the last of Darcy’s broccoli is stabbed and plopped into her mouth.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Harry grins. Darcy shakes her head.
“That was terrible. I only didn’t choke because I want dessert.”
Harry shakes his head, laughing.
“Sometimes I wonder where all that sass comes from.” Harry clears the plates. Darcy grabs the silverware and napkins.
After dinner, the two of them plop on the couch and flick on the TV. Some cartoon movie was on that Darcy insisted was the greatest ever and Harry went along with it. Halfway through the movie, when the main character suddenly found out that his best friend was in love with him (gasp) Harry’s mind began to wander to Darcy’s teacher again.
The last time Harry had heard someone speak what Darcy spoke, it was from the guy at work in the next cubicle over with the cat calendars: Niall Horan. He disappeared the following week. Now the cat calendar just hung on the cubical wall, still set on the September page with the creepy siamese cat; it is December now.
Niall had been a rather nice acquaintance at work. With a head of bleached hair and a jolly smile, no one could hate that guy. He somehow always finished his monthly quota yet managed to have a decent social life. The only thing that was… off about him had to be his occasional rants about the government, and how it was too “oppressive.” Well, that and the cat calendar.
Harry frowned, trying to remember what Niall had specifically told him one late night at the office. It was mid July, the AC was under construction, and the water cooler on their level had been out. With their backs clinging to their collared shirts and heads a bit delirious, Niall and Harry had both given up on doing anymore work and instead swiveled around in their seats to face the glass wall behind them. The glass wall overlooked the traffic of the city twenty-two floors down. In the darkness of the night, all they could see were the constant stream of headlights. Harry had pressed his forehead against the glass, finding relief in the cool surface. although there was a brief drop in his gut from the fear the glass would randomly give way and lead Harry to his untimely death. Sometimes Harry gets a little morbid.
While Harry was contemplating his death, Niall began rambling first on how, if it weren’t for the government’s set work hours, Niall would be home by then, slouched on his couch with his feet propped up. Harry had nodded along. Niall then continued on about how, because of the government’s “tyrannical totalitaristic” ways, he would never be able to fall in love like his great-great-great grandparents did. Niall was quick to add “no offense, but I’ll probably end up like you, filing a request for the single life.” Harry wasn’t sure what happened after that. Niall and continued with his rant. As far as he could remember, no one had been eavesdropping on their conversation. In fact, most people ditched their floor in search of a water source. All Harry knew was that Niall disappeared the next week. When Harry turned for what felt like the first time to his other office neighbor, the purple blonde haired Perrie, to ask of Niall’s whereabouts, she simply shrugged and said “heard he got transferred to sector B.”
Harry’s heard things about sector B, as in a transfer there was a one way trip.
For the weeks afterwards and since, Harry can’t help but feel as if he is constantly watched. Sure, there are the usual security cameras, but Harry feels as if someone is breathing down his neck, and Harry cherishes his privacy very much.
Whoever, this “Mr. Tomlinson” is better watch out. Darcy was Harry’s world, and if keeping her safe meant tracking him down after school and having a long threatening talk over his teaching curriculum, then so be it.
By the time the movie finished, Darcy had long fallen asleep, her wispy quiet breaths filling the air. Harry scooped her up and tiptoed to her room. He tucked her in and smoothed back her hair. Whatever the means may be, Harry will keep Darcy safe.