More Than We Can Tell (Letters to the Lost #2)(10)

Her lips purse. “I know your father stays up until all hours of the night, but he doesn’t need to be in class at seven thirty.”

“That’s because he’s lucky.”

“That’s because he’s an adult.” She pauses. “Or at least he pretends to be—”

“Mom.” I glare at her. She knows I don’t like the sniping.

“I know you’re enjoying the computers and the games, but I hope you’re aware what a competitive field—”

“Because you slid right into medicine?” I sip at my coffee and head for the stairs. “I forgot how easy it was for you to get into Columbia.”

“Emma. Emma, come back here.”

I’m already halfway up the stairs. “I need to take a shower.”

I’m grateful for the fan and the rattle of water against the bathtub. I turn the water as hot as I can tolerate and step into the steam. It burns my scalp.

Don’t make me find you, bitch.

My eyes burn, and I turn my face to the stream of water. I hate that there are people like him. I hate it.

Dad has a female coworker who gets a lot worse. Death threats. Rape threats. It’s rampant in the industry. I need to learn to deal with it now if I want to make a career out of this.

But still. The words have set up shop in my brain, a constant thrum of warning. Don’t make me find you.

I remind myself that he’s probably thirteen and bored.

The doorknob clicks. “Emma. I want to talk to you—”

“Mom! Oh my god, I’m in the shower!”

“You do realize there’s a curtain. And I’m your mother. And a doctor. I have seen—”

“Mom!”

“Emma.” She sounds closer. “I don’t have a problem with the computers or the coding. I hope you know that. But I worry that your father’s habits may have given you an unfair expectation—”

“Mom.” I pull the curtain around my face and look out at her. She’s sitting on the closed toilet. The steam has already curled the tendrils of hair that escaped her ponytail. “Dad works just as many hours as you do. I know it’s not all fun and games.”

“I just want to make sure that you realize that creative endeavors are always more complicated. We would be having the same conversation if you wanted to be an artist … or a writer … or an actress …” Her voice trails off, and she sounds more displeased with each progressive career.

Shampoo finds my eyes, and I duck back into the shower. “Wow, thanks for the pep talk about following my dreams.”

“Dreams won’t pay a mortgage, Emma. I just want to be sure you’re thinking objectively about this. You’re a junior in high school.”

“Mom, I’m pretty sure knowing how to write code will help me find a job.”

“I know it will. Playing games until two a.m. and scraping through the day won’t.”

I can’t say much to that. She makes me feel like such a slacker.

Combined with the e-mail I received this morning, the burn in my eyes returns.

“Is your homework done?” she asks.

“Of course.” My voice almost breaks, and I hope the shower is enough to cover it up.

“Emma?” She sounds surprised. “Are you upset?”

“I’m fine.”

She begins to pull the shower curtain to the side.

I grab it and yank it shut. “Mom! Are you kidding me right now?”

“I just wanted to make sure—”

“Would you get out of here? I need to finish getting ready for school.”

For a long moment, she says nothing.

During that moment, I think of all the things I want to say to her.

Do you know I wrote my own game? I wrote the whole thing. And people actually play it. Hundreds of people. I did that. I DID THAT.

I’m terrified she’d find the whole thing a waste of time.

And then she’d make me delete it so I could focus on something “more productive.”

“Emma,” she says quietly.

I push the water off my face. “Mom, it’s fine. I’m fine. Go to work. I’m sure you have patients to see.”

I hold my breath, and in that moment, I’m torn between hoping she’ll stay and hoping she’ll leave.

I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous. She has so much contempt for everything I love.

Then the door clicks, and it doesn’t matter. She did exactly what I asked.



“Why don’t they sell coffee at lunch?” says Cait. She’s paying the price for our two a.m. gaming, too. We’re all but slumped on the lunch table. Even her makeup seems lackluster this morning: glitter eyeliner is about as daring as she got.

“Because they’re sadists.” I poke at a slice of pizza on my tray. “Want to ditch next period and walk to Dunkin’ Donuts?”

“If I got caught cutting class, my makeup would be in the Dumpster, and Mom would sell my camera.”

“And what a tragedy that would be.”

She startles a little, and I realize what I’ve said. I wince. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Her expression is frozen in this space between hurt and confused. “What did you mean?”