He looks down, crosses his arms, uncrosses them. Then he’s laughing too. “Now I don’t know what to do.” I laugh harder, and Dad beams. “It’s nice to see you happy.”
I feel my face falling, but try to hold a smile up to make him feel better. Because “happy” isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe myself. Far from it, actually.
Mom and Dad don’t understand how someone can laugh but still be depressed. How someone can stop being depressed for a period of time, but still suffer from depression. How someone can appear to be functioning in a way they think is normal, but still be struggling with their mental health.
But I’m so tired of fighting people—even myself—that I don’t want to fight about this, too.
So I let him have this one, because some conversations can’t happen in a single day.
“I’m sorry about the set list,” I say.
“You’ve already apologized—” Dad starts.
“I know. But it was always when Mom was around. It was never just to you.”
He breathes out of his nose, nodding.
I look down in my lap. “I know if it were up to you, you’d probably still be mad. And I’d deserve that, so it’s fine. But I want you to know how sorry I really am. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t do it.”
His face doesn’t change. “You’d stay here? Go to school?”
I freeze like I’ve been caught.
Dad smiles gently. “That’s what I thought.”
“I wouldn’t steal the music, though,” I point out. “But… I don’t think I would’ve gone to school.”
He sighs, leaning forward so he can rest his elbows on his knees. “You were great up there, you know. Your mom and I haven’t said that to you yet, because we didn’t want to upset you, but it’s true. I was so proud of you. The proudest I’ve ever been.”
The ache in my chest grows.
“Look, if you could go back in time, I wouldn’t want you to steal the set list either. But not joining the circus? I don’t know if I’d want that. Because something’s changed in you. You’ve grown up. You’ve learned lessons—the kind you can only learn by going out and really living. And I think it’s been good for you.” He holds up a hand. “I’m not saying I’m happy about you running away and ignoring your mom and me for months. But I think it was a good experience for you. I really do.”
I’m too stunned to think, so I say the only words I can manage. “But you hate Maison du Mystère.”
Dad laughs. “I dislike Simon Tarbottle.” He pauses. “Well, I hate him now, after what he did to you.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Thanks, Dad.”
“So.” He claps his hands. “Since we’re in here talking and all, do you want to tell me who that boy was that ran after you into your trailer?”
I lean back and rub my temple, face crumpled. “Not really, no.”
“Oh, come on. I can talk about boys with you,” he says.
“You’re even making that sound weird,” I point out.
Dad’s quiet for a second. “Well, I hope he’s nice to you. That’s the important thing.”
“He is. Was.” I drop my hands into my lap. “We aren’t in touch.”
“I see,” he says. “He’s a very talented aerialist. I was tempted to offer him a job—poach a performer from Tarbottle and see how he likes it.” Dad grins.
“Don’t feel like you missed your opportunity. Vas wouldn’t have taken it anyway,” I say. “He was only performing because of me. He’s actually a musician—a really good one. He wrote that song, you know. The one we performed to.”
“Did he?” Dad looks genuinely impressed.
I nod. “And if it makes you feel better, he was very against using your set list. He wanted to use his own stuff.”
“Now I like him even more. Are you sure you don’t want to be in touch with him again?” Dad asks.
“Okay, you’re really pushing it now,” I warn, even though I’m smiling. I stand up. “I’ll let you get back to work. I know you’re busy.”
Dad stands too. “Not too busy for you. Remember that, okay? I’m trying to remember it too.”
My eyes start to well up, so I turn for the door quickly. “Oh,” I say, stopping myself. When I turn around, Dad is already reaching for his violin. “I almost forgot. I wanted to ask you—who told you and Mom I was performing?”