Wrong About the Guy(32)

“Jacob’s fine,” he said. “Why can’t a kid just be a little bit different anymore? Jesus!” He took a deep breath. “I need to get some work done. I’ll be in my studio.” He left the room.

I stared after him. Luke didn’t get mad often. He once told me he’d had a bad temper as a kid, but playing music always calmed him down. The only time I could remember him getting really angry at me was when I was thirteen and called my mother a . . . well, best to forget that one. He told me I had hurt her and disappointed him and even though he never once raised his voice, I burst into tears. He was the guy who always smiled at me, and his frown was like the sun going away.

But he was clearly pissed off right now. I turned to my mother, who was still staring at the doorway, even though Luke was gone. There was a line etched between her eyebrows I’d never noticed before. I put my hand on hers. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I bet Luke’s right and the therapist doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

She pulled her hand away. “So you don’t support me either?”

“Of course I support you. I just agree with Luke that doctors like to scare people. Seriously, Mom, you should see how many kids in my class supposedly have ADHD and get tons of extra time on tests. It’s insane. Heather told me her mom was convinced she had dyslexia because it took her like a month longer than the other kids to learn to read back in kindergarten. And at least five kids in my grade claim to have Asperger’s but they’re totally normal. People are out of control these days.”

“I know. But still . . .” She shook her head. “Something feels wrong to me.”

“He just needs to start talking more. Then you’ll feel better. It’s good you’re doing the speech therapy. That’s enough for now.”

She nodded wearily.

I texted Luke on the way to my room.

Please don’t be mad at Mom.

He replied quickly. Don’t worry. I’m not. I just needed a little time to myself.

Write a song for me. I always said that to him when he was in the studio composing.

And he wrote back the same answer he always did: Every song I write’s for you, little girl.

He was a good stepfather.


A week or so after that, I got my SAT scores and there was general rejoicing throughout the household.

Mom came into my room that night and said, “I really am so proud of you, Ellie.” She sat down on the edge of my bed, where I’d been reading, and I drew my knees up to make room for her.

“I’m just relieved I don’t have to take them again.”

She glanced sideways at me. “I did a little research. With these scores, you’d have a good shot at getting into an Ivy.”

“I don’t want to go to an Ivy. I want to go to Elton College. Remember when I toured it last year and came back and said it was exactly what I wanted? Remember that?”

“I know, but . . .” She leaned back on her hands. “When I was a kid, I heard about Yale and Princeton and Harvard and thought people who went to those places were like a different species. And now I have this daughter who could probably get in. And we can actually afford it—”

“But it’s your dream,” I said. “Not mine.”

“I can’t help wanting big things for you. You’re so brilliant, Ellie. I don’t think I appreciated how easily things came to you until all of this happened with Jacob and I see him struggling just to . . .” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Just to talk.”

“Jakie’s going to be okay,” I said. “Me, I’m not so sure about.”

“My kids,” she said, like those two words were a sentence all by themselves.





sixteen


I didn’t hear from Heather that night, which seemed like a bad sign. Since my scores were good, I couldn’t text her to ask how hers were—there are rules about these things. I knew I’d hear from her sooner or later, anyway.

And I did. The next day.

Hi said the first text.

Hi! I texted back.

I’m so depressed

My heart sank.


George came by that evening.

“Wondering about my scores?” I said when I opened the door to him. “You could have just texted me.”

“This may come as a shock, but not everything’s about you,” he said calmly. “I’m here to help your mom organize her office.”

“So you’re not even curious about what I got?”

“She already told me.”

“Damn it!” I said. “She ruins everything. I was going to tell you I did horribly just to make you feel guilty.”

“Why would that make me feel guilty?”

“Because you were my tutor. My doing badly totally reflects on you.”

“You didn’t do badly,” he pointed out.

“But if I had, it would have been your fault.”

“So I get to take credit for your doing well?”

“No. That was because I’m smart.”

He rolled his eyes. “This may be the stupidest conversation I’ve ever had with you, and that’s saying a lot. Where’s your mother?”

I wasn’t sure, so I led him into the kitchen, where I hit the intercom on the wall monitor and blasted a message through the entire house that he had arrived.