“No, I—” I break off, catching myself. I want to tell Meg that it has nothing to do with her being black and everything to do with the fact that even though I know in theory that lots of kids in our grade are having it, the word immediately makes me think about health class and signs at the doctor’s office and the terrible things that happen in books like Cider House Rules. But we learned in social studies that people can be racist without even realizing it, and besides, this isn’t about me, it’s about Meg. And if I’ve made her feel like a stereotype, I feel terrible. So instead of asking if they used two different forms of protection, like they taught us in health, I say, “Well, that’s good, then.”
“I guess.” She marches over to the far bed and pitches herself backward onto it, landing with a grunt. She spreads her arms and legs out like a star and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
I’m so incredibly out of my depth here. How are people supposed to feel after they’ve done the s word with someone—ecstatic? swoony? broken? terrified? I’ve never really thought about the emotions side of it, just the pregnancy and STDs and other scariness side.
I snatch the blanket off the other bed. “Here,” I say, spreading it over her. “Make a cocoon.” Cocoons are the best. Warmth, safety—a soft, fuzzy shield.
She blinks at me for a minute, seemingly confused, even though she’s seen me cocoon half a dozen times. Then the haze clears from her eyes. “Yes,” she says simply. She grabs the edges of both blankets, holding them tight against her body. Then she rolls over once, twice, three times, and tumbles off the edge of the bed with a thud.
“Meg! Are you okay?” I leap onto the bed and peer over the edge. She lies facedown on the ground, blanket still wrapped tight around her, face smushed into the grimy carpet, shoulders shaking—with laughter, I hope. “Are you okay?” I ask again.
“Can you roll me over?” she says into the floor. She’s definitely laughing.
I clamber around her, grab an edge of the cocoon, and pull.
Meg blinks up at me, arms pinned to her sides inside the blanket.
“Do you want out?” I ask.
She shakes her head, sliding her hair back and forth along the floor. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
“Ugh, what is wrong with me?” she asks the ceiling.
“There’s nothing wrong with you!”
“Then why doesn’t anyone like me? Guys . . . friends . . . Grayson . . .”
“He liked you enough to . . . well, you know.” I sit in the nearby armchair.
“Sure. And then broke up with me right after.”
“He did what?”
“I mean, he didn’t explicitly. But he wanted to, I could tell. And so I left, and he didn’t call me again, ever, so that’s basically breaking up with me, right? And it was kind of my fault, but still, I—”
And then she’s sobbing again.
I slide to the floor, rest my hand where I think hers is under the blankets, then lie down beside her on the germy carpet, tilting my head until it presses against hers.
When her shoulders stop shuddering, she sniffs, then cranes her neck forward and wipes her nose along the edge of the blanket. Then her head drops back with a thud.
“Even my own dad doesn’t want me,” she says.
“He died. That doesn’t mean he didn’t want you.”
“No, not—I meant Stephen. I mean, I know he’s not my bio dad, but he was there for like seven years. And then he didn’t want custody of me. Didn’t even ask for visitation time. I saw the court papers.” She kicks her feet, trying to loosen the straitjacket blankets. “I mean, am I super annoying or something?” Kick. Kick. “Do I have bad breath?” Kick. “Is it an ADHD thing?” Kick. “Maybe I’m too forgetful. Or that other thing. Immunity. No. Imbecile. No. You know, it starts with an i and means I make bad decisions.” Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. “Ugh, I hate when I can’t think of words. Maybe other people hate that, too. Maybe that’s why everyone leaves me.” Kickkick-kickkickkick.
“Meg, stop! Meg!” I grab at her flailing legs, which are only tangling her up further and further in the mess of blankets, and pin them to the ground. “You are not annoying.” I find the edge of one of the blankets under her knee and pull it out. “And I’d tell you if you had bad breath. Lift your shoulder, please. You are amazing. And your other knee. I mean it. You’re smart, and you’re so brave. For my entire flight here, I kept feeling for your purple button in my pocket, and I thought over and over that if that button held even just the tiniest fraction of your bravery, that would be enough.”
Meg sits up, shaking off the last bit of her blanket prison. She stares at me with big puppy-dog eyes.
I stare right back. “Meg . . . you inspire me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Really?”
“Really,” I say.
“Then why did he leave? Stephen, I mean. Why did he tell the judge I’m not his real daughter?” She leans back against the bed, shoulders sagging. She loved him as her dad—that much is obvious. Which means the next part is obvious, too.
“Because he’s an idiot,” I say. “And a jerk. You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
She stands abruptly. “You’re right. I’m going to tell him that.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now.” She strides toward the door.
I pull the purple button from my pocket. “Do you want—” But she’s already out the door. Which is fine. Because Meg doesn’t need a button to be brave. She just is.
MEG
I POUND ON THE DOOR. THEN POUND AGAIN. AND AGAIN.
After about a million knocks, it finally clicks open. Stephen-the-Leaver stands in the doorway in his plaid pajama pants and oversized T-shirt, lines from the sheets etched into his cheek as if he was already sleeping. Which he probably was. He always went to bed idiotically early.
“Oh, you’re back,” he says, then yawns and turns to look at the bedside clock. “It’s not even eleven yet.”
Turned sideways, he no longer fills the doorframe, and I push past him into the room. As the door clicks shut, we turn to face each other like we’re about to duel. “You left!” I shout. “How could you do that to me? How could you leave like that?”
“I thought you didn’t want me to come to—oh, not that YouTuber thing.” He wipes the sleep out of his eye and studies me. “You mean the divorce. Meg, you’re old enough to understand how these things work. Your mom and I, we just didn’t love—”
“No, not Mom. I mean me. How could you leave me like that? You didn’t leave the halflings. You pick them up all those weekends, and on Wednesdays and special occasions, and I was just supposed to—what did you say, call you whenever I wanted? For like the first six months, you never even tried to call me.”
He runs his hand over his scalp. “You were so angry. I thought you just needed some—”
“What, because a girl’s never been mad at her dad before?”
My cheeks flush hot, and I wish I could take the d word back. He doesn’t think of me like that—not anymore, and apparently not ever. He was my dad, but I was not his daughter. My eyes brim with tears, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough tonight. I am not going to cry in front of him.
I stand as tall and straight as I can. “I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I might have ADHD and be annoying sometimes and have trouble holding on to friends and not understand math, but I’m brave and funny and . . . inspiring, even. You may never have thought of me as your daughter, but you still shouldn’t have treated me like that.”
“Meg.” He takes a step toward me, rubs his eye again. “Is that what you think? That I didn’t think of you as my daughter?”
“That’s what you told the judge.”