Again, But Better(53)

Dad’s gaze returns to me. “You’ve lost an entire semester of required courses, Shane! How are you going to catch up?”

“What about the MCATs?” Mom sounds heartbroken.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying … I just wanted to try—”

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Number one: What about the MCATs?” Dad snarls. “Number two: I’m home working my ass off, shelling out thousands of dollars for your education, and you’re out here completely disrespecting me and your mother! Lying to our faces! Repeatedly! Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Dad, I’m sorry! Mom, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry! I just wanted to—”

I watch his eyes drop to my phone on the table. He snatches it up and jerks out of his chair. Stands. Drops the phone to the floor and violently brings down his foot. The gasps of my flatmates echo around the table as the plastic smashes to pieces.

My lungs spasm. Oxygen. I need oxygen. The shame is suffocating. The air is too thick. I can’t. Breathe.

“Sal,” Mom scolds softly.

He looks me up and down with—with disgust. “You’re done, and you’re on the next flight back to New York.”

“No! Please! Dad, please!” My voice rises. “I just want to finish the semester. I … I’ll take classes, please! I’ll make up the classes over summer! I’ll do summer classes! And I’ll work at your office! I’ll make it up. I’ll be ready for the MCATs. I’ll do it. I can do it! I’m sorry! Please, please let me finish this up, please.”

I am snot and tears and desperation. He stares me down, fury billowing off him, before he digs out his wallet and drops a few hundred pounds in the center of the table. “End of semester, the second you’re home, you start work at my office. Don’t call us for money. Don’t call us for anything. You’re on your own.”

He stalks out of the restaurant.

Don’t call them? What?

My mother’s studying her still-pristine dinner plate. We didn’t even make it to appetizers. She looks up. “I’m so sorry, everyone. Please, enjoy dinner on us.” She meets my eyes. Shakes her head in disappointment. “Shane, what were you thinking?”

She strides out after my father, leaving us in absolute silence. I’m standing up. When did I stand up? My ears are ringing. I glance around. The entire place is watching me, plus my four flatmates and Pilot’s fucking girlfriend.

I stare at the door.

Activity starts up again at other tables. Not mine. We hold onto the silence. I can’t look at anyone. Numbly, I sit back into my seat and drop my forehead to the table. What now? We’ve gone a whole two minutes before I feel a hand fall onto my arm.

“Shane…” Babe starts sympathetically. I wait for more, but she doesn’t continue because what does she say? What do you say when you witness something like that?

“I’m sorry,” I mumble to the table.

“Shane, don’t apologize,” Pilot answers quietly.

“Shane, we’re sorry,” Atticus exclaims.

“I’m sorry!” Sahra says suddenly.

I raise my head an inch and rest my chin on my arm. “I think I have to go.”

“Shane, don’t go. Let’s at least eat dinner,” Babe says in an extra-gentle voice.

I stand from the table and grab my purse. “I’m so sorry,” I blubber. My eyes find the broken remnants of the phone on the floor, and I beeline for the door.

“Shane, don’t leave,” Atticus calls as I throw myself outside.





24. Broken Dreams



I pace outside the Karlston for ten minutes, trying to compose myself for the security guard at the front desk. Inside, I close the blinds in our room and climb into my bunk. Then I lie down and stare at the wall. I’m still staring at the wall when the girls come back. I’m staring when they ask me if I want to talk. I’m staring when they go to bed. I stare until 1:00 a.m. when my mouth feels so dry and my nose is so stuffed up that I have to get up and go to the kitchen for water.

I pad my way over, watching the ground with half-lidded, swollen eyes and hoping to god that I don’t run into anyone on the way. I push the kitchen door open slowly and rush to the sink when I catch sight of the empty table. I pull a glass from the cabinet, fill it at the sink, take an enormous swig, refill, and turn to lean against the counter.

An involuntary gasp slices down my throat. I am not alone in this room.

Amy is on the couch with a bag of pretzels, watching me. She’s all the way at the end, in the spot closest to the far wall, where I couldn’t see her through the windows. My eyes travel from hers down to the book open in her lap. She’s in here reading. It actually looks like a notebook.

She’s reading— Oh my god.

The glass slips from my hand and smashes across the tile.

“What are you doing?” I shriek. My voice comes out hoarse and gravelly. Even from across the room, I recognize my scribble, my pages. That’s my notebook. That’s … that’s mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screech.

She inclines her head slightly. “It was on the couch, so I opened it. Once I realized what it was, I needed to know.”