The Best Possible Answer(45)

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Paige, Dad. And your other kids. You love her—you love them—more than anything.”

My voice lifts into the corridor like thunder, like lightning, like the rage of a thousand storms.

“You love them more than anything.”

He sits on the step next to me. “Oh hell.”

“Yeah. Oh hell. I know everything, Dad. I followed you. I saw them. I saw how you kissed her and you hugged them. You got her a lion? A lion, Dad? You couldn’t even be creative enough to get something different for your different children?”

I stand up. My body throbs with the pain of my collapse, but I somehow feel stronger than I ever have, maybe in my entire life.

“You want to have an adult conversation?” I ask. “Fine. Here it is: I’m done. You’ve lost me, for good. You have no right to judge me or push me or criticize me, ever again. You can’t control me anymore.”

I stumble down the steps, away from him.

“Wait—” He stands up and reaches out to me. “You’re hurt.”

“No!” I yell. “Don’t you dare follow me. It’s done. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do to help me now.”

*

I end up back at Sammie’s only because I know now that he’ll leave me alone. I send him one last text: Tell Mom to let me be. If either of you even tries to come upstairs, I’ll tell her what I know, and then everything will be over for you.

Sammie’s mom is kind to me. She doesn’t ask me any questions, probably because she’s talked to my mom. She just lets me move in with them. She lets me eat their food and use their shampoo and sleep on their couch.

Sammie requests her original shift back from Mr. Bautista, so at least I have her by my side again. “It pays to know people in low places,” she jokes. I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.

That’s because I am hollow.

I am a sore, broken mess of a person.

Nothing can fix me.





PART FOUR

Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s College Application Checklist □ May: AP Exams bombed □ June–July: Design and Engineering Summer Academy thwarted □ July: Work on College Apps

□ August: Work on College Apps; Study for SAT

□ September: Finalize Stanford Application





Professor Cox is back. It’s been six weeks, seven thunderstorms, and five more Episodes since the tomato attack in June. Everyone’s talking about the unusual summer weather: rain sixteen days this month, and it’s the middle of August. On the very few hot days, the pool is packed with kids, and I want to scream from the chaos and the claustrophobia, and on the very many cool and rainy days, the pool is empty, and I want to scream from boredom.

Today is one of those days.

It hasn’t rained since the morning, but the sky is gray and dark, and Professor Cox is the only one in the water. He’s swimming in circles and singing kids’ songs to himself: “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain,” “The Ants Go Marching.” Virgo’s on duty, and after a while, he joins in his deep baritone voice. Professor Cox gives him a thumbs-up and then sings more loudly.

“This is so depressing,” Sammie says. “This is just the summer of suck. It won’t stop raining, you’re a mess, in one month I’m moving to a new apartment and a new school, and I now have to listen to those two all afternoon.”

“Not exactly summer perfection, huh?”

“Nope. Far from it.” She reads from her phone. “‘Your mood may be swayed by electronic disturbances from the planetary shifts that are inevitable and real. It’s not too late to take charge, though. Change it up. Move a little. Play some music and dance. Take a risk, and you’ll find that those around you will respond in kind. Perhaps even the planets will move with you, too.’”

“Is that mine or yours?”

“Mine.” She presses a few more buttons on her phone. “You don’t want to know yours. ‘Worries about the integrity of important relationships in your life … taking action … letting them know what’s on your mind—’”

“That’s enough, thanks.”

“Yeah. Like I said.”

Evan arrives for work, and Sammie and I shift in our seats uncomfortably.

He comes into the office, stuffs his jacket into his locker, and puts on his whistle.

He looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“What?” It’s the first time he’s talked to me in a month.

“I don’t know. You look like you’re upset about something. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I mean, kind of.” I look at Sammie. “I’m fine.”

“Okay…,” he says, but he says it like it’s a question, like he doesn’t believe me. He has a guitar with him, which he places under the counter next to me. “Do you mind if I leave this here? Can you keep an eye on it?”

“Sure,” I say. “Go for it.”

Sammie perks up. “You should play for us. Professor Cox and Virgo are in the middle of a sing-along, and my horoscope is saying that I should get up and dance.” She kicks my leg. “Vivi, wouldn’t you like to hear him play?”