“What’s going on with you? Dad still a bastard?”
“You thought that would change?” He doesn’t look up from the phone.
“I guess not,” says Zach, a shrug in his voice. How much does he know about Olly’s family? His dad is so much worse than just a bastard.
“What about you, Madeline? What’s wrong with your parents?”
“It’s just me and my mom.”
“Still. There must be something wrong with her.”
My mom, my mom. I’ve barely given her any thought. She must be crippled with worry.
“Well, I think there’s something wrong with everyone, don’t you? But my mom’s smart, and she’s strong, and she always puts me first.”
I know I’ve surprised them because neither one speaks.
Olly looks up from Zach’s phone. “You have to tell her you’re OK, Mad.”
He hands me the phone and leaves for the restroom.
From: Madeline F. Whittier
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
Do you have my daughter? Is she OK?
* * *
From: Madeline F. Whittier To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
I know she’s with you. You don’t understand how sick she is. Bring her home.
* * *
From: Madeline F. Whittier
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
Please tell me where you are. She could get severely ill at any minute.
* * *
From: Madeline F. Whittier
To: [email protected]
Subject: (no subject)
I know where you are and I’m on the next flight. I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Please keep her safe.
I stop reading, cradle the phone against my chest, and close my eyes. I’m guilty and resentful and panicked all at once. Seeing all her worry and pain makes me want to go to her and reassure her that I’m OK. That part of me wants to let her keep me safe.
But another part of me, the newer part, isn’t ready to give up the world I’m starting to know. I resent that she’s logged into my private e-mails. I resent that now Olly and I will have even less time than I thought.
My eyes are closed for too long because Zach finally asks if I’m OK.
I open my eyes and take a sip of pineapple juice, nodding around the straw.
“No, really. Are you feeling OK? Olly told me—”
“He told you I’m sick.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m fine,” I say, realizing that I really do mean it. I feel fine. I feel more than fine.
I look back down at the phone. I need to say something.
From: genericuser033
To: Madeline F. Whittier <[email protected]> Subject: (no subject)
Please don’t worry, Mom. And please don’t come here. I’m really OK and it’s my life too. I love you. I’ll see you soon.
I hit send and hand the phone back to Zach. He pockets it and stares at me.
“So you really bought pills off the Internet?” he asks.
I’m still so shaken up from my mom’s e-mails and worrying that Olly and I don’t have enough time for each other that I’m not prepared to hear my lie coming out of his mouth. I do exactly what you’re not supposed to do when lying to someone: I don’t meet his eyes. I fidget and blush.
I open my mouth to explain, but no explanation comes.
He’s already guessed the truth by the time I finally meet his eyes.
“Are you going to tell him?” I ask.
“No. I’ve been lying about myself for so long. I know what it’s like.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you,” I say.
He just nods.
“What would happen if you told your parents?” I ask.
His answer is immediate. “They’d try to make me choose. And I wouldn’t choose them. This way, everybody wins.”
He leans back in his chair and strums. “All apologies to the Rolling Stones, but my first album’s going to be called Between Rock and Roll and a Hard Place. What do you think?”
I laugh. “That’s terrible.”
He grows serious again. “Maybe growing up means disappointing the people we love.”
It’s not a question and, anyway, I don’t have an answer.