by Amy Garvey
“I’m in here,” my aunt Mari calls from the kitchen. “I was out of, well, everything, so I thought I’d raid your fridge and make you all dinner at the same time.”
So much for privacy until Mom and Robin get home, not that I really mind. It’s cool that Mari comes by the house so often these days. For years before she and Mom made up, I had to meet her downtown or at her apartment if I wanted to see her. I drop my backpack by the front door and shrug off my coat.
“What are you making?” I walk into the kitchen, where the counter looks like the crime scene after a vegetable massacre. I peek into one pot. Something a really funky shade of orange is bubbling and spitting, and I put the lid back quickly.
“It’s a surprise,” Mari says, squinting at the directions on a bag of rice.
I snag a soda out of the fridge and escape up to my room with my bag before she can draft me into helping.
It’s tempting to crawl into bed and close my eyes. If I do, I’ll imagine what Gabriel and I could have been doing if he had come home with me, but that seems a little pathetic. Like one step away from doodling his name on my notebook in sparkly pen and practice-kissing the back of my hand.
And I’m trying to be sensible about this. Or at least not completely crazy. But Gabriel is pretty crazy-worthy, if that makes sense.
He’s beautiful, for one thing, although I know boys hate to be called that. I could look at him for hours, his soft, gray eyes and the long lines of his body, the birthmark I found on the right side of his neck, a dark fleck shaped like a crescent moon.
But it’s not even how cute he is. It’s stupid stuff, like the way he bites his bottom lip when he’s reading. And stretches his legs way out in front of him, ankles crossed, sunk back into the sofa when he’s really concentrating on something he’s watching on TV. The way he lets Mr. Purrfect climb onto his lap and sniff his T-shirt and knead his chest, even when he’s trying not to sneeze.
I sit up and groan. This is even worse than doodling Gabriel’s name in sparkly marker.
Homework is the logical distraction, but when I consider the joy of reading another chapter of Les Misérables or working on trig problems, I push my backpack away until later.
My phone beeps, and I grab it. Saved by the text message, I think as I flip it open.
It’s Darcia. WROTE ANOTHER SONG!!!
I grin, and text back: CAN’T WAIT 2 HEAR IT.
Music is her life. Last weekend she told me she’d started writing a bunch of songs based on Wuthering Heights. I can’t really imagine what they’re going to sound like, especially since I think Catherine is a moron and Heathcliff is a complete asshole, but that’s not really the point.
Dar knows who she is and what she wants to be. Jess isn’t quite as specific, but I pretty much figure if she’s not running the world at some point, she’ll at least be running her own company.
And then there’s me. The one thing I can do isn’t even something I can discuss with most people. Like you’re ever going to see that on some guidance counselor’s career quiz: “Would you rather save a life or turn your ex into a frog? Would you rather stock shelves or wave a wand?”
The idea of a wand is pretty funny, though. Even Mom rolled her eyes when we read the first Harry Potter book, and back then we didn’t talk about our magic. I grab a pencil off my desk and sketch a figure eight, brilliant dark glitter in the air.
Unless it’s something complicated, like, say, raising someone from the dead, I don’t even need words. I don’t need anything but me, focusing the power inside, and it’s one of the only times I feel completely right in my skin. Like I’m doing what I was meant to do, built to do, my thoughts flowing out and crystallizing in something tangible, something only I can create. And inside, every part of me comes to life, too, the usual low static buzz of power humming hot and strong instead.
I’m painting Gabriel’s name on the bare wall by the window in dark, glowing purple when my bedroom door opens. I don’t even have time to blink before Robin is poking my back. Hard, too, her finger digging in under my shoulder blade.
“What is your problem?” I flinch her hand away and sit up, turning to face her.
“My problem?” She’s vibrating, a little live wire of fury. “My problem is you. How could you do that to me? Seth probably thinks I’m as big a freak as you are now.”
“His name is Seth?” I make it sound as close to “dog shit” as I can. If she’s going to be nasty, so am I.
“Yes,” she hisses, hands on her hips and leaning in close. She’s going for “bad girl,” but her breath smells like Kool-Aid and she’s wearing a daisy barrette, which sort of ruins the effect. “And he likes me, and he’s awesome, and I don’t need you to ruin it the way you ruin everything else.”
Whoa. I blink at her for a second, because that’s really low. I get that she doesn’t want me interfering with her crush, but what else have I ever ruined for her?
“What does that mean?” I say when I manage to find my voice.
“Oh, like you don’t know.” She rolls her eyes and backs up, folding her arms over her chest as if she’s holding in the jagged pieces of her anger so they won’t explode and tear up the room. “We find out that Dad isn’t gone, not really, but do I get to meet him? The dad I barely even remember, the one I’ve missed my whole life? No, because you’re not ready.”
Oh. I close my mouth and swallow. She’s not wrong.
It was October when Mom admitted that she’s still in touch with our dad, even though we haven’t seen or heard from him since I was about seven. With an undead boyfriend stashed in my new boyfriend’s bedroom at the time, I could barely feel the shrapnel of that particular bomb.
Those are weeks I don’t like to remember.
Ever since then, my life has been as close to good as I could imagine it would ever be after Danny died. Mom and Aunt Mari started talking again, I patched up my friendship with Jess and Darcia, and I finally put Danny to rest.
And I met Gabriel.
My life isn’t perfect—whose is when you have trigonometry and Bride of Frankenstein hair and you don’t have your driver’s license yet?—but it’s so much better than I thought it could ever be last summer, after Danny’s car accident. My dad is a big unknown, a question mark where the man who used to carry me around on his shoulders used to be, and I want so much for seeing him again to be perfect that I keep putting it off.
Too much happiness is usually too good to be true, at least in my experience.
But Robin doesn’t understand any of that, and she doesn’t know anything about what happened with Danny after he died. It’s not fair to make her wait like this, and I know it, but I can’t handle it yet. The last two times she asked, I faked being sick for a whole weekend and then bribed her with twenty bucks to give me a little more time.
She makes a low, disgusted noise and rolls her eyes while I sit there, frozen and silent, trying to find the right words. “Jeez, don’t bother. You’re so selfish, Wren.”
She turns on her heel to leave when Mom appears in the doorway, frowning. “Dinner’s ready, ladies.”
“Oh, well, you better ask Wren if she’s ready,” Robin says, and pushes past Mom to pound down the stairs. The last echo of her anger hangs in the room, a crackling hiss that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
“What did I miss?” Mom says. She walks into the room and bends over to pick up a pair of skinny black jeans and a couple of balled-up shirts, tossing them into the laundry basket.
“Preteen Melodrama Theater.” I try to smile, like it’s no big deal.
Mom leans against the wall, eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. Go easy on her, Wren. You remember what being that age is like.”
I do, and it was terrifying. Not just because boys were suddenly interesting in whole new ways, and I suddenly needed a bra. I had all this weird power running through me, and a lot of the time it was literally shooting out of my fingertips. Get me angry—or sad or frustrated or even stupidly happy—and I
shattered glass or made flowers grow out of the spilled vacuum cleaner bag. Once I made the fireplace growl like the mouth of some fairy-tale dragon, and the cat was so terrified he climbed the living room curtains.
The same thing is happening to Robin now. The difference is she can talk to Mom about it, which was strictly off-limits when I was her age. And even though now I understand why, it still stings that I fumbled around blind for so long.
“Not my fault her baby hormones are spazzing,” I say, and get up off the bed, tossing the pencil over my shoulder as I do. “What’s for dinner?”
“Vegetable ragout and brown rice.” When she catches a glimpse of the face I make, all she adds is, “Yeah, well. Go easy on Aunt Mari, too.”
Dinner’s not something I would ever willingly eat again, but it’s mostly swallowable. What’s really awful is the conversation.
It starts innocently enough, when Mari asks about the menu for Christmas Day. In one voice, Mom, Robin, and I all blurt out, “We’ll cook!” Mari’s cheeks heat up, but she doesn’t question it. Instead, she asks about the rest of the plans for the day.
“What plans?” I shrug, waving my fork until I notice it’s dripping burnt-orange ragout. “Christmas is for sleeping late, opening presents, and eating too much food. There, plan complete.”
Robin glares at me, and I stick my tongue out. “What else do you want?”
Her mouth is half open when Mom cuts in. Her expression is frighteningly thoughtful. “I was thinking company, for once. We’ve spent a lot of holidays on our own. I think it would be nice to invite Gabriel and his sister here for the afternoon.”
Mari lights up like someone plugged her in. “That’s perfect! We can make cookies and have a fire and maybe even sing carols or something!”
“Did someone inject you with Hallmark?” I sputter. It’s the first thing I can think of, but it’s not even close to the point.
“Oh, come on.” Aunt Mari waves her hand recklessly, as if this is completely natural and not, like, totally against the true order of the world. “It’ll be fun. You said they’re all alone, right? Do you really want them having lame Boston Market takeout in front of a Charlie Brown tree?”
I can’t even form words at this point. My fork falls out of my hand onto my plate with a clatter, and the strange thing is that Robin’s not even snickering.
“I’d love to meet Olivia,” Mom says, and this time she’s looking straight at me. “I like Gabriel very much, and it’s clear you do, too. I met Danny’s parents, Wren. Why not Gabriel’s sister?”
There’s no question now. The tone of her voice, calm and firm, all but spells out how very much this is a done deal. The best I can hope for is that the two of them have other plans. Maybe in another country.
“We don’t have to sing,” Mom adds with something that looks suspiciously like a smirk, and I glare at her. It’s scary how easily she can read me sometimes.
“Well, I’m definitely making cookies,” Aunt Mari announces, and gets up to clear her plate. It’s not even satisfying to notice she didn’t finish her meal, either. “Remember that year I made those gingersnaps, Rose? That was the same year I brought Kevin Tigerman to the house, and he almost broke his tooth on one of them.”
Oh God. I bury my face in my hands.
“You know,” Robin says out of nowhere, standing up as if she’s making an announcement. Her voice is wobbling, though, and I sit back, frowning. “There’s one thing that would make this big family day really perfect.”
“Embarrassing party games? Baby pictures?” I snap, and Mom narrows her eyes.
“No, genius,” Robin hisses at me. With her hand on one hip and her hair flipped over one shoulder, she looks like she’s about to get up on the table with a protest sign any minute. “Dad.”
These are the moments when you learn silence actually can be deafening. Underneath it, Robin’s frustration is an angry, pounding heart, a drumbeat I can feel in my blood. Any minute, I’m sure, one of the windows will shatter or the pots will come banging off their hooks.
I probably should have seen it coming, after what she said to me upstairs. And I don’t have a good reason to veto the idea, not off the top of my head. Why not add more fuel to the fire when the whole city’s burned down anyway?
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Mom says gently, and there’s a shocker. When Robin opens her mouth again, Mom just holds up her hand and shakes her head. “It’s been a long time, baby. A really long time. If you’re going to see your dad again, I don’t think you really want it to be in a roomful of people, do you? You and Wren should have some time alone with him first.”
“I should have known,” Robin says. She’s trying not to cry, but it isn’t working—her face is blotchy and red already, and her bottom lip is trembling. “It’s all about Wren, right? Like always.”
“Aw, honey, that’s not true,” Aunt Mari says, and reaches out to touch her shoulder.
Robin’s too fast, so furious she snaps like a whip, flinching away from Mari’s hand. “Yes, it is! Why couldn’t we have Dad here instead of Wren’s new boyfriend? How come no one thinks about what I want?”
She’s gone before anyone can say another word, pounding up the stairs to her room. I wince when the door slams.
“We should really get the stairs carpeted,” I say finally, and Mom narrows her eyes at me.
“Not funny, Wren.” She gets up and carries plates to the counter while Aunt Mari sinks into Robin’s abandoned chair. Even her curls suddenly look deflated.
“Do you want me to go up there?” she asks, and Mom shakes her head.
“Give her some time to cool off.” She scrapes rice off her plate into the garbage and sets it in the sink. “She has a point, Wren. If you wanted to, we could certainly invite your dad here for Christmas instead, although I’m not sure what his answer would be.”
I look up from the mess of mushy rice and vegetables on my own plate, startled. “Are you saying this is up to me?”
Mom’s brow arches, and she shrugs. “I think I am. But it’s either or, not neither, just so you know.”
Great. I can choose whether to completely wreck my little sister and suffer through a day of mortifying family togetherness with my new boyfriend and hope my aunt doesn’t accidentally poison him with her cooking. Or I can face up to meeting my dad again in less than a week.
For a second I close my eyes and summon up the fading scent of Dad’s leather jacket, the image of the strong, square hands that used to tie my shoes, the sound of his low, surprised laugh when I tickled his nose with my hair.
I want that back. But it’s too late now. I’m not a little kid anymore, and a lot of years have passed. I don’t know who Sam Darby is, and after the last few months, I’m not sure I can stand it if he’s not the man I remember.
Especially when the one thing I can’t forget is that he’s the man who walked away from us.
At ten o’clock I put down my trig book and groan, laying my head on the dining room table with a thunk.
When I lift it again, Mom is standing there, arms folded, smiling. “Problem?”
“Tell me exactly how I’m going to use trigonometry in the future. Seriously.”
“Nice try.” She runs a hand over my head gently. “You should go up to bed soon, babe. It’s getting late.”
“Yeah.” I sigh and scoop up my homework, which is scattered over most of the table at this point. It’s easier to spread out down here in the dining room, and it’s also farther away from Hurricane Robin, the preteen storm of angst. After dinner tonight, I was in no mood to even listen to her pouting through the wall between our bedrooms.
When I get upstairs, the door to my room is cracked a few inches, and I scowl. It drifts open if you don’t click it just hard enough, which means someone other than me was in here at some point after I came up for my backpack.
Since there’s no clean pile of laundry on my bed, I’m pretty sure that someone is Robin, aka the biggest snoop in Snoopvi
lle.
I don’t see anything obviously out of place, and my spare cash is still in my top drawer, stuffed in an empty box of cough drops. Then again, my room is, as usual, such a mess, it would be hard to tell if someone had come in and trashed it.
I drop my books on my desk and glare through the wall in Robin’s direction before settling on the bed with my phone.
Gabriel answers on the first ring. “Hey there.”
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?”
“Nah.” I can picture him smiling, and my heart trips a half beat faster. “Just watching TV.”
For a minute we don’t say anything, connected only by the sounds of breathing, but it’s nice. I’m pretty sure I want him and Olivia to come for Christmas—or more precisely that I’m not ready to have my dad here yet—but I’m not going to ask Gabriel now. Not yet. I want to sleep on it, at least.
“Did you finish your trig?” Gabriel finally asks, and I hear a muffled yawn trailing off the end the word.
I groan. “Mostly. I think it was designed to torture prisoners of war. I mean, what other use could it possibly have?”
Gabriel laughs. I love the sound of it, this low, soft ripple of sound. “Uh, I think civil engineers probably need it once in a while, Wren.”
“Fine, be logical.” But I’m smiling when I say it, and I know he can hear it.
I know if I asked him, he’d be able to tell me how much I’m missing him right now, how much I wish he was here, curled up next to me, instead of blocks away. And he wouldn’t have to use his ESP to do it.
“You sound tired,” he says.
“I am.” I shrug and rub my eyes. “We should both go to bed soon.”
“Yeah.”
But it’s a good twenty minutes before we hang up, talking about nothing and everything, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter Three
GABRIEL IS WAITING AT MY LOCKER IN THE morning, slouched against the dented metal door and talking to Jess. A couple months ago, I never would have believed it. What’s startling is they actually like each other, too.
