“It was just an argument, Jess. Not the end of the world.”
“But she said—”
“I sometimes forget that you’re just a teenager. But I remember that—how everything feels bigger or, I don’t know, somehow just more when you’re your age.”
“Don’t you of all people dare be condescending,” I say. There’s a sharpness to my tone, and of course, I’m a hypocrite, accusing him of talking down to me while acting like a stereotypical teenager. All snark and pouts.
But screw him.
Seriously.
Screw. Him.
My dad sighs, as if I am impossible, as if I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.
“She said ‘leave and don’t come back.’ I heard her.”
“Stop saying ‘she’ and ‘her.’ Rachel. Her name is Rachel. And people say stupid things when they’re angry.”
“And people do stupid things when they’re grieving, like get married and move across the country and not give a shit about their kid.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I’m yelling now. I don’t know when my control slipped. Because here it is. The anger delivered, whole and solid. Hot and unwieldy. Placental.
“Do you want to leave? Is that what you’re saying?” he asks.
I think of SN, of Dri and Agnes, of Ethan with his electric-blue guitar and his dismissive “hey.” No, I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to feel like this either. Like an interloper in someone else’s home. If I do throw up today, which is more likely than not at this point, I don’t want to have to worry about soiling Rachel’s bathroom. I don’t want to feel in constant danger of eviction.
No, none of that is important. What do I really want? I want to punch my dad in the face—connect fist to nose, crush, crunch, make him bleed. Kick him hard and watch him bend over and squeal and scream the words “I’m sorry.”
This feeling is new. This anger. I’ve always found a way around the pain, have never burrowed straight through like this.
My dad doesn’t look delicate right now, not like the other night, not like most of the last few years. Why have I been the one wearing kid gloves all this time?
“I’m not saying anything. Forget it, Dad. What did you want to talk about?” My fingers are pulled into actual fists. I can trust myself not to throw an actual punch, right?
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing. How school is. Just checking in. I know I’ve been busy. And the other night, I didn’t even ask about your day. I felt bad about that.”
“Busy? I can count the number of conversations we’ve had since we’ve moved.” The rage stays clean and pure and red, like last night’s drinks. Does he have any idea what my life has been like? Funny that he checks in only when I’ve finally started to find my footing.
Too little, too late.
“I just. Wow. I didn’t know—”
“Know what, Dad? That moving here has been hard for me? Are you serious right now?”
“Let’s—”
“Let’s what? Talk about this later? Sure, great idea.” I push away the plate, resist the urge to throw it in my father’s face, and storm out of the room.
“Trouble in paradise?” Theo asks, because of course he is coming down the stairs as I’m marching up, two at a time. I’m shaking with anger, vibrating with the pulse of it. My mouth tastes bitter, full of bile. I imagine switching targets, connecting my fist to Theo’s jaw. Ruining his pretty, pretty face.
“Screw you,” I say.
He shrugs, nonplussed.
“Rage is totally your color.”
—
Later, at Book Out Below!, I sip herbal tea and play Candy Crush on my phone. Only two purchases so far, and one jerk who took a picture of a book to buy online. By late afternoon, just as evening seeps in and I start to feel bored and lonely, the bell dings: new customer. My head snaps up, full-on reflexive now, and I gasp in surprise.
Caleb.
Kilimanjaro gray-T-shirt boy. Who I saw texting at the party. No one from school, other than Liam, has ever walked into this store while I’ve been working, not even Dri, though she promises to visit. I told SN just this morning about this place. So it doesn’t take great powers of deduction to conclude that this must be him before me, finally, in the flesh. My heart squeezes—so this is the person I’ve been spilling my guts to for the last two months—and I wait for the disappointment to hit. It doesn’t.
Instead, I feel disoriented, the same thing that happens after I ask someone