“I’m so sorry, Livia.”
She nodded and silently said Nason. The name felt odd in her mouth—duller, somehow, disconnected. The alcohol, she supposed.
They were quiet again for a moment. Then Sean said, “My mother . . . she left us when I was seven.”
She glanced at him. “That’s terrible.”
“There was a guy she knew, in Rio. She was already seeing him before we moved back to the States. I guess she missed him more than she wanted to be with my dad. Or with me.”
“Rio . . . but I thought she was Japanese. Uenoyama, right?”
“There are a lot of ethnic Japanese in Brazil. She didn’t have brothers or sisters, so my dad told her parents we’d use Uenoyama for me, to carry on their family name. I wanted to change it when she left us, but my dad told me not to. He doesn’t want me to hate her. Or, I guess, forget her. Or something. I think he still loves her. I mean, he hasn’t had any girlfriends or anything.”
“You don’t . . . she’s not even in touch with you?”
“She left us a note. That was it for a long time. Then she tried calling, but I wouldn’t talk to her. Now she sends me a card when it’s my birthday. I don’t open them. I just throw them away.”
They were quiet again. Then he said, “It messed me up for a while. I had a lot of anxiety. I lost weight, and then I started stuttering. That’s when my dad got really serious about the jiu-jitsu. I mean, come on, half-black, half-Asian, and a stutter? He was worried I’d get the shit beaten out of me every other day. And he was right.”
Even though his story was sad, she smiled. “I really like your dad.”
“Me, too. And he really likes you. He helped me with the bullies, but . . . I didn’t have any friends. Before you, I mean.”
“I didn’t have any before you.”
“But now you’re really popular.”
“Please.”
“You are. Can’t you tell? Everyone loves you.”
“They don’t know me.”
“Do I know you?”
She looked at him. His face was so earnest, it made her sad. “I don’t think anyone really knows me.”
“I want to.”
She felt confused. Part of her liked what he was saying. And wanted to hear him say more. Even wanted to respond. But it also made her afraid.
“I should go,” she said. She let her heels drag along in the dirt, and the swing came to a stop. She stood and turned to him, looking at the ground, wanting to say goodbye, unsure of why she wasn’t.
Sean got off the swing and faced her. He reached out and touched her shoulder. Which was strange, because he never touched her off the mat. No one did. But for some reason, it didn’t bother her. The alcohol, she thought again.
She realized he was touching her . . . differently. So gently, just her shoulder. She looked at him, then down again, confused. His hand came up, and the back of his fingers brushed her hair, her cheek.
“Livia,” he said, and it was almost a whisper. He started to lean closer.
She shook her head. “I . . . I have to go.”
She turned and ran toward the Lones’ house. She didn’t want Sean to see her cry.
33—THEN
She had just changed into sweats and gotten into bed when the door to her bedroom opened. Mr. Lone, of course. She sat up, her heart pounding in anxiety and disgust. What was he doing? He never did the bathroom thing late at night—only when Mrs. Lone was out of the house. Where was she?
He stood in the doorway, wearing a robe over his pajamas, watching her. “You’re back late,” he said.
“There was a party.”
“Ah, a party.” He stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. He looked at her. “Well? Was the party fun?”
“It was okay.”
“I didn’t know you liked parties.”
“I—I don’t like them. Sean wanted to go.”
“Ah, Sean. Your friend.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. If he was here for the bathroom, she wanted to just get it over with.
He sniffed. “Is that alcohol I smell?”
“No,” she said, without thinking.
“Don’t lie to me, Livia,” he said, his voice louder.
“I—someone put something in the punch. I didn’t know.”
“Oh, but you know now?”
“I didn’t know until after I drank.”
“My God, you’re not even sixteen, and you’re drinking alcohol? In my house?”
“It wasn’t in your house—”
“That’s hardly the point. The point is, it’s illegal, Livia. You committed a crime. And you’re my daughter. I’m responsible for you. Does that not mean anything to you?”
She’d been feeling so many things earlier in the day. When Malcolm told her he loved her. When people were congratulating her at the party. When she and Sean had talked in the playground, about things they’d never talked about before. When he had touched her shoulder, and her hair, and her cheek, and started to lean closer.
But it was all being smashed now, broken apart, taken from her.