Pivot Point (Pivot Point, #1)(75)

“Addie. Calm down. What’s going on?”

“Laila’s in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know. She’s been hanging around this horrible kid from school.” Then my memory latches on to something she had mentioned as we were walking through the parking lot to the football game. “Or there’s this guy, one of her dad’s drug buddies, who threatened her. Maybe it has to do with that. I don’t know. I just know she’s in trouble, and I’m scared.”

My words seem to wake him up even further, and he rolls out of bed. “What’s his name? The drug friend.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Is it Poison? Was his name Poison?” My dad takes me by the shoulders. I gasp when I remember one of my dad’s notes about Poison: Drug dealer—yes.

“Oh no. You have to do something.”

“It’s okay, baby, just calm down, okay?” He grabs his phone and dials a number. “Hi, it’s Coleman,” he says into his cell. “I know it’s late. I apologize. I may have another missing teenager to report.” He pauses. “You ready? Her name is Laila Stader.” He spells it out slowly, each letter like a jab to my heart. “And get someone over to Mr. Paxton’s house immediately … yes … no … Okay, let me know as soon as you have any information. Thanks.” He hangs up and then looks at me. The pain that fills his eyes is terrifying. It’s like he already thinks the worst.

I climb into his empty bed. The place he had just abandoned feels warm against my shivering body. The mattress behind me sinks down a little when he sits and places a hand on my back. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You can’t say that. You don’t know that. I shouldn’t have left. She needs me, and I’m not there.”

“What could you have done, Addie? You being there wouldn’t have changed things.”

I had seen too many alternate futures to be comforted by those words. “It might’ve. She has to be okay.” I curl into a ball. It’s not too late to Search now. Maybe I can see something. My brain is jumbled, and the anxiety in my chest makes it too hard to relax. Unless I can concentrate, it won’t work.

“Addie, there’s no need to worry before you know.”

The black screen of my cell phone taunts me. I dial Laila’s number again. No answer.

“I’m going to make you some warm milk,” my dad says, standing and moving toward the door.

“I don’t want warm milk,” I snap.

He’s quiet for a long time. “Do you want to call Mom?”

The suggestion rips a sob from my chest, and I pull a pillow against me. “I don’t want to talk to Mom.”

“She told me you aren’t returning her calls. Why are you taking this divorce out on her?”

The question is a valid one, but I’m angry with him for pointing it out right now.

“The decision was mutual. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. My friend is in trouble. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes, right now that is all that matters. But later you need to talk to her. Your mom misses you.”

This is the last thing I need right now—him making me feel worse than I already do. I’m scared and sad and I just want him to be scared and sad with me, not try to tell me how to make my mom feel better about a decision they made. “I don’t care about her.”

I can tell that was the wrong thing to say because his face pales. “It was me, okay?” With the one statement he seems to age a hundred years. His shoulders droop forward, and his mouth pulls down into a deep frown.

“What?”

“I wanted to leave. I couldn’t live there any longer, watching you surrounded by semirealism. And she couldn’t bear to leave and risk the proper development of your ability. We fought about it for years. Maybe it would’ve been different if I couldn’t see through lies, but I could, and they were everywhere I turned. No matter how often she Persuaded me to stay, I couldn’t do it. So hate me, Addie. Hate me for my selfishness. Don’t hate her.”

He leans against the dresser as if the lie had been keeping him upright and now that he expelled it, he couldn’t hold himself up on his own accord. Was that speech supposed to make me feel better? Aren’t parents supposed to say, Our divorce had nothing to do with you; it was all us? Their breaking up had everything to do with me.

I take a deep breath. I had drawn my loyalty lines early in this battle—my mom, with her overbearing personality who drove my father to escape, on one side; my dad and me, who had to put up with her all these years, on the other. I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear that I might’ve drawn the wrong line or stood on the wrong side of that line. But then I think about what he had actually said—living in semirealism. I didn’t want that either. Did I?

“I’m sorry.” He looks so tired and broken and Normal. Then, as if reading the thoughts on my face, he says, “Addie, that came out wrong. It wasn’t about you. It was a fight we had for years, before it became centered on you. It was our beliefs. They were nearly opposite from each other. And then with the new mind program that’s even more invasive—” He stops short, as if he had said too much. “This wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”