Odd Thomas

and quick to anger. Worse, the purity and the intensity of her self-esteem ensured that she would never doubt herself, that she could not conceive of suffering unpleasant consequences for any act that she might commit.
        My father likes moody women in whom a perpetually simmering anger lies just beneath the surface. The more clearly that their moodiness indicates genuine psychological disorder, the more they excite him. Sex without danger does not appeal to him.
        All of his lovers have fit this profile. He doesn't appear to spend much effort seeking them; as if sensing his need, drawn by vibes or pheromones, they find him with dependable regularity.
        He once told me that the moodier a woman is, the hotter she will prove to be in bed. This was fatherly advice that I could have lived without.
        Now, as I poured coffee into a gutful of Pepsi, he said, "Is this Llewellyn girl knocked up?"
        "No."
        "You're too young for marriage," he said. "My age - that's when it's time to settle down."
        He said this for Britney's benefit. He would never marry her. Later, she would remember this as a promise. When he ditched her, the fight would be more epic than Godzilla vs. Mothra.
        Sooner or later, one of his hotties, during a bad mood swing, will maim or kill him. I believe that on some deep level, even if subconsciously, he knows this.
        "What's that on your forehead?" Britney asked.
        "Band-Aid."
        "You fall down drunk or something?"
        "Something."
        "You in a fight?"
        "No. It's an employment-related fork wound."
        "A what?"
        "A flipped fork flicked my forehead."
        Alliteration seems to offend people. Her expression soured. "What kind of shit are you on?"
        "I'm fully amped on caffeine," I admitted.
        "Caffeine, my ass."
        "Pepsi and coffee and No-Doz. And chocolate. Chocolate contains caffeine. I had some chocolate-chip cookies. Chocolate doughnuts."
        My father said, "Saturday's not good. We can't make Saturday. We've got other plans we can't cancel."
        "That's all right," I said. "I understand."
        "I wish you'd have told us earlier."
        "No problem. I didn't expect you'd be able to make it."
        "What kind of dork," Britney wondered, "announces his wedding just three days before the ceremony?"
        "Go easy," my father advised her.
        Her psychological engine didn't have a go-easy gear. "Well, damn it, he's such a freak."
        "That's really not helpful," my father admonished her, but in a honeyed tone.
        "Well, it's true," she insisted. "Like we haven't talked about it maybe three dozen times. He doesn't have a car, he lives in a garage-"
        "Above a garage," I corrected.
        "-he wears the same thing every day, he's friends with every loser geek in town, he's a wannabe cop like a water boy hanging around a football team, and he's just a major freak-"
        "You won't get an argument from me," I said.
        "-such a major freak, the way he comes in here on some shit or other, talking about weddings and 'employment-related fork wounds.' Give me a break."
        "I'm a freak," I said sincerely. "I acknowledge it, accept it. There's no reason to argue. Peace."
        My father couldn't quite fake a convincing note of sincerity when he said, "Don't say that. You're not a freak."
        He doesn't know about my supernatural gift. At the age of seven, when my previously weak and inconstant sixth sense grew in power and reliability, I didn't go to him for counsel.
        I hid my difference from him in part because I expected him to harass me into picking winning lottery numbers, which I can't do. I figured he'd parade me before the media, parlay my gift into a TV show, or even sell shares in me to speculators willing to finance an infomercial and a psychic-by-the-minute 900 number.
        Getting off the stool, I said, "I think now maybe I know why I came here."
        As I started toward the kitchen door, my father followed me. "I really wish you'd picked another Saturday."
        Turning to face him, I said, "I think I came here because I was afraid to go to my mother."
        Britney stepped behind my father, pressing her nearly naked body against him. She put her arms around him, hands flat on his chest. He made no attempt to pull away from her.
        "There's something I'm blocking on," I said,