Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked. “Dad, I’ve got to do my calculus. It’s due tomorrow. I don’t have time for this right now.”
“You had time to go to the movies with Max, ergo you have time to do this.”
A car alarm went off in the street.
Harry gave an exaggerated sigh and collapsed onto the sofa. “Shoot,” he said. His knee jiggled, and he cleared his throat with a series of little ahems that could—or could not—have been a new tic.
“Let’s start at the beginning. What are your top ten choices for college?”
Harry shrugged, and Felix’s phone rang—Robert. Bugger it. He and Robert had planned to talk an hour ago, but he’d fallen asleep by Ella’s bedside and completely forgotten. Unbelievable—his brain had become a bottomless sieve.
“I thought you and your mother had narrowed this down to an A-list?” Felix put his phone on “Mute.” Robert didn’t believe in voice mail, which meant he would keep calling until he got an answer.
“Not really. Mom was hung up on the idea of smaller, in-state colleges, so she organized the Asheville trip. That was as far as we got.”
From somewhere in the sofa, Harry’s phone made a ridiculous noise, like a clown’s horn. “Ha!” He started tugging off pillows and dumping them on the floor. Then he burrowed under the seat cushions. Felix clamped his teeth together.
“Found it!” Harry held up his phone as if he’d just been awarded a ribbon at the state fair.
Maybe Harry should consider chaining his possessions to his waist.
“Can you please put all those cushions back where they belong?”
“What? Yeah. Sure.” Harry started scrolling through text messages.
“Harry!” Felix snapped. “Will you pay attention?”
“Please don’t get angry. That’s not an appropriate response for my ADHD.”
“Maybe if you were better about managing your meds I wouldn’t need to raise my voice.” If Harry said, “Yeah, whatever,” honest to God, Felix would no longer be of sound mind or action.
“Truth is, Dad—” Harry stood up. “I’m thinking about UNC Chapel Hill. Go Heels!”
“That’s a ludicrous idea, Harry.”
Harry blushed again. “Why? It’s my life and my choice.”
“And my money.”
“Fine. I’ll apply for a Morehead-Cain Scholarship.” Harry started playing Angry Birds on his phone, then put it down. “What if Mom doesn’t recover? What if she never gets better—even with the transplant? If that’s the case, I want to stay close to home.”
“You are not to talk about your mother that way. Do you hear me? She’s going to recover; she’s going to get better. These things just take time.” Why was he yelling? Did he believe that if you said something loud enough, it had to be true?
TWENTY-ONE
Felix waited in the school carpool line, engine idling. He had a date with his son at a good neutral location: the Nasher Museum of Art on the Duke campus. Art always calmed Felix. Or rather, paintings with blocks of neat, contained color did. Random paint splashes left him utterly confused. Hopefully, the art would also calm Harry—so they could have a meaningful conversation about Harry’s future.
The lead car in the queue pulled away, and Felix inched forward. A woman wearing more layers than an arctic explorer cut in front of the Mini and waved. She even mouthed, “Hi.”