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But I was. I just didn’t knowhowyet.
—
I spend most of lunch hour in the library, waiting for someone to get off one of the computers so I can print out myWildpaper. The printer jams and the librarian takes a long time to fix it, fussing over the tray and roller. I make it to Deavers’s classroom just as the bell ending lunch rings.
He’s sitting at his desk, drinking a paper cup of coffee and eating a creamy-looking Danish, which makes my stomach growl. You aren’t allowed to eat in the library near the computers, so my lunch is still in my bag. I slide the paper onto his desk.
“Happy holiday, Miss Leahey,” he murmurs as I rush out the door to history.
—
Kristen catches up with me as I’m waiting for my dad to pick me up.
She’s out of breath. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up with you and Cherie? You weren’t at lunch. And that weird girl, what’s her name? It looked like she was going to sit with us, but then she just kept walking.”
Oh,Dawn.I forgot. Doomed to the toilet stall again.
“I had to print out a paper for Deavers in the library.”
“The nonfiction paper? I barely finished my book. I had to copy stuff from the web.”
“One of these days you’re going to get caught, you know.”
“Who cares. I just scramble the words in a different order. No one can tell, trust me. Anyway, what are you doing tomorrow? Some people are gonna hang out at Killian’s. Want to go?”
“Kristen, it’sThanksgiving.”
She shrugs. “Eh. Everyone at my house is gonna be passed out by three, you know that. All that turkey. My mom won’t care. Come with? Cherie’s going out of town.”
“I’m not supposed to go to parties right now, remember? You all put me on probation.”
She shrugs. “Aren’t you with your dad this week? I feel like Amber said that at lunch or something. He’ll let you. Also, are you and Amber mad at each other or something? I’m getting a vibe.”
“Maybe. She’s being weird.” I hike my backpack higher on my shoulders. “My dad’s girlfriend is making dinner. I don’t know if he’ll let me.”
Kristen rolls her eyes. “Oh, right, thegirlfriendsituation. I know it well, only with my mother’s boyfriends. They’ll want you to stay and be nice and pretend to be all family-ish and shit.”
I nod. Funny how parents break up and then one day it’s just like,Here is a new person, please automatically like and accept them just because I said so.
She reties her ponytail. Her cheeks are flushed from the chilly weather. “Well, if you can get away, let me know. I think Lemon said his friend is going to drive. No big deal. But if you don’t wanna go, don’t go. I’m not gonna beg you or anything.”
She hops off the curb as her mom’s red car pulls up. “Text me,” she calls, stepping inside.
Thursday
I wake up early tothe sound of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. Ricci’s still asleep, so I tiptoe past her. I make a quick stop in the bathroom to pee and to check the NyQuil supply under the counter. It’s low, but enough to tide me over, I think. I rub the edge of the sink. Possibly, since it’s a holiday, I can convince my dad to let me have some wine or a beer. I’m betting Vanessa brought some wine. Or if I can get them out of the kitchen somehow, I can snag that bottle of rum. If he notices, I’ll just say I was looking for something and it broke.
I brush my teeth, head into the kitchen.
Vanessa and Dad are in their pajamas, surrounded by boxes and cans and bunches of broccoli and carrots and a giant hunk of meat in a pan. Vanessa has the cookbook propped open on the counter. They look flustered. Sometimes it still throws me when I see them together, doing things, like a couple. Dad always seems happier with Vanessa than he did with Mom. He touches her more. He and Mom just seemed like the walking dead at the end, lurching around the house in slow motion, silent and disheveled.
“You know, this really isn’t a great day, historically speaking,” I tell them. “I mean, I don’t know if you have to go to huge trouble to make a giant meal that basically celebrates genocide.”
“This is true,” Vanessa says, holding up a finger. “Mostly, I’m thinking of this day as a day off from work in which I can expand my culinary skills beyond macaroni and cheese and toast.”
My dad rubs his face sleepily. “What she said,” he says. “You want to help?”
I hesitate. If I help, is that betraying my mom in some way? Pretending to be family without her? But if I don’t help, am I hurting my dad’s feelings by not stepping into this new life he seems to have suddenly created? This is so incredibly tiring, learning new routines all the time because of the divorce. One week here, one week there, better remember all the clothes you want to take, and oh, by the way, one year it’s Christmas here and the next it’s there, and oh, right, did I mention I’m bringing my girlfriend to our family holiday? Like, you know, occupying the space your mother used to take up?
