Habits of an Effective Test Taker #4
What if you aren’t familiar with the topic, and you aren’t sure which is the best possible answer? One helpful strategy is to eliminate the extremes that are obviously wrong, and then take your best guess. This gives you higher odds of getting the question right.
Vanessa joins us for our celebratory ice cream at Scoop Heaven, this little place at the edge of Bennett Village, and then Mila and I head back up to our apartment. She’s busting to see the surprise. And after getting two texts, first at 6:45 and again at 7:15, from my mom telling me not to come back yet because she wasn’t ready, I have to say my curiosity is firmly piqued. Streamers shouldn’t take that long.
We open the door, to find the entire apartment filled with not only streamers but dozens of balloons, and there’s a giant cake that my mom’s now lighting with candles. I search the apartment for the extra surprise—the one that’s supposed to be for me—but I don’t see anything unusual beyond the fact that my mom really did go crazy with the decorations, and I’m not sure how we’re going to eat all that cake.
Mila is jumping up and down with excitement, her previous complaints silenced for good. That smile is there again on my mom’s face. It’s good to see. She begins to sing “Happy Birthday,” and she motions for me to join in.
So I do, and Mila’s beaming with excitement. She loves this attention from our mom—she’s been desperately craving it for months.
We sing the last line—and that’s when the surprise appears.
My father.
He steps out from the hallway and sings the last line with us.
He’s standing there with a huge, cocky smile on his face, singing as if he hasn’t been gone for nearly six months, as if he never left.
Mila runs to him and wraps her arms around his waist. He hugs her tight and then lifts her up into his arms. “Daddy! Daddy!” Mila yells. “You’re the best surprise of all!”
“Quick,” he says, putting her down. “Blow out your candles before they melt into the frosting.”
I look at my mom. Her smile is weak and strained. It’s not like the one she was wearing before.
I feel sick.
“Viviana,” she says coldly, “say hello to your father.”
I don’t move.
I can’t move.
My dad puts Mila down and looks at me. He opens his arms, as though I’m just going to walk into them. As if the past six months haven’t happened. As if he hasn’t already moved on from us. As if he hasn’t been living a lie.
“Come, now, Viviana,” my mom says, her voice softening. “Your father is home now—with us. He is home now, for good. Everything is fine.”
She doesn’t know the reality of the situation. She can’t see the real answer—that he’s a liar, a cheat, a complete and utter weasel. She thinks this was just a fight—nothing more—and she thinks he’s going to move back and we’re all going to be okay.
My head is dizzy with this terrible surprise.
I wonder how much she knows. Or doesn’t know.
They are looking at me and waiting for me to say something, to do something, to walk into my father’s arms and trust him again.
I see the choice that I have: Pretend that I don’t know the truth, embrace him, welcome him home. Or say something: ask him where he’s been for six months, ask him why he suddenly wants to be with us again, demand that he tell my mom and Mila about Paige, about his other life, the one where he loves some woman named Paige and we don’t exist.
Mila runs over to me and pulls at my arm. “Viviana,” she whines. “It’s Daddy. He’s home.”
I don’t have this choice now. Not in front of Mila. Not on her birthday.
I walk up to my father.
I wrap my left arm around his waist and I force out the word: “Hi.”
“Where’s my hug?” he asks before sweeping me up into his arms. I let him squeeze me, but I don’t return the hug. He puts me down and steps back. “You’ve gotten taller, I think.” He looks at Mila. “Both of you.”
“We haven’t seen you since January,” I say. “That’s six months.”
“Viviana, be nice,” my mom says.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m so sorry I had to be gone so much.” He doesn’t say anything about the separation. The almost divorce. I look over at my mom.
She motions for us to sit at the table, which is set with the good china, the dishes we never use, the ones they received as a wedding present. “Let’s just sit. I’ve made a stuffed chicken and noodles, and then we’ll eat some cake.”
My father takes his seat at the head of the table.
I sit down at the opposite end, far away from him.
Mila moves her chair so that it’s close to my dad. My mom brings in the food from the kitchen.
He looks at me across the table. “How’s the new job?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“She works too much,” my mom says. “She’s supposed to be resting.”
“Mama, I’m fine.”
My dad frowns. “You made a promise to your mother—”