They’re the keys to the other house. He’s left them here, hidden in his clothes, and now I’ve found them—they’re in my hand.
There’s a rustling at the front door, a turn of the lock, and voices—my mom’s voice, and Mila’s—she’s crying. What the hell. It’s ten-thirty, and they’re not supposed to be back until this afternoon.
I slide the keys into my pocket and quickly stuff all of my dad’s clothes into his drawers, careful not to slam them closed. I slip out of their room and tiptoe down the hallway toward the living room, the keys burning in my pocket.
“Viviana!” Mila screams as she runs to me. “Are you back? Are you home for good?”
“No, I’m not.” I look up at my mom. “What’s going on? Why are you guys home so early?”
“I threw up!” Mila says, with a proud smile on her face. “We were on a field trip to the Field Museum and I got carsick on the bus and I threw up all over Nicholas Smith. He had to go home, too.”
“Are you okay now?”
“She’s fine,” my mom says. “But, Viviana, thank God you’re here. Could you stay home with her for a few hours? I’m missing my class.”
“Mama, I have to be at work at one.”
“Please, Viviana. I will be back in two hours. I have a meeting with my professor at eleven. I was going to cancel, but he wants to talk to me about an internship—a paid one—and it would mean the world to me if you could stay so I could go.”
“I really don’t think I should—”
Mila pulls at my arm and gives me a sharp, angry look. “Why don’t you want to stay with me? Are you mad at me, too?”
I look at my mom. “What if she throws up again?”
My mom goes into the kitchen and pulls out Gatorade, emergency saltines, and applesauce from the cabinets. “She won’t, but just in case, only feed her this.” And then before I can say anything else, my mom grabs her briefcase, kisses Mila on the forehead, and runs out the door.
*
“Why won’t you tell me?”
It’s the twentieth time she’s asked me in the last hour, and for the twentieth time, I respond by saying, “Because it’s none of your business.”
We’re curled up on the couch watching Planet Earth on Netflix, and I’m trying to get her just to watch the show, to get her to stop asking me so many questions, especially since all I can think about are these keys in my pocket.
“Is it because of Daddy?”
I ignore her question and keep my focus on the TV. “Why is it called a flying lemur if it doesn’t fly and it’s not a lemur?”
She stares at me. “It’s called a colugo. It lives in Borneo. And it’s not flying. It’s gliding.” And then: “Is it because of their almost divorce?”
“This is crazy!” I ignore her question and point to the screen. “Look at how far they travel through the air. How do they do that?”
“It’s the same as a flying squirrel. It’s not that exciting.” And then: “Is it because you’re mad that they won’t pay for your Academy camp thing?”
“But how does it do that? It moves like a Frisbee.”
“Is it because of what happened at school with your ex-boyfriend and the picture you sent him?”
I nearly fall off the couch. “What? How do you know about—”
“I live in this house, too,” she says. “The walls are thin, and I have really good hearing.”
“But that’s none of your business!”
“Why won’t any of you tell me anything?”
“Because,” I say, “you’re too young to understand.”
“I am NOT too young! I’m not stupid. I see everything. I know that Mama and Daddy are having problems. And I know that you’re having problems and they’re so bad that you have to move out, and now Daddy’s gone and Mama’s busy with school and—and—” She starts to cry. “No one cares about me anymore and no one will tell me anything!”
She collapses into the couch and screams into the cushions.
“Oh, Mila, no. That’s not true. That’s the opposite of true. I care about you. I care about you so much.”
“Then why won’t you come home?” Her voice is muffled from the pillows. I sit down next to her and put my hand on her back.
“Don’t rub my back. Answer my question. Why aren’t you home?”
“I just— I can’t be here right now.”
“Are you going to come home soon?”
“If you take your face out from the couch, then yes, maybe, soon.”
She lifts her head. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I’m not sure I mean it, but I want her to calm down. “I love you, Mila.”
“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m glad you love me.”
“We all do.” More than anything, I think.
She doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, she makes me sit down next to her, and then she puts her pinkie in her mouth and rests her head on my shoulder. We sit like that, watching TV in silence, my fingers gripping the keys in my pocket, not knowing what to do next.
Mistakes to Avoid Your Senior Year of High School #2
Senior year is actually too late to start thinking about college, especially for the top schools. Start preparing for the process of applying to colleges in your junior year, making sure to be involved and engaged in all aspects of your educational career.