Picture Us In The Light(54)

“San José,” I repeat. I peek at Regina, who hasn’t said a word. Maybe I should’ve waited to get Harry alone.

His jaw tightens. “And you’re doing it when?”

“Two weeks.”

“They can’t put it off just until the end of the year?”

“They said we can’t afford it.”

“Did you ask if—”

“Believe me, I asked.”

“Danny, that’s horrible.” Regina looks stunned. I’m not above being gratified by her expression—it means she doesn’t hate me. “Aren’t there renter protections? I think if you just refuse to move out they have to go to court to make you leave.”

It’s such a Regina thing to say it makes me laugh in spite of myself. “Well, there’s an option.”

“The important thing is that there are options,” Harry says. “Right? That’s shocking, but it’s—it can’t happen. We’ll figure something out.”

That we again; it blankets me. “Maybe. I hope you’re right. But like—” I swallow. “Okay, this is going to sound like I’m losing it, but do you think it’s a lot worse than I thought? Like—what if they bailed on their debt completely and someone is actively after them? What if they owe money and they just ran off and that’s why we left Austin? And changed their names and everything—they could be in so much trouble. I feel like they wouldn’t be that stupid, but at the same time—I don’t know. They’ve always been so paranoid it almost makes more sense if someone’s after them.”

“You really think that’s possible?” Harry says.

“I don’t know. I need to find out.”

“Do you think—” Regina smooths the hem of her shirt. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“What’s that mean? You don’t think it is?”

“I just think that—I don’t know that it’s always better to know more.”

I smile a little; I can’t help it. “That would go well on some business cards. Regina Chan, reporter: SHIELD YOUR EYES FROM TRUTH.”

“Mm. I’ll put it in our masthead.” She raises her eyebrows a little. “But really, Danny—haven’t you ever learned something you wished you never knew?”

So all day I think about that. It’s true, probably, and she’s right, but it’s also true that that almost never matters—you’d find out again anyway; you wouldn’t turn down answers. Maybe it would be different if it only affected my dad and his career, if it were something that could exist in a sphere apart from me, but obviously that’s not the case.

In Journalism sixth period, Harry pulls me aside.

“Listen,” he says, “I don’t want to embarrass you or anything, but—I can ask my parents to loan you money. It can’t be that much, right? I’m sure they’d say yes.”

I wish he hadn’t put it like that, because of course I’m embarrassed. But that’s nothing compared to the gaping emptiness I feel when I think about moving. “Really?”

“Yeah, they like you. And it’s the kind of thing they’d do anyway. And it—” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “It wouldn’t be a problem for them. No big thing.”

“Okay. That would be—I mean, that would be great. I promise we’ll pay you back. And—”

He waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just being selfish, anyway. I don’t want you to move.”

That reaches through the blur I’ve been trapped inside all day. Maybe what you need most in life is people who will fight for you; maybe that’s all that matters. I want to tell him something like that, what it means to me. I don’t, though.



“Daniel, what are you thinking?” my mom cries that night when I tell my parents. We’re eating gai lan and leftover noodles from the weekend, and they’re gummy. “We are not borrowing money from your friend! How could you ask him that?”

“I didn’t ask. He offered.”

“I am humiliated that you asked him.”

“I just said I didn’t—”

“I will not have you begging your friends for money. Tell him absolutely not. And you are forbidden from speaking of this with anyone ever again.”

I turn to my dad. “I’ll help pay it back. I’ll get some kind of job and—”

“No. Our decision is final.”

The walls press against me. I force a deep breath. “You can’t do this.”

They exchange a look. When my dad says “Daniel,” it’s a warning.

“It’s one thing if it’s just completely out of your control, but I’m offering a solution that—”

“You will not speak to your parents this way.”

I slump back down in my chair. My heart is pounding and I feel fuzzy and hot, like a hangover. I last forty seconds, maybe, before I can’t help myself. “How did you let things get so bad that—”

“Quiet,” my dad orders.

“But why didn’t you—”

“Quiet!”

He never yells at me, and it feels like being struck. Whatever I might’ve said back dies in my throat. His voice roars against the linoleum floor and old sand-colored paint of the walls, and he stands and points a trembling finger at me.