This time, my heart stopped cold. I felt horrible lying to my dad. He and I had always been honest with each other, but I was still angry with him. I was frustrated that he hadn’t had more faith in me. I also wasn’t willing to topple the house of cards I’d built for myself yet, which meant losing access to an actual, Belén-free home. Realistically, I knew there was always a chance the truth would come out in the end, but I was feeling just reckless enough to not be concerned about that yet.
“Yep. And their cat, hamster, and beta fish too.” At least that part was true.
“That’s nice.” So predictable; I knew my dad wouldn’t ask why the girls weren’t taking care of their own pets. He had not been born with Belén’s spidey senses.
“Speaking of which, did you know that Belén is recording the mileage on my car when I leave the house?”
Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She’s just trying to help you be accountable, Tatum.” There was that word again. I was used to him just going with whatever Belén thought was best when it came to making the rules, but it had never been something this outrageous, and he usually saw my side of things after we talked. Did he approve of this new tactic, or was he simply too far away to fight for me?
“So she needs to control everything? I think there are better ways of teaching that concept, Dad.” Even though he couldn’t see me, I went ahead and made bunny ears when I said “teaching.” “A sticker reward chart, perhaps? That worked when we were little.” I got a sticker for making my bed and setting the table; Tilly got one for memorizing routines and sonatas. When he didn’t respond right away, I knew I’d gone over the edge. “I just don’t think it’s fair, Dad,” I said softly.
“Tatum, I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for us too.” He had on his quiet voice, confirming he’d had enough of my sass. I bit my lip to keep from saying anything more. “Just humor her. Do as she says, and by the end of the summer, it will be water under the bridge.”
Some days I agreed with him and thought keeping my head down was easy; some days it felt like I was Sisyphus, rolling that huge rock up the hill, waiting for it to come down and flatten me.
I inhaled, and let the air out loudly. “I’ll try.”
“I love you, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”
My lower lip started trembling, and I bit it again; so hard, it hurt. “I know,” I whispered. But I didn’t. How could it be when he wasn’t here?
Just when I thought the weather couldn’t get any hotter, it got hotter. It shouldn’t have surprised me, having lived in northern Virginia for the entire sixteen years of my life, but somehow the oppressive heat and drenching humidity always seemed like a cruel joke without a punch line. Clipping the sickly sweet honeysuckle branches in the fully overhead noontime sun wasn’t fun anymore, not that it really was to begin with.
Abby came dressed to work, and by dressed, I mean completely covered. The second week of our “internship,” she’d abandoned her athletic tank top in favor of a long-sleeved Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Hunter had worn a Jimi shirt on the third day. Abby had an abundance of chutzpah, which was part of why I liked her, though it probably would have been easier if she just bit the bullet and talked to Hunter, instead of risking the heatstroke she was guaranteed to get.
“You’re not being obvious or anything,” I said as we slipped on our gloves. I had slathered on the high-octane sunscreen before leaving the house, and my skin stuck to the canvas fabric.
Abby pouted and lowered her head slightly, causing her dark brown curls to graze her shoulders. “I was going for conversation starter. Too much?”
I nodded my head. “Of course not.” She smacked me in the arm with her gloves.
“Smart aleck.”
“Always.”
She slipped the gloves on and picked up her garden shears—long, dangerous scissors that looked more like some kind of illegal weapon than a useful tool—and started walking toward what we’d affectionately started calling “our” honeysuckle. We’d made more progress on it the last few sessions, but it was still gigantic.
Abby pointed her shears in the direction of Hunter and his asthmatic partner’s section, still covered with ivy. “Neither one of them is here today?”
I glanced over at the empty area. “Guess not? Maybe the kid is at home blowing his nose. Maybe Hunter got a clue and decided shredding ivy wasn’t as fun as he thought it was going to be.”
“Maybe,” she said sadly. “By the way, I got my site up and running. Posted a movie review this morning, in fact.”
“That’s amazing, congrats. Did you get your business cards printed?”
“Yes, they’re ordered. I used your referral code, so you’ll get a discount on your next order.”
“If I ever have to order again. I’ve gotten a few bites, but nothing new this week.” And nothing new from SK. Not that it bothered me. Nope. He hadn’t sent back the survey yet, though, so the proposal for his portfolio site was at a standstill.
“What kinds of requests are you getting?” Abby snagged a long, twisty vine and wrestled it to the ground with both her hands and feet like it was an alligator in a swamp.
“The two so far—besides you, of course—are both McIntosh students, seniors.”
“Of course,” she said, and rolled her eyes. I’d learned Abby was bitter that McIntosh didn’t have a journalism program.
“One’s a writer. She has a book she wants me to design a cover for. It’s steampunk.”
Abby pumped a fist into the air. “Love it.”
“Really? I have no idea what that is, other than that she wants something with gears.” Abby nodded, like this made total sense. I’d definitely have to do some more research on the genre.
“I’ll educate you, give you some covers to take a look at. And the other?”
“This guy who plays the cello, named SK. He wants me to make an online portfolio about his musical career to submit to colleges with his applications.”
After a beat, I realized the rustling of branches had ceased, and I looked up. Abby was staring at me.
“Do I have dirt on my face or something?” I wiped my gloves on my backside and brought my fingertips to my cheeks, prepared to wipe.
She shook her head. “No dirt. But tell me more about SK.”
I must have started blushing, or the sun moved, because my cheeks got hotter. “Why do you ask?”
“When you said his name, you smiled. That doesn’t happen very often.”
“What? Me smiling?” I automatically frowned. I smiled plenty, didn’t I? And then I remembered how Blanche thought I was melancholy. Maybe I didn’t.
“Yeah. So naturally, being a reporter, I need more information. What’s the deal?” Abby pantomimed flicking open her invisible notebook, invisible pen poised to take notes.