Things We Didn't Say

Chapter 11

Angel



Stupid Casey and her stupid questions.

I get a text from Hannah.

Dylan OK?

I hate how all these kids are making my drama into theirs to get attention. Like, if he totally disappeared for real, by next week they’d be on to the next thing, like that kid whose brother died of cancer and everyone was acting like their own brother died and then within a week it was all, whatever.

I don’t even think Hannah likes me. Last week, I came up to her and the girls at play practice, and the minute I walked up, everyone stopped talking and they all stared at me, and I swear Emma was smirking. So it’s not like she really cares. It’s not like any of them do.

I shut my phone off and put in my earbuds, cranking it up so loud that Dad would say I’m ruining my hearing.

Who gave Casey the right to come into my house and start acting like she knows so much? And getting on me for having secrets when she’s the one writing about Tony. Calling Tony. Tony said this, Tony said that.

And she used to drink herself stupid all the time, too. Bet Dad doesn’t know that. He thinks she doesn’t drink because she doesn’t like the taste.

For a reporter he can be pretty stupid sometimes.

My stomach rumbles, and I grab a bottled water that’s sitting on my dresser and take a swig. It helps a little. I couldn’t eat that greasy, nasty pizza for dinner. And I didn’t eat much for lunch today. Later, I’ll go back down and get an apple or something.

I pick up my script for The Miracle Worker. I should practice some of my lines, especially because I skipped rehearsal and we’re supposed to be off-book by next week, but they’d hear me and someone would stick their face in here and try to “help.” Like Casey, putting on a supportive, sweet act when I know what she really thinks of me.

I can’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, can be such a bitch.

I wanted to rip her journal in half and in fact I gave it a try, but that’s harder than it looks, so instead I found this red marker and let her know that her secrets aren’t so secret anymore.

“Why were you even in my desk?” she asked, like she’s the poor victim here. I just needed a piece of paper. I didn’t expect to find out my dad’s girlfriend secretly hates me. I mean, I knew we didn’t always get along, but “bitch”?

How many other people hate me in secret? Hannah, Emma, their friends, and now Casey, too?

I know that Eleanor hates me out loud, already. Everyone thought she’d get the part of Anne Sullivan in The Miracle Worker. She’s pretty much the best actress in school and she’s always in community theater, too, and I heard she even has head shots and almost got an agent once when she went out to L.A. She’s so beautiful the guys all cling to her like they’re metal and she’s a magnet.

But then I got it, and Eleanor is my understudy, which means she’s loving today because she did the part at rehearsal. She’s probably already off-book for my part, too. She’s got a freaky ability to memorize lines.

I was so shocked when I saw the cast list, I thought Mrs. Nelson made a misprint, so I asked her. But she said no, she thought my audition had been “earnest and soulful” and she knew I had it in me.

So she might as well have put a target on my back. I mean, some people think that Eleanor is overrated and a ham and that she waves her arms like she’s a cheerleader every time she reads a line.

But mostly they’re all waiting for me to f*ck it up.

Maybe if Dylan stays gone I can quit the play.

Oh, that’s terrible. I curl up on my bed and scrunch my eyes. I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it I didn’t mean it, I say in my head, in case I somehow jinxed him.

I don’t know what to do with myself now. I don’t feel like reading lines. I have permission to blow off homework.

My big plan for the evening had been to tell my dad all about the diary, and then he could promise not to marry her and I’d know at least I wouldn’t be having a stepmother who hated me. But I can’t really do that now.

I sent Dylan a text earlier that said “WTF? Where r u?” And then I sent some more that were nicer and more concerned, but now I find out he didn’t even take his phone.

I should probably tell my dad what Dylan told me last week about hating his new school, but he swore me to secrecy. And that’s different than reading Casey’s diary, because I didn’t mean to do that, I just stumbled on it.

But Dylan’s my brother, and I promised.

Anyway, it’s probably not related. It sounds like my brother thinks he’s in love, the idiot.

My door opens and it’s my dad, and he’s got this big frown. I can’t hear him, but I can read his lips. I sigh and take out my earbuds and sit up cross-legged. He sits on the edge of my bed.

“Angel, I’ve got to ask you something.”

“What?”

“You know something’s up with Dylan. Casey said you were looking really guilty when I was talking, and you were evasive just now.”

“I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.”

“You need to tell us what’s going on.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, you guys know that he’s going to New York by bus. The cops will find him, right?”

“ Look . . .” My dad runs his fingers over his hair and pulls at his tie. He’s never gotten out of his work clothes. “You can’t tell Jewel this, okay?”

“Tell her what?”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, fine, I promise. What?”

“I’m worried that he’s not really meeting a girl.”

“Who else could he be meeting?”

While my dad tries to figure out what to say, suddenly it hits me. He thinks it’s like the Dateline NBC show where they catch perverts trying to meet up with young kids.

“No, it’s not like that,” I say. “He’s not that dumb to fall for some sweaty pervert pretending to be a girl.”

Without saying anything else, my dad pulls out a printed photograph. I take it in my hand, and it looks like a fashion model. The girl’s hair is windswept, and she’s gazing off to the side. There’s a beach behind her.

“This girl doesn’t look fourteen, and she doesn’t look like an ordinary girl. This looks like the kind of picture you’d download off the Internet if you wanted to impress a teenage boy. If you wanted to lure him somewhere.”

Now I start to feel kinda light-headed.

“Angel, please.”

“I don’t know anything about the girl.”

“What do you know about?”

“Nothing. Honest.”

My dad looks like he might cry. I’ve only seen him cry once before, when Mom and Jewel had that wreck.

“Dad?”

He swallows hard before he answers me. “Yeah.”

“Do you really think it might be a . . . guy?”

“I know it’s a Gmail address, which could be from anywhere. And this picture doesn’t look right. And in the e-mails it sounds like she’s the one trying to convince him to run away. He had to be talked into it.”

“Did you tell the cops this?”

My dad nods and sighs hard. “It’s after hours. They said they’d check the bus station, and Casey is e-mailing a photo. They think he’s just a lovesick runaway.”

“Isn’t that bad enough?”

My dad stands up and kneads his neck with his hand. “They had fifteen runaway reports last week. And running away is not against the law. Honey, I told you the whole story because you’re the oldest. But you can’t tell Jewel. I don’t want her to know anything about what we suspect unless—”

Dad can’t finish what he’s saying, but he doesn’t have to. He bends over for a hug. It’s an awkward angle, but I let him do it, and in fact I hug him back, hard.