“Nice to meet you all,” adds my mother pleasantly.
“This is Atticus, and Babe … and…” I swivel to face Pilot and his girlfriend. Dear lord. “This is Pilot and Amy…”
My flatmates chorus a round of greetings.
“Great!” my dad announces. “We’re taking you all out to dinner right now. No exceptions. Let’s head out. Is anyone missing?”
Oh no, we can’t go to dinner. No no no no. It’s late, 7:00 p.m. It’s … no.
“Ahhhut,” is all I manage to get out. I just stand. Rooted to the floor. Gagging on protests. The flatmates remain silent.
“Shane? I asked you a question,” prods my father.
My brain switches to autopilot. “Sahra’s not here…”
“Text her and tell her to meet us— Where are we going, honey?” He looks over at Mom.
“The Covent Garden Tube stop.”
He turns to me. “Tell her to meet us at the Covent Garden Tube stop.” He looks pointedly around the room with raised eyebrows. “Everyone ready?”
Pilot glances from Amy to me to my father. “Uh, well, sir, we actually had plans to go to dinner.”
“Great, come on. My treat!” he responds.
“But we’re kind of—” Pilot starts again.
“You don’t want a free dinner? Come on!” he insists. Loudly.
I meet Pilot’s eyes with an expression of extreme desperation and/or embarrassment. There’s no mirror in the kitchen, so I can’t be completely sure, and I’m currently drowning in both. I drop my gaze to the ground.
“I won’t take no for an answer. It’s gonna be fun, let’s go,” Dad bellows again. He pivots and holds open the door. Mom looks at me expectantly. My flatmates hold still, like somebody hit the pause button on time.
Babe breaks the spell and hops off the couch. “Thanks, Mr. Primaveri!”
We’re corralled out of the kitchen. I do as I’m told and text Sahra.
* * *
“So all of you been traveling every weekend, huh?” my father asks as he drops his glass back to the table. I wince at the small boom that reverberates when it makes contact. We’re seated at a large circular table at Delia’s, the Italian restaurant my mother led us to. Me, my parents, four flatmates, and Pilot’s girlfriend.
“Oh my gosh, we’ve been following all your Facebook posts. The pictures have been beautiful. It looks like you’re all having so much fun.” Mom smiles.
Babe answers with over-the-top enthusiasm. “Yeah! Paris and Rome were amazing, and I was in Ireland last week. I went by myself on a kind of an epic journey of self-discovery!”
She’s taken up the role of me for the time being, since I’ve become almost mute, uttering one- or two-word answers, if any, before descending back into my cone of anxiety.
“Yeah, um, I was all over Europe last week for spring break,” Pilot pipes in.
“How exciting! I know Shane was in Paris with you a couple weeks back, right?” Mom looks over at me with wide eyes, trying to drag me into conversation.
“Yeah, she told me about Paris!” Atticus answers. He starts retelling a story I shared with him about a little crepe shop we ate at. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he’s trying to help. And Babe’s trying to help. Pilot’s trying to help. Sahra injects words every so often when she feels they’re necessary. She wasn’t there when they walked in, and she seems a little confused. I’m surprised she even made it. They’ve all been struggling to engage my parents in conversation for the last half an hour, while I sit in silence, quietly trying to master the art of teleportation.
Why’d they have to come? They never leave the country. They barely leave New York.
“We’ve never even been to Europe! But we’re so proud of our genius girl here.” Mom gestures to me sitting next to her. Heat floods up my neck. “We had to come see her here in her element!” She laughs lightheartedly. “How about we play a game and go around the table and everyone shares where they’ve traveled since they got here and how they liked it?” Mom suggests. “Atticus, kick us off!” She grins and tucks a wavy chunk of hair behind her ear.
I feel like an anvil’s floating over my head, and I can’t get out from under it. Like Wile E. Coyote. I wipe my sweaty palms over the napkin in my lap. Keep it together, or they’ll know something’s wrong. You’ve made it this far. You can lie if they ask. You’re just trying to follow your dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that.
I don’t know how to lie to their faces like this. I’ve never kept anything from them. I’ve never had to.
Conversation comes to a screeching halt when Mom’s where-have-you-traveled game hits Amy. There’s a long pause while my parents wait expectantly for her to speak.
“I, um…” she sputters. Come on, Amy, say something. Keep the focus on travel. She shakes her head slightly. My feet bounce against the floor. Too long. She’s taking too long. Dad’s uncomfortable with long silences. He’s going to change the subject!
“London?” she offers just as Dad jumps in with, “Everyone’s working! Is it going well?”
I’ll stay silent. I can’t raise suspicions if I never speak.
I pull out my brick phone and fiddle with it absently. I’m busy. I’m not suspicious. I’m phone.
“Yeah! I’m working in the West End, and I’ve seen so many plays. It’s been such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Atticus shares.
“I work at Disney headquarters here! And it’s so much fun. I can’t wait to actually work for the company someday,” Babe adds.
“Wow, great.” Dad’s head swings from me to Sahra. “Sahra, you work with Shane at the health clinic, right?” I put down the phone.
If I were a mute cartoon character, I’d hold up my sign for the audience—Help! I find myself looking at Pilot.
Before Sahra can answer, Pilot abruptly offers his own response, “I’m actually working for an accounting office. Are you interested in accounting, Mr. Primaveri? You do something in finance, right?”
Did I tell him that? I must have. Dad’s expression scrunches into one of distaste. I’m immediately nervous for Pilot.
Dad shakes it off. “What? I was talking to Sahra,” he says dismissively. He brings his attention back to Sahra. “Sahra, I was sayin’, how’s it workin’ at the health clinic with Shane?”
“I don’t—” Sahra starts.
Pilot speaks over her. “Sorry, sir, I was, accounting’s really interesting, and I thought—” he interjects again.
“Excuse me, would you stop—I’m talking to Sahra.” Dad shakes his head in disbelief. “Sahra—”
I would smile if I wasn’t already busy being terrified.
“Yeah, I actually work at a la—” Sahra insists.
Her words are muffled as Pilot continues to loudly babble: “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I know Sahra’s tired, and I was just excited to talk about accounting…”
“Pilot, what the hell?” Sahra exclaims.
Dad swivels his gaze back to Pilot. “What’s your name again? Pilosh?” he bellows.
“Pilot, sir.”
“Wouldja shut up for just second and let me talk to Sahra, please? You can talk next.” He uses his angry-joking voice.
Pilot swallows visibly. He catches my eye as he surrenders, shoulders sagging. “Yes, sir. Of course.”
Dad huffs. “Now I’m gonna say this one more time, Sahra.” He widens his eyes at Pilot and turns to Sahra. “How’s it been at the health clinic with Shane? You enjoying it?”
Sahra’s eyebrows pull together. “Yeah, I work at a law office…”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them.
Dad’s looking at me. “What?”
“Yeah, I work at the law office of Millard J. Robinson and Associates,” I hear Sahra continue. Dad’s eyebrows draw together as he holds my gaze. My lips flop up and down, but nothing comes out.
The conversation descends into chaos.
“Uh, Sahra must have gotten conf—” Pilot starts.
“Our mistake, sweetie. For some reason Shane told us you worked with her at the clinic.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you working at a law office if you’re premed?” my dad booms at Sahra. “They’re allowed to give you an irrelevant internship? That’s not right!”
“Shane, how’d you confuse that, sweetie?” my mom coos.
“I’m not premed. I’m prelaw,” Sahra explains.
“Prelaw?” echoes Mom.
“What?” My father’s face flushes a bright shiny red, and he turns his attention back to me.
This is bad. This is bad.
“She means premed!” Pilot exclaims from across the table, but Dad’s done listening to him.
Sahra turns to Pilot. “What are you talking about? I don’t even think there is a premed track in London.”
Dad’s glare hardens. “What?”
I stare at the tablecloth and start hyperventilating.
“Oh, that can’t be. Shane is in that program, Sahra, there’s a whole brochure,” my mother starts to explain.
“Well, maybe there … is a premed program?” Atticus adds.
“Shane’s in the creative writing program,” Sahra states with oblivious nonchalance.
“Sahra,” Pilot scolds through his teeth.
“I’m not sure what’s going on—” Babe interjects.
“What do you mean creative writing? She’s premed.” Dad’s voice is low and furious.
Babe blurts, “She’s premed?”
“Shane,” Dad demands.
Scalding hot tears materialize without warning as I raise my gaze.
“Shane, what’s going on?” Mom’s concerned blue eyes lock onto mine. My heart constricts.
“Is there no premed program here?” Dad’s voice explodes to fill the room. I shrink down an inch in my seat.
“I, uh, no, not technically, but.”
“YOU LITTLE SHIT.”
Those three words knock the wind from my lungs.
Mom gasps, “Sal!”
Shit. I’ve heard Uncle Dan call Leo a little shit. I’ve never been a little shit. Dad called me a little shit.
I heave oxygen into my chest. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to. It was an accident—”
“An accident?” His hand slams on the table. “Where did that brochure come from?”
I am shit. “I, I made it,” I whisper.
“You. You made it?” Dad’s eyes bulge as he sucks in a new breath. “You conned us?” He turns to Mom, “Do you hear this, our daughter fuckin’ conned us!”
People can probably hear him in space. Mom’s eyes have glazed over.
Dad’s gaze returns to me. “You’ve lost an entire semester of required courses, Shane! How are you going to catch up?”
“What about the MCATs?” Mom sounds heartbroken.
“I’m sorry. I was just trying … I just wanted to try—”
“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Number one: What about the MCATs?” Dad snarls. “Number two: I’m home working my ass off, shelling out thousands of dollars for your education, and you’re out here completely disrespecting me and your mother! Lying to our faces! Repeatedly! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Dad, I’m sorry! Mom, I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry! I just wanted to—”
I watch his eyes drop to my phone on the table. He snatches it up and jerks out of his chair. Stands. Drops the phone to the floor and violently brings down his foot. The gasps of my flatmates echo around the table as the plastic smashes to pieces.
My lungs spasm. Oxygen. I need oxygen. The shame is suffocating. The air is too thick. I can’t. Breathe.
“Sal,” Mom scolds softly.
He looks me up and down with—with disgust. “You’re done, and you’re on the next flight back to New York.”
“No! Please! Dad, please!” My voice rises. “I just want to finish the semester. I … I’ll take classes, please! I’ll make up the classes over summer! I’ll do summer classes! And I’ll work at your office! I’ll make it up. I’ll be ready for the MCATs. I’ll do it. I can do it! I’m sorry! Please, please let me finish this up, please.”
I am snot and tears and desperation. He stares me down, fury billowing off him, before he digs out his wallet and drops a few hundred pounds in the center of the table. “End of semester, the second you’re home, you start work at my office. Don’t call us for money. Don’t call us for anything. You’re on your own.”
He stalks out of the restaurant.
Don’t call them? What?
My mother’s studying her still-pristine dinner plate. We didn’t even make it to appetizers. She looks up. “I’m so sorry, everyone. Please, enjoy dinner on us.” She meets my eyes. Shakes her head in disappointment. “Shane, what were you thinking?”
She strides out after my father, leaving us in absolute silence. I’m standing up. When did I stand up? My ears are ringing. I glance around. The entire place is watching me, plus my four flatmates and Pilot’s fucking girlfriend.
I stare at the door.
Activity starts up again at other tables. Not mine. We hold onto the silence. I can’t look at anyone. Numbly, I sit back into my seat and drop my forehead to the table. What now? We’ve gone a whole two minutes before I feel a hand fall onto my arm.
“Shane…” Babe starts sympathetically. I wait for more, but she doesn’t continue because what does she say? What do you say when you witness something like that?
“I’m sorry,” I mumble to the table.
“Shane, don’t apologize,” Pilot answers quietly.
“Shane, we’re sorry,” Atticus exclaims.
“I’m sorry!” Sahra says suddenly.
I raise my head an inch and rest my chin on my arm. “I think I have to go.”
“Shane, don’t go. Let’s at least eat dinner,” Babe says in an extra-gentle voice.
I stand from the table and grab my purse. “I’m so sorry,” I blubber. My eyes find the broken remnants of the phone on the floor, and I beeline for the door.
“Shane, don’t leave,” Atticus calls as I throw myself outside.
24. Broken Dreams
I pace outside the Karlston for ten minutes, trying to compose myself for the security guard at the front desk. Inside, I close the blinds in our room and climb into my bunk. Then I lie down and stare at the wall. I’m still staring at the wall when the girls come back. I’m staring when they ask me if I want to talk. I’m staring when they go to bed. I stare until 1:00 a.m. when my mouth feels so dry and my nose is so stuffed up that I have to get up and go to the kitchen for water.
I pad my way over, watching the ground with half-lidded, swollen eyes and hoping to god that I don’t run into anyone on the way. I push the kitchen door open slowly and rush to the sink when I catch sight of the empty table. I pull a glass from the cabinet, fill it at the sink, take an enormous swig, refill, and turn to lean against the counter.
An involuntary gasp slices down my throat. I am not alone in this room.
Amy is on the couch with a bag of pretzels, watching me. She’s all the way at the end, in the spot closest to the far wall, where I couldn’t see her through the windows. My eyes travel from hers down to the book open in her lap. She’s in here reading. It actually looks like a notebook.
She’s reading— Oh my god.
The glass slips from my hand and smashes across the tile.
“What are you doing?” I shriek. My voice comes out hoarse and gravelly. Even from across the room, I recognize my scribble, my pages. That’s my notebook. That’s … that’s mine. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I screech.
She inclines her head slightly. “It was on the couch, so I opened it. Once I realized what it was, I needed to know.”
My lips curl into a mortified jumble.
“I see him in all your pictures—” She shuts the notebook and holds it out. I lunge around the broken glass and yank it from her hand. I press it against my stomach. S
tare at her. I don’t know what happens now. She read my … she knows my—Fresh tears cloud my vision. I feel—violated. What do I do? How long has she been in here with it? Finally Amy’s eyes slide away from mine. She stands, sidesteps me, and walks to the door.
She turns back with her hand on the knob. “I knew it,” she whispers. “I knew this was happening. Keep your distance.”
I watch her slip out of the room.
I must have left Horcrux Nine on the couch in all the chaos earlier.
Is she going to tell him? What have I gotten myself into? Why did I come here? This was such a stupid idea. My parents don’t even want me to call them anymore. I don’t want to like someone else’s boyfriend! I don’t want to make anyone upset!
I fall to my knees on the kitchen floor with my head in my hands.
* * *
I skip class and stay in bed Friday, doing nothing. I don’t feel like writing or reading or watching. I feel like nothing. I send an email to my parents apologizing and wait for them to respond. Snapshots of their disappointment plaster the inner walls of my skull, the backs of my eyelids. They’ve never looked at me like that before—like they put all their eggs in my basket, and I crushed them. How do I uncrush the eggs?
I avoid Babe and Sahra’s attempts to talk all weekend. I don’t have to worry about running into Amy because she and Pilot are in Paris.
It’s been over twenty-four hours, and no response has come from my apology email. I think I made a mistake begging to finish out the semester. Why did I make such a scene? I should have just shut up. I’m never going to get up to speed with the science classes I’ve missed if I’m spending all my time at the internship.
If this train’s going to run out of track, why should I wait till the last minute to jump off?
* * *
Sunday night, I’m in the kitchen, eating and doing nothing, when Atticus comes in and sits at the table across from me.
“Hey,” he greets me. I nod in acknowledgment.
“How long are you going to keep to yourself about this?” he says gently. “We should talk about it.”
Again, But Better Page 16
