I knew something had to be really wrong the minute I saw Grace standing in the office next to Max. Grace didn’t come to our school. She didn’t make brownies for our bake sales like my mom or chaperone our field trips to the Seattle Art Museum like my dad. The only thing Grace did was work, live with my dad, and drive a car that probably cost more than my mother’s whole house, which is something I overheard my mom say once to Diane.
“How much do you think she paid for it?” Diane asked in a low voice, and my mother answered, “Well, it’s a Lexus. It couldn’t have been cheap.” Then she said the thing about it probably costing more than our house, which I knew couldn’t really be true. And even though I was around the corner in the hallway, eavesdropping as they sat on the couch and drank from a box of wine Diane brought over, I could picture the look on my mother’s face: her tiny nose all crinkled up and her eyes narrowed, the same way she looked when she accidentally opened a carton of moldy cottage cheese.
“Does Grace have a lot of jewelry?” Mama asked me once when Max and I got home from our dad’s house. She was sitting on the edge of my bed as I studied for a history test the next day.
“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my eyes on my notes. “She has diamond earrings she wears sometimes.” At this point, Grace hadn’t moved in yet, so I only saw her a couple of times a month. I felt weird talking to my mom about her. She was nice enough and didn’t make out with our dad in front of us or anything, which the guy who dated Bree’s mom had done the first time he came over. “So gross,” Bree said. “He used his tongue and everything.” I shuddered at the thought, figuring as long as Grace wasn’t doing that, I could put up with her hanging out with us.
“What about her clothes?” Mama said persistently. “Are they all business suits and heels?”
Finally looking at her, I shook my head. “It’s on the weekend, Mama. She wears jeans and sweaters.” I paused. “Why does it matter?”
Mama stood up, fluffed her hair, and gave me a dazzling smile. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what’s important.”
After she left my room, I considered the fact that it was Mama who seemed to think that Grace’s making more money than us was important. Definitely more than I did. It wasn’t like Grace was Whitney’s kind of rich—she didn’t have a driver or a housekeeper or a tennis court. She just didn’t have as many bills as we did because it was just her. Her car was really the only expensive thing it looked like she had. But it wasn’t brand-new or anything. Plus, Dad was always talking about how hard Grace worked and how capable and smart she was; I wondered if he said any of that to Mama, so she felt bad about just being a waitress.
“Why didn’t you go to college?” I asked her not long after Daddy left us, and an odd look popped up on her face. She took a minute before responding, and when she finally did, there was a false brightness in her voice, almost the same way I’d heard her talk to Max when she was trying to pretend he wasn’t annoying her.
“School was just never my cup of tea,” she said. “I only ever wanted to be a cheerleader. All the silly, meaningless things that just don’t matter in the end.” Her blue eyes narrowed a bit when she looked at me. “That’s why I want you at the academy. You’re a smart girl. I don’t want you to end up like I did.”
I tilted my head and scrunched my eyebrows together. “Like how?”
“Focused on the wrong things in life.” She paused and sharpened her gaze. “What’s important is in here.” She reached over and tapped my forehead lightly with the tip of her index finger. “And in here,” she said, placing her palm flat over my heart.
I swallowed and nodded, knowing she wanted me to agree. And I did, to a point, but I also knew that being pretty got other girls things that being plain like Bree or average like me didn’t get us. I also thought it was weird that Mama was always telling me how pretty I was, but then practically in the next breath, she insisted being smart was more important. I thought it would be kind of great to be both. I liked school well enough—my favorite subjects were history and English—but I had no idea what I might be when I grew up. Not a waitress, though. I knew that much from watching Mama come home so tired she could barely stand, irritated that the table with the highest bill had only left her a 5 percent tip.
“But you were a cheerleader?” I asked Mama, thinking it would be pretty cool if she had been.
“Yes,” she said with a frown, not meeting my gaze. “And it didn’t get me anything but trouble.”
She wouldn’t tell me more when I asked her to explain what kind of trouble she meant, but I assumed it had to do with boys. When I was twelve years old, boys in my class were already snapping my training bra in the hallway or trying to brush up against my chest “accidentally” with their hand. Boys were gross and, as far as I could tell at that point, were nothing but trouble.
Now, in my room at my dad’s house, I could hear the muffled noise of the television from the den. I pulled my cell phone from my backpack and sent my mom another quick text message, asking where she was. I’d sent her one in the car on the way here, too, but she hadn’t responded yet, which worried me. She usually answered within a couple of minutes, even when she was working, in case we needed her. When she didn’t respond to my second text after five, then ten minutes, a cold, hard spot materialized in my belly. I pushed on it, but it didn’t go away. I stared at my phone, squinted my eyes, and willed Mama’s name to appear.
As I waited, I lay on my bed—a futon I’d begged my dad to buy because it looked cool but soon grew to hate because it was hard and I didn’t sleep very well on it. My walls were painted a pale lime green, and my curtains and blankets were lavender. The same colors as my room at my mom’s, which I’d asked for so maybe it wouldn’t feel so weird to live in two houses. It didn’t work. It still felt weird to come here two weekends a month. I loved seeing my dad but hated having to pack a bag, hated leaving my mom alone, and really hated that Grace got to spend more time with my dad than I did. She was always trying to be my friend.
“I’m going to get a pedicure with Melody,” she said to me one Saturday morning. “Would you like to come?”
I shook my head and kept my eyes on the book I was reading. I could be nice to her when she was with my dad, but I didn’t see any reason why I had to spend any time alone with her. She was probably just trying to get my dad to think she was greater than he already did.
“Are you sure?” Grace asked. “They have crazy colors like neon orange and green. You can get any shade you want.” I threw a glance over to my dad, who stood in the kitchen, watching our exchange over the breakfast bar.
“Ava, it’s very nice of Grace to offer to take you to do this,” he said. “It’s a little rude to not accept.”
I sighed and tucked my chin into my chest, burrowing a little deeper into the couch. I didn’t care if it was rude. I didn’t want to go.
“I’ll go!” Max said, piping up from his spot in the recliner across from me. “Can I get black toenails with white skulls painted on them?” I pressed my lips together and glared at him. “What?” he said, blinking at me. “That would be cool.”
Grace laughed and looked over to my dad, who chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t think so, buddy. Grace and Melody want to have some girl time.” He paused. “Ava?”
“I don’t want to, Dad,” I said, pleading. Even from across the room, I saw a quick flash of disappointment on Grace’s face.
“That’s okay,” she said, backing off. “It’s not a big deal. Maybe another time.” She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but think how pretty she was. “Right, Ava?”
I gave her a quick nod, thinking, Fat chance, but also begrudgingly appreciative that she didn’t push things too much with me. For the most part, she gave me the space I needed. Only now she had shown up at my school out of nowhere and she wasn’t telling us why.
I sighed and sat up, thinking about the stash of candy bars I had hidden in my closet, wondering if Grace would be able to smell it on my breath if I ate one now. She’d probably tell my dad I’d broken his no-sugar-before-dinner rule. My stomach grumbled and I decided I didn’t care. I opened my closet door as quietly as I could, crouching down so I could reach behind a box of Barbie dolls that I didn’t play with anymore. I grabbed a Snickers bar and listened for the front door, hopeful my dad had come home, but there was still just the sound of the television. I ate the candy bar quickly, barely tasting the chocolate as it melted on my tongue. I wondered where Grace was. Hiding in my dad’s bedroom, I guessed. Or at the dining room table typing away on her laptop, which seemed like her favorite thing to do.
A phone rang in another room—the ringtone was Grace’s, some weird Latin-sounding music. As quietly as I could, I opened the door and snuck down to the end of the hall, where Grace and my father slept. Pressing my ear up against the door, I listened hard, but I could only make out one or two words. She was whispering. Something was definitely wrong. The cold spot grew wider in my stomach, spreading up through my chest, down my arms, and to the tips of my fingers, until I could barely feel them. I walked back to my room; climbed into bed, shivering beneath my blankets; and, like a thousand times before, waited for my dad to come home.
* * *
“Do you have to stay at the restaurant so late?” Mama said. She and my daddy were standing in the bathroom, where he had just gotten out of the shower and was now shaving in the steamed-up mirror. I liked the squeak-squeak sound his hand made when he rubbed the fogged-up part away so he could actually see his reflection. Max was in his bedroom taking a nap, and I sat in the hallway, my back against the wall and my knees pulled up to my chest, listening.
My daddy sighed. “I can’t afford a general manager. It’s me, the kitchen staff, and the bartender. That’s it. You knew it was going to be like this.” Daddy had opened his own restaurant that year, but Mama said it was taking time for it to make enough money so he didn’t have to work every day. I liked that he brought us home treats. Sometimes, I even had pasta for breakfast or chocolate cheesecake in my lunchbox. None of the other kids had that, so I thought I was actually pretty lucky.
“Did I?” Mama said, her voice high-pitched and shaking. “Did I know you’d leave first thing in the morning, come home for a couple of hours so your kids will know you still exist, then leave again?” Daddy didn’t answer, so she continued, her voice becoming high and squeaky like one of my old baby dolls’. “I didn’t sign up for this, Victor. I have to do everything here. The kids, the cleaning, the shopping—”
“It’s what we agreed on!” There was a loud clank of something landing in the bathroom sink, and I jumped, slapping my hand over my mouth so they didn’t hear my surprised yelp. “We agreed that my opening the Loft was the way to get us where we really want to go. We agreed that you’d stay home with the kids. I know I’ve been busy, but I really don’t understand what you’re complaining about. I’m working so hard for us. For our family.”
“I miss you. That’s all.” Mama’s voice was so soft I could barely hear her. “I didn’t realize you’d be gone so much of the time. I need help.”
“What kind of help? What else can I do?” Daddy’s voice got quieter, too, and the icky feeling that had started to make me sick to my stomach began to get better. “Kelli, honey. Tell me what you want from me.”
“I don’t know,” she said, but her words were all crackly. “I wish my parents were here. Maybe I should call and ask them to come.” She paused and her tone suddenly lifted. “Maybe they’ve changed their minds.”
Daddy sighed. “Sweetie, you haven’t seen them in over ten years. They didn’t even want to meet their grandchildren. I don’t understand why you keep letting them hurt you.”
“They’re my parents,” Mama whimpered. “I miss them.”
“I understand that. I miss my mother every day. And I’m really sorry to say this, but if yours missed you, do you think we’d be having this conversation?”
A second later, Mama rushed past me in the hall, not even noticing I was on the floor. She was crying. I didn’t like how Daddy sounded when he talked with Mama lately. He never used to be mean to her, and now he said things that made her cry. But then, lots of things made her cry. Burned toast, or a messy bathroom. I rubbed her back for her when she got like this, the same way she did for me when I was upset about something, but it didn’t help. She cried harder when I touched her. I made it worse.
Now I waited a minute, then crawled into the bathroom on my hands and knees, pretending to be a cat. Mama had allergies so we couldn’t get a real kitten; pretending I was one was the next-best thing.
“Meow,” I said to my daddy, who was leaning against the bathroom wall, staring up at the ceiling. He looked back down at me and smiled when he heard the noise. “Meow,” I said again, pretending to lick the side of my hand and rubbing my face with it, then inched my way over to press my body against his long legs.
“What’s this?” he said. “An eight-year-old, brown-haired, blue-eyed cat?”
“Meow,” I said. “Almost nine.”
He squatted down and cupped the back of my head in his hand. “Here, kitty kitty.”
I noticed he still had white foam near his ears from shaving, so I grabbed the towel off the rack and wiped it away for him. “Why don’t Gramma and Grampa want to see Mama?” I asked. It scared me to think that my parents could someday not want to see me.
He frowned. “Were you eavesdropping again, young lady? We’ve talked about that a hundred times. Not okay.” He gave the end of my nose a light pinch.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to. I was just walking down the hall.”
“Uh-huh,” Daddy said, but winked at me, too, so I knew he wasn’t really angry. Daddy never stayed mad at me or Max for very long; Mama was the one who took away TV privileges or sent us to our rooms when we misbehaved. With Daddy, I knew I could get away with pretty much everything.
I tried again. “Are Gramma and Grampa mad at Mama? Bree got mad at me once and didn’t talk to me for a whole week.”
“It’s complicated, sweetie. Sometimes grown-ups have problems in their relationships that kids really can’t understand.”
“Like I don’t understand division?”
He chuckled. “Sort of.” He grabbed the towel from me. “Now, you need to scoot so I can finish getting ready.”
“Do you have to go to work?” I asked, carefully searching his face with my eyes. He had brown hair and gray eyes and long, dark lashes. He was the handsomest man in the world.
He gave me a small smile, making his dimple show up. I wanted to stick my finger in it. “I do, kitten,” he said. “It’s how I take care of you guys.”
“But do you have to be gone so long?” I whispered, not looking at him.
He sighed. “As long as it takes to get the business on its feet, baby girl. I know it’s hard, but we’re a family, and we’re going to go through some rough times.”
“Mama’s tired,” I said, still in a whisper. “She cries sometimes, in the middle of the day, she’s so tired.”
Daddy was quiet a minute, pressing his lips together and breathing slowly, through his nose. Then he spoke. “I’ll take care of your mama, okay, Ava? Don’t you worry.”
Nodding my head felt like lying, but I did it anyway. I told my daddy exactly what he wanted to hear.
