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“Dad’s in there now. He’s on the phone with a client,” Olive calls after me.
Of course he is. It’s not like it’s actually my room. Nothing here is mine. I don’t belong.
I make my way out to the backyard and sit on the steps of the porch. I can’t stop my curiosity. What could she possibly want badly enough for her to go through all the trouble of finding my dad?
More importantly, what happens if she somehow finds him?
The next morning I go about my usual routine of ignoring breakfast despite Laura standing outside my door with a honey-drizzled waffle.
“You need to visit your grandma today,” she says. I barely hear her as I walk out the door.
I know Laura wants to believe my grandma and I have a good relationship, but that’s not true. One time when I was little, I tripped on purpose because I thought if I was hurt, maybe she’d wrap me up in a hug. Instead, she helped me stand, took one look at my scuffed knees, and said, “If you aren’t bleeding, you aren’t hurt.”
That’s how she was. I don’t know if she liked anything, to be honest. Our home was bare without pictures. She had no hobbies. The only thing she did all day was clean and remind me to do things I was already doing.
The problem with visiting her is she isn’t like that now. She smiles and laughs. She plays cards and paints. She seems happy, and I can’t help but think it must be because I’m not around.
So why should I visit her?
When I walk into my science class, there is Margo, pineapple earrings and all.
She locks eyes with me and immediately ducks, hiding behind her binder. As I sit, she inches the binder to the middle of the table and stands it up on its side to create a divide between us.
“What are you doing?” I ask, exhausted from my mind racing all morning.
“Not showing you my face, obviously,” she whispers from behind the binder.
I push the binder down and stare at her pink cheeks. “It’s pointless. I can still hear you.”
She covers her face with her hands. “Nice try. I’m not voiding our agreement.”
Somehow this is even worse than seeing her. I’m not about to spend the next hour with her acting this ridiculous. “This class can be a neutral zone.”
“Why?” she says through her hands.
“Because this is more annoying.”
She parts her fingers, one of her eyes peeking through the gap. “Really?”
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say as I set my head down to rest. I close my eyes, ready to sleep while my teacher drones on.
“So, give me a clue,” she says, bringing up her legs to sit crisscross on her chair.
So much for sleeping. “About what?”
She shifts closer, clearly taking this “neutral zone” a little too casually. She must’ve misunderstood my gesture as an invitation to talk to me.
“Your father? You have to know something.”
“Nope.” I close my eyes again.
“Are you sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Your grandma must’ve known who he was.”
“She didn’t.”
