The second picture is from a prom. Jonah looks good in a tuxedo—that’s my first thought. But then again, who doesn’t look good in a tuxedo? I look beyond him to the rest of the photo. It must be Hamilton’s, because ours didn’t take place in a gym, and the country club wasn’t decorated with Mylar balloons and paper streamers.
Jonah looks alive, animated. And the girl beside him must be why. His girlfriend? She’s wearing a short pink dress, tight enough to showcase her gorgeous curves. She’s looking up at him with laughter written all over her face. His arm is tight around her, pulling her up against his side, and she’s got a hand on his chest.
So playing baseball and this girl, that’s what makes Jonah happy.
It’s hopeless.
What a waste of the night.
I want to go home.
13
Jonah
8:05 P.M.
YES, MOM, I’M HOME EARLY
It’s quiet as I cut through the laundry room and into the kitchen. I expect Mom and Paul to be sulking over a glass of wine or consoling themselves with some fancy takeout, but the only thing on the counter is my eighth-grade baseball photo.
Maybe they want the frame for another picture of Sophia.
I lean into the family room to tell them I’m home. If Mom’s paying attention, she’ll read my expression and wish me a good night. If she isn’t, if she gives me crap about my attitude to Paul earlier, then the gloves are coming off. I’ll make it clear that no matter how much she forces Paul and me to watch sports together or discuss current events, we aren’t going to bond. We are never going to be the magical blended family she reads about in her parenting magazines.
And Paul, I’ll tell him all the things I’ve kept in, starting with: I don’t care what you read on the Modern Father blog, real men don’t wear pink polo shirts to match their daughter’s onesie or carry diaper bags with butterflies. Once, I heard him pull into the garage with some baby bopper music playing—and Sophia wasn’t even in the car. I mean, hooray, he loves his daughter, but get a grip. And I am not your son.
The family room is empty. It looks exactly like when I left, except one of Mom’s postdivorce self-help books is on the floor. Or, at second glance, it’s one of her teen-help books. The type she highlights the hell out of and then quotes like she’s reading fortune cookies. “Jonah, I understand that you’re experiencing a time of intense feelings and urges, but I want you to remember: Quick decisions have lasting consequences.” Or, “Change is a choice, bud, and I feel like you’re choosing not to change.” I’m still fuming about the sticky notes she’s started leaving on my bathroom mirror: “Your goal each day should be to make the world better by being in it,” and “Adapting to change is an important life skill,” or “80% of any achievement is making the decision to achieve.”
The book on the floor plus the photo on the counter aren’t good signs—she and Paul must be planning some new Jonah intervention.
Dammit, that’s the last thing I need right now.
I lean against the wall, suddenly too exhausted to have this confrontation. I want my bedroom, door shut, music on. Video games under my thumb till I’ve blown up everything that can be destroyed.
I start up the stairs. Since they’re not anywhere down here, that means they’re in their bedroom and I’m not going to knock and let them know I’m home. Once they shut that door, I like to pretend they don’t exist. I’ll do just about anything to avoid thinking about what goes on behind it or how my sister came to be.
My door’s open.
Is it too much to ask that she give me that much privacy? It’s a room that barely feels like mine to begin with—designed by her interior decorator without my input so that my belongings have to fit into the cracks and closets.
The lights are off, and Mom’s back is to the door. She’s standing in front of the dresser. It makes me sad for a time when if she wanted to know something about me she’d just ask—and trust my answer, not go snooping through my stuff.
“I’m not on drugs.” This seems like the most logical explanation: she read something in one of those books about the signs of addiction and is up here looking for evidence.
She jumps and drops whatever she’s holding—I step through the door and turn on the light.
14
Brighton
8:07 P.M.
16 HOURS, 53 MINUTES LEFT
I scramble to pick up the picture frame, horrified by the splintering sound it made when it hit the floor.
“What the hell!” Jonah yells. “Are you stalking me?”
His anger makes me drop it again. This time there’s no question: it’s broken. Triangular splinters of glass rain down from the mangled wood when I pick it up a second time.
I swallow. My whole body has gone hot, and my shirt is sticking to my back. “I’m so sorry.”
“For stalking me or destroying that frame?”