I’m on the ninth floor when his voice bellows again through the corridor: “Viviana! Come back here! NOW!”
When I was younger, the sound of his voice would have scared me into submission. Even the me of six months ago would have stopped for him. The me of six months ago would have turned around, gone back upstairs, begged for forgiveness.
But right now, the sound of his voice pushes me to run faster, to jump farther, to leap down the steps.
His steps echo above me. He is racing to catch up.
I’m on the fourth floor.
I’m on the third floor.
I’m almost there.
I just need to get to the lobby and out the front door.
I won’t come back.
I won’t come back to Bennett Tower.
Not ever again.
I’ll figure out somewhere else to stay.
I’ll ask Sammie to call someone else for me.
Maybe Virgo. Or Evan.
I’ll find any other way to live my life, so long as it’s far away from my father and his sick, twisted life.
I’m on the second floor when I feel my feet slip on the steps.
Gravity pushes me down. I roll and I fall and I tumble. I land on my back, my body just another collapsed, failed product of Benjamin Lowe.
I gasp for oxygen. My lungs are empty of air—the hard impact has knocked them clean. I struggle to sit up, to move, to breathe, to stand up and keep my body moving, away from him. His steps are coming closer and closer. I need to go. I need to get away. But the sharp spasms stab my chest, and all I can do is crawl.
All I can do is grovel.
I look up. The corridor spins above me.
“Viviana?” He’s caught me. “Are you okay?”
I can’t do it.
I can’t breathe.
I’m suffocating. I’m choking. I’m dissolving, melting, drowning because of him.
He’s here now, his hand on my back, telling me to breathe, that I’m okay, that he’s here for me, that I just need to suck in the air, to let my lungs relax, to tell them to settle.
For a brief moment, I let him tell me what to do. I let his words in. I let him convince my lungs that they need to relax. I let him tell my body that it needs to breathe.
The oxygen returns. My lungs become whole again. My body is in pain—my lungs, my head, my back—but I can move. I can sit up.
I can see him clearly.
My father, Benjamin Lowe, is a dangerous man. He is manipulative and strange and selfish and mean.
And then I hear his voice, loud and clear. “Viviana, what is this all about? You’re acting crazy. You need to calm down.”
That’s it.
I can’t do this anymore.
“Calm down? You want me to calm down? How can I? More than anything, Dad! More than anything!”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“Paige, Dad. And your other kids. You love her—you love them—more than anything.”
My voice lifts into the corridor like thunder, like lightning, like the rage of a thousand storms.
“You love them more than anything.”
He sits on the step next to me. “Oh hell.”
“Yeah. Oh hell. I know everything, Dad. I followed you. I saw them. I saw how you kissed her and you hugged them. You got her a lion? A lion, Dad? You couldn’t even be creative enough to get something different for your different children?”
I stand up. My body throbs with the pain of my collapse, but I somehow feel stronger than I ever have, maybe in my entire life.
“You want to have an adult conversation?” I ask. “Fine. Here it is: I’m done. You’ve lost me, for good. You have no right to judge me or push me or criticize me, ever again. You can’t control me anymore.”
I stumble down the steps, away from him.
“Wait—” He stands up and reaches out to me. “You’re hurt.”
“No!” I yell. “Don’t you dare follow me. It’s done. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do to help me now.”
*
I end up back at Sammie’s only because I know now that he’ll leave me alone. I send him one last text: Tell Mom to let me be. If either of you even tries to come upstairs, I’ll tell her what I know, and then everything will be over for you.
Sammie’s mom is kind to me. She doesn’t ask me any questions, probably because she’s talked to my mom. She just lets me move in with them. She lets me eat their food and use their shampoo and sleep on their couch.
Sammie requests her original shift back from Mr. Bautista, so at least I have her by my side again. “It pays to know people in low places,” she jokes. I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.
That’s because I am hollow.
I am a sore, broken mess of a person.
Nothing can fix me.
PART FOUR
Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s College Application Checklist □ May: AP Exams bombed □ June–July: Design and Engineering Summer Academy thwarted □ July: Work on College Apps
□ August: Work on College Apps; Study for SAT
□ September: Finalize Stanford Application