Dad’s face immediately darkens. “Do we have to?” he asks the doctor aggressively.
Dr. Franklin’s eyes widen, just a touch. “Well, no,” he says. “But I would like to continue his therapy, and I feel like he needs a little extra focus.”
“And why is that?” It’s so strange to see Dad like this, trying to pick a fight with a man wearing tweed while holding a plate of charcuterie. “He’s not locked up in some crazy house, we can bring him home.” Dad says this more to himself than to Dr. Franklin.
“Of course you can,” Dr. Franklin says. “This is in no way mandatory. It’s just that Sofía’s death has greatly affected him, and—”
“Didn’t look affected,” Dad says, his tone harsh. “He didn’t even stay for the whole service. Where is that boy, anyway? I thought you ran a tight ship here, Doc, but you don’t even know where Bo is, do you?”
“I think he just needed a moment to collect himself,” Dr. Franklin says.
The doctor seems like someone who’s pretty good at keeping his emotions under control, but I can see that he’s not used to being questioned the way that Dad’s grilling him now. But I also wish Dad would just shut up.
“Bo’s a good boy,” Mom says, taking a tiny step closer to Dad, her arm barely brushing against his. “If there’s something wrong, he’d tell us. I’m sure he’s okay.”
Okay? Okay? Some girl in his class just died, and he couldn’t even keep it together long enough to stay for her whole memorial service. He’s clearly not okay. I shake my head in disgust.
Ever since it became clear that Bo needed help, it’s like Dad thinks he can argue his way out of Bo being sick, and Mom thinks she can pretend her way into a different reality. They’ve stuck Bo in this school that looks like a mansion instead of an asylum, and that’s fine, but at least don’t pretend it’s anything else. And certainly don’t pretend it’s okay. Okay is so far out of our vocabulary right now that it’s practically a foreign word.
Dr. Franklin holds his hands out, palms up, as if he’s pleading with my parents to see his side. “Regardless, I do think it’s best that Bo stay here this weekend, at least. The memorial was just today, and there will be some changes in the school over the next few weeks that I’d like to help prepare him for.”
“Changes?” Mom asks.
“We’re having an . . . inspection of the school. Simply routine, but with any change comes some adjustment, and . . .”
“Fine, fine, we leave the boy here this weekend,” Dad says. “You know, I wouldn’t have driven all this way for some ceremony and paper lanterns if I’d known we weren’t bringing Bo back with us.”
“But—” Mom starts to protest.
“We’ll get him next weekend, right, Doc?” Dad says.
“How about I call you next Thursday?” the doctor responds.
“How about I just pick him up on Friday.” Dad turns around and strides off, dumping his plate in the garbage can by the front door.
Mom’s stroking my hair even more aggressively now, so hard that my head is pulled back. I shift away from her.
“And how are you?” Dr. Franklin asks me, his eyes kind. “I know we’re giving a lot of attention to Bo right now, but how are you doing?”
Both he and Mom stare at me, waiting for an answer.
“I’m . . . okay,” I say finally.
CHAPTER 5
My parents and sister are walking out of the towering front doors of the academy when Gwen and I reach the bottom of the steps.
“There you are,” Dr. Franklin says, following behind them.
“I’ll go get my stuff,” I say. I glance at Dad. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in a rush.”
“No rush,” Dad says. “You’re staying here.”
Gwen bounds up the steps and disappears inside, but I’m frozen in place. “I’m staying?”
Mom nods. “Just this weekend, okay, sweetie? We’ll bring you home next weekend. Is that all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” I say. My mind is already churning. This isn’t just fine, it’s great. I need time to work on saving Sofía, and going home will just get in the way of that. Who knows when I’ll get a chance like this again. Every weekend my parents drive up here to pick me up and take me home for “family time,” something my mother hates to relinquish.
Phoebe walks a pace behind my parents as they head to their car, which is parked in the circular driveway right in front of the academy. As Mom hugs me and Dad grunts goodbye, Phoebe stands to the side, her eyes dancing over the sign in front of the school, made of brick and gleaming bronze: THE BERKSHIRE ACADEMY FOR CHILDREN WITH EXCEPTIONAL NEEDS.