How many hours till he could kiss Sammie? Harry counted. Too many. Ms. Lillian was on lunch duty tomorrow. She was cool, a great human being, but she had zero PDA tolerance. Would have to wait till pickup. Shit.
Harry fell facedown on his bed. That morning, Ms. Lillian had let him sleep on the couch in the staff room because Dad had done drop-off ridiculously early. Some important breakfast meeting with Robert. Before-school care was depressing. Not that Harry cared about being with little kids—so many degrees of adorableness—but it was a big, flashing statement about how much life had changed with the Mom Situation. He’d overheard Ms. Lillian arguing with the school director. They were trying to keep it down, but his hearing was freaky good. All his senses worked in overdrive. Never had figured out why. “Yes, I’m making an exception for this kid because his mother is critically ill,” Ms. Lillian had said. The words critically ill rocketed back to hijack his brain waves.
Harry bounced back up. Bounced on the balls of his feet.
If only Sammie were here, snuggling and filling his world with supernova fireworks. Taking him outside the Mom Situation. For Sammie, he might have to start writing poetry. Love sonnets! When they were apart, it was like he was being stretched on a rack, bones snapping. Harry cracked his knuckles, tried not to imagine his fingers twisted through her hair, tried not to imagine inhaling Sammie. She smelled like summer.
off to apologize to dad but only for you
He sent a row of heart emoticons—one, two, three, four, five, six! In assorted colors.
Harry pulled out a chair and flopped down at the dining room table. Messed with his hair, cleared his throat. The outside security light came on and flood-lit the patio. The deer must be out. If Mom were here, she’d be banging on the doors, yelling.
Dad looked up over his glasses, those blue eyes chilling. The Dad Vader death stare. Sammie was right. One of them needed to man up and apologize. Apparently, it was not going to be the parent. And people thought teenagers were immature.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Harry chewed the skin around his thumb. “I didn’t mean all those things I said when we got back from the Nasher. I was just lashing out.”
“My experience is that people normally speak the truth when they’re angry.”
Harry sighed. “Since things are heating up with this deal, how about we put off talking about the college shi—stuff until Mom’s settled back home and your life’s less manic? We could mark off a whole afternoon for a college summit.” Okay, that was one huge olive branch. Even Dad had to accept it. And it would buy some time. When Mom came home, he would go to the source, consult the oracle on all things Dad. Mom would know how to fix this.
“Will you promise to give me your undivided attention?”
Harry raised his right hand. “My attention, my whole attention, and nothing but my attention.”
“A week from Saturday.”
“Done.”
Dad pulled out his phone, typed in their date. “Noon.”
Harry leaped up and pushed the chair back into place. Look, Dad, I’m putting it in exactly the right spot. Happy? “Are we good?”
“Yes, Harry.” Now it was Dad’s turn to sigh.
“Come on, Dad. Can’t we just kiss and make up?”
Dad put both palms on the table. The tips of his fingers turned white, with half moons of jagged, angry red underneath. Which was ghoulishly freaky. Harry swallowed. Was Dad going to start smashing glass again?
“I gather you want to live with your girlfriend’s family.”
“What?” What the fuck?
“You left your laptop open after you ran off to Sammie’s. I was attempting to shut it down when it sprang to life, and there on the screen was a message that declared your wish to go live with your girlfriend.”
“You read my private messages?” His head snapped into that sideways tic again, the one that had started at the airport. Shooting pain filled his head, pain almost as hot as the anger boiling over in his brain.