I don’t say anything to them. Instead, I grab a travel mug from the cabinet over the coffeemaker and pour myself a cup.
My mother speaks first. Her voice is quiet. “Good morning, Declan.”
I dump sugar into my mug. “Hi.”
Alan watches me. I ignore him.
“Are you hungry?” my mother says after a moment. “I could make you a plate.”
The way she says it makes me feel like an afterthought. Like until I appeared in the doorway, she’d completely forgotten I live here. “No.”
My spoon clinks against my mug when I stir cream into my coffee, and the silence behind me presses against my back.
I am starving, and it takes every ounce of self-control to avoid grabbing the remaining pieces of bacon and shoving them into my mouth.
When I turn around, Alan is whispering something to my mother. I have no idea what he’s saying, but it makes her giggle.
The rational side of my brain knows that they’re not giggling about me, but the insecure side wants me to punch him. I settle for glaring at him over my mug. “What are you doing home?”
He looks right back at me. “I thought I’d surprise your mother and take the day off.”
“We’re going to take care of some things around the house,” Mom says. “Then spend the afternoon together. Maybe see a movie.”
I stand there and fidget with the lid of the mug. I should go upstairs and get ready for school, but this whole interaction is leaving me groundless, like if I walk out of this kitchen, they’ll forget me altogether. “What kinds of things?”
“I’m going to power-wash the deck,” says Alan.
I could do that. I would do that, if she’d told me she’d wanted it done. She never asks me to do anything anymore. Alan does everything around here, and hell if I’m going to offer to help him. Every time I try, he acts like I’m a delinquent who can’t hold a screwdriver.
I set my jaw. “Sounds romantic.”
“If you think that’s romantic,” Mom says, “you can imagine how I feel about him taking the car to get it serviced.”
My grip on my mug tightens. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“My car,” says Alan. “Due for an oil change.” An element of challenge hangs in his voice.
He knows I could do that. It’s one of the things I’ve always done. In fact, I did it last May, right before their wedding.
Right before I totaled my father’s truck and set myself down this rutted path of failure and disappointment. They don’t need me. Alan is proving it right now.
I want to smack the smug look off his face.
I won’t pick a fight in front of my mother.
I can do that much, especially if it’s all I have left.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> Date: Thursday, October 3 6:48:57 AM
Subject: Fate
You want to know what I believe? I believe in fate, but I also believe in free will. Meaning, there’s a path, but we’re free to veer away from it. The only problem is that there’s no way to know whose path we’re following at any given moment. Our own? Or fate’s? Other people are on their own paths, too. What happens when we intersect? What happens when someone else wipes our path clean, and we’re left with no road to follow? Is that fate? Is that when free will kicks in? Is the path there, but invisible?
Who the hell knows?
I’m not in the right mood for this conversation. Or maybe I’m tired. No one should have to discuss existentialism before 7 a.m.
One thing, though: You didn’t put your mother in that car, Cemetery Girl. She made that choice. Or maybe fate made the choice for her.
What’s important is that you didn’t.
I know that’s not very reassuring. I know a lot about anger and a lot about self-blame. We could reassure each other until our fingers fall off.
It doesn’t matter. We both know what we did.
Guilt is not a competition. Or at least it shouldn’t be.
Mr. Gerardi teaches an elective, so he doesn’t have a homeroom class, but I know from experience that I can usually find him in his classroom before the first bell. Students crowd the main hallways, making a racket of slamming lockers and shouting greetings, but down this hallway it’s quieter.
I haven’t been at school this early in forever. I’m usually sliding through the front doors right before the bell rings, but today I have a mission, so I pinned my damp hair into a twist and rushed.
Any other day I’d seek the quiet solitude the arts wing offers, but today I wish for the wild cacophony of the other students. The quiet lets my thoughts roam free, and they don’t travel in happy directions. The words from his email rattle around in my brain.
Was he mad at me? He seemed mad. I spent half an hour trying to puzzle out his tone. I didn’t think it was possible to sound encouraging, sympathetic, and pissed off all in one email, but somehow he managed it.
The classroom door is open, and I slide in without knocking. I need to rush, before I have a chance to trip over my anxiety.
Mr. Gerardi looks up in surprise. A student is standing beside him, showing him something in a notebook. She looks young. I don’t know her.
I flush. I didn’t consider that someone else might be here.
This is all wrong. I can’t do this.
“Sorry.” I edge toward the door. “I’ll just—I’ll come back.”
Mr. Gerardi comes out of his seat. “Juliet. Wait.”
“No—it was stupid. I’m going to be late for first period.”
“I’ll write you a note. Wait.”
I don’t wait. I walk out the door and stride toward the pandemonium.
My mother’s voice shames me. Have some courage, Juliet.
That’s the problem. I don’t have her courage. I never have. If she was a firecracker, spreading light across the sky, I’m a lit match, going dark before doing much of anything at all.
The thought makes my feet slow. Am I following a predetermined path? Or am I choosing to hide behind my grief?