I’m still thinking of allergies when I finally stomp up our front steps. “Mom,” I shout, as I open the front door, “do we have any—”
He’s in our front hallway. Dad. I mean, Stephen-the-Leaver. Stupid Stephen-the-Leaver in those stupid khaki shorts that he’s apparently still wearing even though I told him years ago that they look ridiculous.
Didn’t you hear me, world? I said I didn’t want to talk to anyone but LumberLegs. Stephen-the-Leaver is definitely not LumberLegs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask as I kick off my soaking-wet Converses. It’s not a halfling day. He shouldn’t be here. “And what the hell were you doing at my school?”
He sighs and runs his hand over his fade. “Don’t swear, please.”
“You can’t tell me not to swear. You’re not my dad.” Not anymore. I ignore his disgruntled face and push past him toward the stairs. Disgruntled is a great word. I should use it more often. I wonder if you can be just gruntled. I should get a baby pig as a pet and call it Gruntle.
“Meg! Wait! I—your mom said you bought tickets to LotSCON already. On her credit card.” There’s a touch of amusement in his otherwise serious voice, like he thinks it’s hilarious that I bought tickets to something that of course I had no hope of actually getting to. Because plane tickets cost approximately one million dollars. And because of course I’d never win something school-related. And I’m obviously not actually going to poison anyone with peanuts. Which means I’m not going.
“Yeah, so what?” I start up the stairs and don’t look back. “I already did my time for that. Ask Mom.”
“So I want to take you.”
I pause, midstep, the water in my socks probably seeping into the carpet. “Take me where?” I don’t turn around.
“To LotSCON. In Toronto. I’ve got enough points to fly us both out. I thought we could make a weekend of it. You could even take the Friday off school. Nolan’s always talking about that YouTuber you like—LumberLegs, right? I think he’s going to be there.”
I spin around to face him. “Let me get this straight: you want to go to LotSCON with me. For an entire weekend.” When you haven’t spent any time with me for months and months. And months.
He runs his hand over his bristly head again. “Yes, like those trips we used to take. We don’t have to spend the whole time together. I could skip all the panels or events or whatever else you do at these things, and we could just have supper together each evening or something.”
I don’t know why he looks so hopeful. He doesn’t want me. He hasn’t even tried to call me for months.
Except I blocked him.
But whether he’s been calling or not doesn’t matter. If he wanted me in his life, he should have said that to the judge, should have said that to me. And he didn’t. He said I wasn’t his. I should just storm off upstairs and never speak to him again.
But it’s LotSCON.
And I don’t turn down gifts from Stephen-the-Leaver. Hating him doesn’t mean I should deprive myself. Like with the tablet he gave me for Christmas last year. Or my skateboard.
For some reason, though, this feels more like the stuffed polar bear. I clench my fists just thinking of that stupid bear.
But—LotSCON. I can’t turn down LotSCON. I just can’t. Not when Legs’ll be there.
“I want my own room,” I say.
“Of course,” he says immediately, like he’s already thought of that.
“And Kat gets to come.”
His dark eyebrows dip at that one.
“Kat gets to come or I don’t go,” I say, before he can protest.
Creases spread out across his forehead. “Kat your science partner?”
“Kat my best friend.”
He hesitates. “She’ll have to pay for her own flight.”
“Fine,” I say. Some tension flies away out of my shoulders. If Kat comes with me, that changes everything. “But if you even try to talk to me throughout the weekend, I’ll scream as loudly as I can for the police.”
“Meg!” Mom says, popping her head out of the kitchen. I don’t know what she’s been doing in there all this time. Probably Stephen-the-Leaver begged her for a few minutes alone with me, and she’s finally run out of ways to say no.
I turn and start up the stairs again, taking them two at a time. “Fine, no police yell,” I say over my shoulder. “But I want a LumberLegs T-shirt.” And then I’m at the top of the stairs and down the hall and in my room, where I slam the door behind me and sink onto the floor, leaning uncomfortably against my bed frame.
I run my fingers over the carpet, feeling its fuzzy softness and a tiny bit of stickiness where I must have spilled something and never cleaned it up.
LotSCON.
I am going to LotSCON.
I feel like I just ate bacon.
Except the bacon came from Gruntle the pig.
I’m sorry, Gruntle.
I lean forward and wiggle my phone out of my back pocket. Time to call Kat and tell her the good news.
KAT
“MEG! ARE YOU OKAY? I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU NONSTOP!” I CLAMP MY PHONE in place with my shoulder and disentangle myself from my computer keyboard, which had been balancing on my lap.
“Oh my gosh, guess what?” she says, ignoring my question. “We’re going to LotSCON!”
My stomach twists. “Did you poison Sunil or something?” That’s totally something she would think of.
“What? No. That’s bananas. Stephen is taking us.” Her voice is a few decibels too high-pitched, like she’s acting out the happy ending of a children’s TV show.
“Your stepdad?” She can’t be right about this. She doesn’t even talk to him.
“Ex-stepdad.”
“But you hate him.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t fly us across the country. Would you refuse to accept a million dollars from Osama bin Laden just because he’s Osama bin Laden?”
“He died. Years ago. But yes, I would.”
“Shut up. The point is we’re going to LotSCON. To see Legs!”
I think she means it. I think Stephen-the-Leaver has actually offered to take us. My stomach doesn’t know whether to twist or untwist. Because here’s the thing: Meg hasn’t figured out some harebrained way to convince the school to send us to the fair, so I still don’t have to fly or even refuse to fly. Which is a relief. But here’s the other thing: now I have to tell Meg about the sold-out tickets.
One it’s over . . . two bad news . . .
“Meg . . .” I pause, preparing myself to rip off the Band-Aid. I’m sorry, Meg. “They’re sold out. LotSCON. The tickets are all gone.”
“Dude, I bought us tickets like a million years ago. Didn’t I tell you? I’m sure I told you!”
“I—what? No, you definitely didn’t tell me! You—” I break off as bile rises in my throat. I thought I was home free. How am I supposed to explain to Meg that I don’t fly—that I never planned on flying? There’s got to be another way out of this.
“Oh, well, I’m telling you now then. I have a ticket for you! Surprise! And you can stay in my hotel room, so all you have to pay for is the flight.”
Pay for the flight. That’s my answer. There’s no way I can afford a ticket myself, so I’ll have to ask Mom, and she’ll say no, and then it won’t be my fault.