The Best Possible Answer(53)

So I tell them.

About my father.

His other family. His two kids. His two lives.

I tell them everything.

“That’s insane,” Virgo says.

But Evan says nothing. He just hands me back the keys with a strange look, and I’m not sure if the expression on his face is one of pity or confusion or sudden and complete understanding about why I often act like a complete freak.

“I looked her up on Facebook,” I continue. “She’s in Acapulco on vacation, she and her kids—I mean their kids. She doesn’t have any pictures of him, but a hundred bucks my dad’s there, too. He said he’s back in Singapore on work, but he’s a compulsive liar, so…”

“She took his name?” Virgo says.

“Hyphenated. Paige Griffin-Lowe.”

“That’s bizarre. Do you think she knows about you?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “But I’m thinking about going in.”

“Into his house?” Sammie asks. “You’re going to break in?”

“Is it really his house? Or is it technically mine? I mean, if I’m his daughter, then everything that belongs to him belongs to me, right?”

“I think you have a right to go in,” Virgo says, holding his Coke up in a mock toast. “See what this family’s story is.”

“No,” Sammie says. “She doesn’t! Vivi, I get that you’re upset, but this isn’t going to help.”

“It might help me understand—” I start to say.

“No!” Sammie snaps. “The only thing that will help is talking to him. And your mom. You have to confront this directly, not sneak into his house looking for answers that you know are not there.”

“Sammie, why aren’t you supporting me in this?”

“Because it’s a dumb idea.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t know why you always have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You make everything more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” Sammie says. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

“No,” I say. “Go for it. You’re obviously busting to say something, so say it.”

“Okay, fine. You want to know? You make these impulsive choices, you don’t think things through, and then you come to me and—”

“And then I come to you and you’re sick of me? You’re sick of my drama?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Then what, exactly, were you going to say?”

“You need to think it through. You need to face your problems directly, for once.”

“Instead of you doing it for me.”

Sammie bites her lip.

“You know what? I have thought this through. It’s all I can think about.” How dare she call me impulsive or dramatic. She’s the one who’s dedicated her life to the performing arts. “I’m going to act on those thoughts—and it’s going to be quite deliberate.”

I stand up.

“You’re going there now?”

“Yes, Sammie, I’m going there now.”

“But it’s pounding rain out there.”

“Are you coming with? Are you going to be a friend to me? I need a friend right now. Or are you going to continue to throw insults at me?”

“You need help, Vivi.”

“You telling me that I need help isn’t helping, Sammie. It never helps. It just makes me feel worse.”

I grab my jacket and my bag, and I run out the door before she can find more ways to remind me that I’m losing my mind.

“Viviana, wait!”

It’s Evan. I tap the button for the elevator again, even though I know it won’t make it come faster.

“What do you want?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?”

“Like you said, you need a friend right now.”

I’m about to tell him to stay here, that he doesn’t need my brand of crazy in his life, but then he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Let me in, Viviana. Will you let me be your friend?”

The elevator bell rings and the door opens.

“Okay,” I say finally. “I will.”





Mistakes to Avoid Your Senior Year of High School #3

Don’t forget to ask your parents for help! Parents can have experience and be a great resource. Don’t shy away from asking them to support you in all your endeavors!


The house is nice. Incredibly nice. Modern and new, with dark hardwood floors, bone gray walls, bookshelves that span the length of the room and hover over an old brick fireplace that’s been painted white. There’s hardly any evidence that kids live here—a white canvas fort with patterned blue-and-green pennant flags and some square baskets hiding toys in the corner of the living room. Granted, they’re on vacation, but other than that fact, there’s no kids’ art on the walls, no pictures of them, nothing—there’s just not much proof that an actual family lives here.

Evan and I head up the narrow stairwell to the second floor, where each kid has a bedroom—the girl’s painted lavender and white, the boy’s painted a deep shamrock green—and each is clean and tidy, just like the first floor. There’s a third room, one that’s bright turquoise, with white furniture—it’s mostly modern, but there are a few stuffed animals on the bed. “I thought they had only two kids,” he says.