“Drop it?” my dad asked, his face turning steadily redder. “No, Alexandra, we’re not going to drop it.”
Maybe it was the use of my full name—or the way he was suddenly pretending like he was a regular dad, one who’d earned the right to yell at me about curfews, but whatever it was, I didn’t think I could stand there and listen to it any longer. Because the fact was, I was usually coming in around now, after spending the night at a party or at one of my friends’ houses. But he didn’t know any of that, because he hadn’t been here to see it. I started to take a breath and tell him this, but even thinking about it was like getting close to a powder keg. There was so much in there, that I knew if I said anything else, I would explode. “I don’t have to take this,” I said, shaking my head. I needed to leave, get out of there, try and get my heart rate somewhat back to normal. I was on the verge of saying things I couldn’t take back, and I needed to leave before I did. I grabbed my bag and keys from where I’d dropped them on the counter and headed for the side door.
“Where are you going?” my dad asked, sounding more confused now than angry, like I’d done something that had deviated from whatever script he’d been following. I didn’t answer, just yanked the door open with hands that were shaking and stepped outside into the bright sunlight. My sunglasses were back on the kitchen counter, but I didn’t think it would be advisable to go back and grab them. “Andie,” my dad called after me, and I could hear he was back to being mad again—madder than he’d been when I’d come downstairs. “Come back here. I’m your father.”
My lip started to quiver, and I bit it hard as I half ran to my car, trying to keep myself from crying, or yelling, or doing some combination of the two. But mostly I wanted to stop myself from screaming back at him what was reverberating inside my head. No, you’re not. Not for years and years now. I didn’t let myself look back as I started the car, put it in drive, and peeled out faster than I should have. I didn’t even signal, just pulled out onto the road, hands gripping the steering wheel, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I’d just made things much, much worse.
ME
Hey. Where are people?
TOBY
PALMER
I’m at the diner with Tom. I think Toby’s trying to say she’s at the museum until 5?
TOBY
BRI
Hey! I’m working the concession counter at the theater until six. You guys should come by!
Wait, what’s with the rainbow?
PALMER
Toby?
TOBY
BRI
I no longer understand anything that’s happening.
ME
Well, I need to get out. Meet you guys at the diner.
Sorry if this was a couple’s thing.
PALMER
Totally not! See you soon.
Tob, are they PAINTINGS? Is that what you’re trying to say?
TOBY
BRI
So I guess you guys aren’t coming by?
ME
Can’t right now. Will explain later.
? ? ?
I pulled open the door to the diner and scanned the room for Palmer and Tom, smoothing my hair down. Since I’d gotten into my car barefoot, I’d been relieved to find an old pair of flip-flops underneath the passenger seat. However relaxed the dress code was here, I had a feeling they probably weren’t kidding about the “no shoes” thing.
Not that the rest of my outfit was great, by any stretch of the imagination. I was still wearing Clark’s ASK ME ABOUT THE LUMINOSITY T-shirt and his sweatpants, and I’d now slept in both. A glance in my rearview mirror let me know that my hair had dried puffy on one side and flat on the other and that I had a pillow crease on one cheek. But if I could just hustle into our booth, I would be okay.
I spotted them, in our normal booth, and hustled over. “Hey,” I said, sliding across from Palmer and Tom, who were already sitting on the same side, Tom’s arm slung around Palmer’s shoulders.
“Whoa,” Palmer said, drawing back slightly from me, her expression surprised. “I mean,” she said, regrouping, “hi, Andie. Um . . . rough night?”
“Is it that bad?” I asked, tucking my hair behind my ears, slinking down farther in the booth. As I did, I caught the eye of a guy sitting across the restaurant and felt my stomach sink as he gave me a smile and a quick wave. It was Frank Porter, who I’d had a micro-crush on last year when I heard he broke up with his longtime girlfriend. But he came back to school in the fall so clearly besotted with Emily Hughes that I’d quashed my crush immediately. That still didn’t mean I wanted to look awful in front of him, though. He was sitting across from Matt Collins, who was saying something that made Frank laugh, and I turned my back on them.
“You just don’t look,” Palmer said diplomatically, “you know . . . like yourself.” She frowned at my T-shirt. “What are you even wearing?”
Tom looked at it and shook his head. “Like you know what the Luminosity is,” he scoffed. “Since when do you read fantasy?”