Olivia turns, her eyebrows raised. “Yeah, that—that’d be awesome,” she says. “You eating with us, Kat?”
I nod. “Smells nice.”
A big smile lifts her cheeks. Two words, and she lights up like a lantern—I forgot how transparent Olivia can be. “Great!” she says. “Dad’ll be really happy.”
If he is, though, I can’t tell. When the three of us sit down, he eats slack-faced and quiet, despite Olivia’s attempts to draw conversation out of him.
I sneak glances at my sister and my dad throughout dinner. Their presence crushes me in. How do I talk to them? They feel so far away, like distant island countries. God knows what’s going on inside Dad’s head, and I hardly know anything about Olivia anymore. She, Juniper, and Claire are as inseparable as always, and she goes out every weekend. That’s all I know, besides the music she listens to in her room.
“What’s new, Kat?” Olivia says, meeting my eyes.
I look down at my lap and scramble for words. “Nothing much. Um . . . Dr. Norman made fun of me in chemistry today.”
“Why?”
“?’Cause he’s a dick.”
“Language,” Dad mumbles. I’ve never heard a more half-assed chastisement.
“No, he is, though,” Olivia says. “All last year, he used to make fun of my height. And I was, like, yeah, I know I’m tall—thanks for the constant reminders.” She takes a swig of orange juice. “What’d he say to you?”
“I was asleep. So he, you know. Made an example.”
“Oh,” Olivia says. I wait for some preachy Maybe stay awake next time remark, but she just shrugs and says, “Yeah, dude’s voice could put a dolphin to sleep. Amazing.”
“What, is that impressive?”
“Dolphins—fun fact—actually don’t sleep,” Olivia says through a mouthful of noodles. “They only rest part of their brains at a time, so they’re always sorta conscious. Also, they’re evil. They, like, kidnap people and drag them off to their dolphin lairs.”
I laugh before I can help it. Olivia looks at me with this mixture of astonishment and delight, as if I’ve handed her a winning lottery ticket. Dad glances between the two of us, looking confused, which is fair—I’m a little confused, too. I forgot Olivia made jokes and offered people sympathy. I forgot she did anything but tell me to deal with my responsibilities.
When we finish dinner, Dad stands. “I’m exhausted, girls. Might call it an early night.”
“Sure,” Olivia says. “I’ll wash up. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, Olly.” He gives her an absent-looking smile before trudging upstairs.
“Shit, he’s quiet,” I say, looking after him. Dad was never loud, but back when we were in elementary school, he and Mom would bounce jokes off each other at dinner until they both teared up from laughter. Mom coaxed a gregarious side out of him. Around her, he acted out. Trying to impress her, maybe—or keep a hold of her. Maybe he knew the whole time that trying to hold on to her was like trying to hold on to ice—a wasted effort that was only going to leave him cold.
Olivia gathers our plates, looking grim. “Yeah, work wears him down so much, there’s not much he can do but crash when he gets home.”
I trace a stain on the table. God knows I understand that feeling, not that I have the right to. A thousand kids at our school do the same thing I do every day, and they still have energy and motivation. I’ve got no excuse. Sick of the feeling of self-pity, I stand. “Night,” I say, and I head for the stairs. My sister gives me a smile, but it hardly registers.
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, MATT PICKS ME UP, ALONG with my bundle of project supplies. His car smells like he’s growing marijuana plants in the trunk. The space in front of the passenger seat is so filled with paper, bottles, and trash, it’s like a handy cushion for me to prop up my feet.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, not sounding in any way sorry about the mess.
“All good,” I say, glancing into the backseat, which is even worse. It looks as if somebody mistook it for a landfill.
Matt doesn’t turn the radio down, so I hum along with various bad pop songs all the way to his house. At one point I think I hear him singing along to Avril Lavigne, but when I glance over at him, his mouth is firmly shut.
My eyes linger on him for a second. As if he’s trying to look like as much of a stoner as possible, he’s wearing a maroon beanie pulled low over his forehead, tufts of hair sticking out from beneath. He drives one-handed, relaxed and silent, but his expression gives me the sense that something’s brewing under the surface.