“They’re getting a divorce. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Wait. What hap—”
“I just said I don’t want to talk about it.”
This doesn’t feel like the kind of thing we should leave sitting in the air between us. “Did you just find out this morning?”
“Saturday night.”
“Saturday night.” The air slides out of my lungs. I have to look away. “After?”
“After you told me to leave? Yeah. After.”
These words poke at me with a little too much accuracy. I’m at odds with everyone today. “I didn’t—I wasn’t throwing you out, Emma.”
“You didn’t tell me your parents were black.”
The comment stops me in my tracks. It’s almost impossible to read her voice, because it’s full of emotion from other things. I’m not sure whether this is an accusation or a question.
While my adoption settled things inside of me, sometimes I feel like it unsettled things on the outside. As a foster kid, I was temporary, a child thrust upon them by the needs of the county. As an adopted kid, I was chosen.
I remember one night I was doing my homework, and Geoff and Kristin had another couple over for dinner. They mentioned how excited they were to be going through with the adoption. They probably didn’t know I could hear them—or maybe they did. But overhearing those words, knowing I was wanted, was a powerful moment.
The man who’d come for dinner said, “There weren’t any black kids you could adopt?”
That was a powerful moment, too.
They don’t know that I heard. I remember their answer, that I was a child, and that was all that mattered. I was a child who needed them, who needed them right then. His words burrowed deeper. At the time, I was too embarrassed to bring it up. Too worried to bring it up, like maybe that comment had been a needed reminder, and the adoption wouldn’t go through.
But it did. And they never invited that couple for dinner again.
I’m sure he wasn’t the only one who wondered about our family.
The doorway to the school swings open, and a woman exits, rushing in the rain, holding a book over her head.
A tiny burst of fear ignites in my chest. I have never skipped class before.
At the same time, this dark corner of my brain is intrigued about what would happen if I got caught.
“We can’t sit here,” I say. “You okay if I drive?”
She buckles her seat belt, which I guess is answer enough. “You can drive a stick shift?”
“Yes.” I push the clutch to the floor and start the engine. Officially, Geoff taught me to drive, but I’ve spent far more hours behind the wheel with Dec. I always worried I’d strip the clutch or take out a mailbox, but he’s surprisingly chill about this car. At least with me.
We pull onto Generals Highway, the wipers sliding back and forth along the glass.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she says. “With my question.”
“You didn’t offend me.” I pause. “And you didn’t ask me a question.”
“When your mom answered the door, I thought maybe I had the wrong house.”
I almost apologize, but then wonder if that’s appropriate. “I’m never sure how to explain.”
Her voice turns careful. “You didn’t mention it when you were telling me about how you were adopted.”
I’m glad I’m driving, and that the winding road takes a decent portion of my attention. I don’t know how her crying turned into a conversation about me, but this doesn’t feel fair. “I don’t think about it until people find out and then dig at me about it.”
Shocked silence fills the car and I realize what I’ve said.
“Is that why you wear sweatshirts?” she says. “Because you’re white?”
“No.” I glance over in surprise. No one has ever asked that. It’s never occurred to me. I wonder if other people think that, too. “I’m not embarrassed that we don’t match.”
The force of her thinking could probably steer this car. “Is this a sore point for you?”
I can’t figure out her tone, whether she’s judging me or chastising me. “No.” I’ve never been more grateful for a rainy day and a road that demands my attention. “It’s just that it’s always this kind of conversation. Do you know, when I was a kid, if I was out with Geoff, people would always stop and ask me if I was okay. My father—my biological father—was torturing me every single day, and everyone thought he was the best dad. No one ever questioned him. Geoff is the kindest man you could ever meet, and people would stop us in the grocery store and ask if I was okay. Like he meant me harm.”
Emma stares at me. “I’m—sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s not you. It’s everyone.”
“And that other boy—the one you fought with. Who was he?”
Every time I remember it, my shoulders tense. “Matthew. He’s a foster kid. He’s only been living with us for a few days.”
“So … what was he—”
“Stop.” I cut a glance her way. This whole conversation has ramped me up, and I was already on edge this morning. “I’m happy to provide a distraction if that’s what you really need, but you’re the one who was crying in the hallway.”
Her eyes flash wide in surprise, but then she turns to look out the window. A clear refusal to speak.
“If you didn’t want to talk to me, why did you get in the car?”
Emma turns to face me head-on. “Fine. You have a nice reassuring Bible quote about divorce?”
The words are a weapon, one leveled with deadly aim. I can’t speak.
She says nothing. She doesn’t even seem to realize the impact her words have.
We drive in silence for miles. Hurt and embarrassment shift until anger swells to fill the car.
“What do you want me to do?” I finally ask.
“I don’t want to talk about my parents.”
I glance over. She’s still looking out the window. Her arms are crossed against her chest.
I already feel closed off from everyone else in my life, but this feels deliberate. I told her about my father’s e-mails. I felt safe with her.
I thought she felt safe with me.
I try to shake this off. I fail. My jaw feels tight. “I meant, do you want me to keep driving?”
“Just take me back to school,” she says.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The rain stops when I pull into the parking lot. We need to park way at the back, because more students have filled in the available spots.
When she gets out, she heads for the front.
I head for the side entrance.
I don’t stop her. She doesn’t stop me.
We go our separate ways.
And somehow I feel like I’m carrying more baggage than I started with.
TWENTY-THREE
Emma
My fingers are shaking when I slip into second period. For some reason, my imagination thought maybe the school would have contacted the police and sent out a search party. Between the car and the front doors, I concocted a whole story about oversleeping and forgetting an assignment, leading to the tears in the hallway, when a kind senior—Rev—offered to drive me home to get what I needed.
Unnecessary. Apparently no one noticed. Or no one cares.
Clearly cutting class is a lot easier than I expected. I should do this more often.
Even Cait is oblivious. When I slide into my chair in U.S. History, I find her using a Sharpie to draw designs on her nail polish. Her makeup is stunning, with tiny jewels along her eyelids and vibrant lipstick. Completely out of place for school, but that’s never stopped her.
She barely glances over, and her voice is easy. “Hey. I didn’t see you this morning.”
That’s entirely my fault, but right now, it tightens the cords of anger and uncertainty that seem wound around my rib cage.
I ignore her comment. “Do you ha
ve a metallic one?”
The tone of my voice must get her attention, because she looks up. “Em?”
“A metallic Sharpie. Have one, do you?” I ask, Yoda-style. I’m trying to dial back the irritation and tension that the ride with Rev created, but instead the words just come out hostile and weird.
Cait raises her eyebrows and tosses one over.
She looks like she wants to talk, so I look down and start drawing a Dalek on my left thumbnail.
Mr. Maron comes in with a loud yodel, then slams his book onto his desk. I don’t bother to look at him. He’s worthless. Mr. Maron coaches cross-country, and he’s constantly leering at girls, making comments like, “Nice legs. You should run.” And he totally gets away with it. He gives me the creeps. I have no idea why anyone at all runs cross-country.
In case I’m being too subtle, I hate this class, and I hate this teacher.
“I cut first period,” I whisper to Cait, keeping my voice low.
“Do you need a pad or something?” she whispers back.
“What?” I hiss. “I said I CUT FIRST PERIOD.”
I draw the attention of at least six other students. All of whom probably heard exactly what I said.
Or they all think it’s that time of the month.
Cait is staring at me like I’ve just confessed to murder. “How?”
“Went for a drive with a friend.”
“What friend? Who do you know that has a car?”
“Rev Fletcher.”
Her jaw drops so far it hits the desk.
I mean, not literally. But it’s pretty far.
Mr. Maron turns away from the whiteboard and we need to pretend to pay attention.
You have a nice reassuring Bible quote about divorce?
This sinking feeling in my stomach will not go away. I am truly awful.
The worst part is that I keep thinking about my mother. I sounded exactly like her.
My cell phone vibrates against my thigh, but I need to wait a minute before I can slide it out of my pocket.
I’m hoping for a message from Rev, but I might as well hope for unicorns to burst through the window. A message from my father would also be welcome, but no dice.
It’s Ethan.
At least it’s not Nightmare. I haven’t heard from him since I went off. Maybe that’s all I needed to do, just completely lose it.
Ethan: How are you doing?
Emma: I’m OK. I snapped at a friend and I’m feeling like a real bitch.
Ethan: You’re allowed. If she’s a good friend, she’ll understand.
He. I almost type back to correct Ethan, but … I don’t. I’m not entirely sure why.
I’m not sure what I have with Rev, either, but it’s not like we have anything real.
After what I said in the car, we might not have anything at all.
Emma: My head is a mess.
Ethan: Are your parents fighting constantly?
Emma: No. My dad is staying with a guy he works with. I’m avoiding my mother.
Ethan: You’re lucky. Mine couldn’t afford it, so they stayed in the same house until everything was finalized. Dad stayed in the guest room. He’d wake me up and ask me to tell Mom something.
I stare at his message and imagine Mom and Dad devolving to the point of using me as a carrier pigeon.
I can imagine my mother would like this idea.
The thought makes me want to move out myself.
“Miss Blue?”
I shove the phone into my pocket. Mr. Maron is staring at me. The whole class is staring at me.
Cait clears her throat and says something unintelligible.
She’s probably feeding me the answer the teacher is expecting, but unless the answer is a garbled whisper, I’m out of luck.
“I’m sorry,” I say sweetly. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Is something else demanding your attention?”
“No.” I cough. “I’m sorry.”
“Could you tell me the general purpose of the Declaration of Independence?”
THANK GOD THIS IS EASY.
“To declare our independence from the British.”
“Why did the colonists want independence?”
My brain goes blank. Because tea was too expensive? Didn’t they throw it into the Boston harbor?
Right now, it’s a miracle I know my own last name. My cheeks warm as time ticks by. I can’t even BS the answer.
Just like in the car, embarrassment begins shifting into other, less-stable emotions.
Mr. Maron stands there, letting the silence stretch on, until it’s obvious to everyone in the room—to the whole school, probably—that I wasn’t paying attention and I’m getting called on it right now. Mom would be so proud.
The sorrow from this morning threatens to overwhelm me again.
If I start crying in Mr. Maron’s class, I am going to launch myself out the window. I imagine my body exploding on impact with the concrete. I imagine the custodian getting a mop, muttering, “Damn kids.”
A giggle escapes me.
Mr. Maron has a stroke. Or something. His eyes bug out. “Do you find this funny, Miss Blue?”
I sober. “No. This is definitely not funny.”
“Do you have an answer? Or have you sufficiently wasted everyone’s time?”
He was the one letting the silence stretch on forever, but I won’t earn any brownie points by saying that. I shake my head, though I can’t erase the image of an exploding body from my brain. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
“No.” I cough. “No, sir. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I shouldn’t have said sir. It sounds completely sarcastic.
I mean, it was. But I thought I made a good attempt to cover it up.
His bug-eyed stare turns into a glare. “Stop by my desk after class.” Then he turns around to face the board again.
I should feel panicked. Anxious. Upset.
I don’t feel any of those things. I feel numb.
“Are you okay?” Cait whispers.
“Oh yeah. I’m great. Don’t leave me alone with him, okay?”
“So you just want me to wait in here with you?”
“Yup.”
My phone has been vibrating against my thigh. All messages from Ethan.
Ethan: I just kept reminding myself that it would be over soon. I got through it.
Did I say the wrong thing?
Ethan: I didn’t mean to overstep.
I quickly slide my thumb against the phone.
Emma: You didn’t overstep. I got caught texting in class.
Ethan: Crap. Sorry.
Emma: It’s OK. I don’t even care. I don’t care about any of it.
There’s a long pause.
Ethan: You care.
Emma: Not right now, I don’t.
That’s a lie.
But if I think about it too hard, the custodian is going to be cleaning up the Emma explosion.
Ethan: Emma. You’re lying.
Of course he knows. My throat tightens. I have to press my fingertips to my eyes.
“Em.” Cait leans over and rests her hand on my arm. “Emma. Are you okay?”
Damn it. I’m crying.
I grab my bag and run out of the room.
The girls’ bathroom is only twenty feet away, and I know Mr. Maron can’t follow me in there, so I go through the door. This one is small, with only two stalls, and the bleach smell is gag-worthy, but it’s empty and I’m alone.
I sit down on the floor. My shoulders shake with the force of my crying. I should never have come to school today.
After a moment, Cait bursts through the door to the bathroom. She kneels on the disgusting tile beside me. “Em. Em, are you okay?”
“No.” I swipe at my eyes and blink at her. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for running after me?”
“No.” She smiles, a little tentatively. “Ryanne Hardesty said she heard you say your period started. Mr. Maron
thinks you had an emergency. I’m pretty sure everyone is chalking this up to PMS.”
It’s a shame there’s not a window in the bathroom so I can dive out. “This is so humiliating.”
“Let me get you some toilet paper.”
“It’s okay. I have tissues.” I yank the packet Juliet gave me out of the front of my backpack. I have to dab at my raw cheeks carefully.
Cait studies me. “Something is going on, though.” She pauses. “Did something happen this weekend?”
I snort. “You could say that.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because I thought you’d be busy with your mom. Making videos or pancakes or something.”
Her face twitches, and I can tell she’s balancing irritation with sympathy. “I’m pretty sure I could have stopped to take a phone call.”
This seems to be my talent. Someone is kind, someone reaches out, and I turn into a real bitch. I want to fold in on myself and hide, but there’s nowhere to go.
“Emma.” Cait’s voice goes quiet. “Please talk to me.”
I open my mouth to tell her about the divorce, but the words won’t come out. Cait’s life is so easy. She would pat my hand and say Poor Emma.
I don’t want to be Poor Emma. I already feel worthless in my own house. I don’t need to be pitied here, too.
I say, “My parents were just fighting a lot.”
Cait drops to sit beside me. “I’m sorry, Em.” She hesitates. “You could have come over.”
“Yeah, maybe you could have given me a makeover.” I wipe at my eyes.
She stiffens, then unzips a pouch on her backpack and pulls out a candy bar. “Would a candy bar make you feel better?”
“No.” I roll my eyes at the ceiling. “I’m not really suffering from PMS.” I wish this could all be solved with a Snickers bar and a handful of Advil.
She studies me critically. “I feel like there’s more going on here. What’s happening with Rev Fletcher?”
“Nothing. I ruined it.”
“Emma—”
“God, Cait. What, are you writing a blog?”
She sits back on her heels. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m trying to help you.”
I look down at my nails. “Forget it, Cait. Everything is perfect for you. You have no idea what I’m going through.”
She goes still again, but this time it’s longer. Her voice is very quiet. “Everything is not perfect for me.”