Please Don't Tell - Laura Tims Page 0,55

dying. He punched a hole in the basement wall.”

“Are you okay, though?”

“That woman in the video sued my dad, back in NYC. But the security video from the street camera disappeared. That’s why the chief suggested he apply for jobs in upstate New York instead of straight-out firing him.” The swing chain’s pinching her fingers. “I just don’t understand who found it.”

I twist my swing and then I let go, spinning. The playground blurs. “Are people giving you shit at school?”

“Most of the time, people forget he’s my dad. We’re not exactly color matched,” she says sarcastically. “Besides, I am known for not caring and that means people tend to return the favor.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Whoever it was who did it, however they found the recording, I’m grateful to them. My dad’s a bad person.”

I’m quiet.

“Next month I’m eighteen, then I’ll be in full control of my inheritance from my mom. Gonna sublet an apartment, graduate at Stanwick. I applied to NYU. So did Cassius, I guess.”

“He moved out yesterday,” I say. “I watched the U-Haul pull down the end of our street. Will you miss him?”

“We were temporary friends. Sometimes you gotta be friends with somebody because they need someone, not because the two of you have anything in common.”

My head hurts. “I’m here if you ever need someone.”

“You don’t wanna hear my garbage. I want you to keep looking up to me.” She grins briefly.

There’s something special about being liked by someone who hates almost everyone else.

“It’s easier than you think, not looking up to someone anymore. All it takes is you seeing their cracks. I used to look up to my dad.” She pushes off the ground, swings high. Her voice whooshes past me. “My mom was smart, rich, pretty. I know my grandpa’s mind was blown when she picked him. All the people in the world, and she goes for a white cop? Jesus.”

“Jesus,” I echo, thinking about people we’re not supposed to like, thinking of Levi.

“Mom saw the best in everybody. She looked at people like they were better versions of themselves, and it made them want to be better. She was like you.” She smiles at me for a second. “Maybe he used to be different. You get trained to see other people as screwups, rule breakers, and you forget how to treat them like they’re human. Sometimes I’m glad my mom died before she could see what he turned into.”

I shut my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nov.”

“It’s one thing to say you hate your dad. Everyone’s dad is an asshole sometimes. But it’s different to realize you’re never going to wake up one morning and have a dad who isn’t an asshole, and that you’re going to be one of those people who never talks to their dad as an adult, and when he dies someday, you’ll only find out because the hospital digs up your name in some phone book. . . .”

I jump off my swing, hug her. She’s got bird bones. The feel of human skin on mine starts to bring back far-off fireworks of that night with Cassius. My nerve endings reroute straight to it now.

“I’m sorry,” November says. Her forehead’s on my collarbone. “I don’t want to be this way to you.”

“You’re not any bad thing to me,” I say, but she’s already gathering the calm back on her face like she’s tying up her hair.

“When you’re a kid, the people you’re stuck living with, it’s a lottery. If they’re assholes, too bad. There’s nothing you can do until you turn eighteen.”

“Parenthood is weird,” I agree. “It’s like, here, have this small person, do whatever you want to it until it’s a bigger person, we don’t care.”

“I think that’s why we end up being each other’s parents. We’re the only ones who know what it’s like.” She hops off the swing, lightly punches my shoulder. “That’s why it’s my job to look after you.”

I have to tell her about the blackmail. I can’t spend my life not telling people things because I’m afraid they’ll stop liking me.

But my phone buzzes first. It’s Levi.

there is an absolutely terrible zombie movie playing tonight. sounds like a great excuse to sit awkwardly next to each other for a couple hours and get blushy every time our arms touch. you in?

I completely forgot that we were going to see a movie.

But I can’t go when all of this is happening. That would be insane.

November grabs my phone.

“Hey!”

“I reserve the right to know who’s