Ever since Zoe returned to California last week, her mom seemed a little sad. She’d been talking a lot about how they didn’t have family to share the holidays with. This afternoon, Zoe found her crying by the pool. Sierra said she’d been thinking about her parents and missing them.
Zoe scrolled through her phone. These were the moments when she wished she had a father, someone she could always turn to and count on. She saw Jane Morrison in her contacts. It was three in the morning on the East Coast, but she called anyway.
“Zoe?” Jane’s voice was groggy. “What’s wrong, honey? Is everything okay?”
“I think my mom’s been drinking,” Zoe said quietly. “I’m not sure if she’s even conscious. She may have taken pills, too. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. I shouldn’t even be telling anyone this.”
“I’m not anyone,” her aunt said. “Do you know what she took? Or how much? Has this happened before?”
Zoe’s hands were shaking as she told her about seventh grade and the private room at the hospital and then rehab.
“I need you to call 911. Tell them exactly what you told me.” Jane was speaking slowly, but her voice was high.
Zoe felt like there was a noose around her neck pulling tighter and tighter.
“Zoe . . . can you do that right now?”
“Can I?” Zoe asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it too public? Wouldn’t Max—”
“Call 911,” Jane said. “In the meantime, I’ll be on the next plane to LA.”
JANUARY
MIA
AFTER WEEKS OF pleading, Mia finally got her mom to book her an appointment with a dermatologist. Her mom totally didn’t believe she had skin cancer on her elbow, but it’s not like she was the one touching the blackish mole on a daily basis. It had appeared suddenly over Christmas break, and Mia was convinced it was melanoma.
Mia’s mom picked her up from school early on the big day. Her beige Volvo still had a brand-new smell that made Mia queasy. As her mom drove, she chewed four pieces of green-tea gum in fifteen minutes, spitting them into a tissue one by one. Mia’s mom was a sales director at a pharmaceutical company, and she lived to work. On the drive to the Kirkland Medical Complex, she checked her phone at every light. Mia bit down on the insides of her cheeks, wondering how long it would take to die from skin cancer.
The dermatologist’s name was Dean Kimball. It said so in gold letters on the glass door. Mia imagined that he’d look like a Ken doll, muscular and tan with a Trident white smile. His office was full of fliers about laser hair removal. Mia’s mom slipped a few pamphlets into her bag just as her phone rang.
“I have to take this call,” she said. “It’ll be a while.”
“Aren’t you coming in with me?” Mia asked.
Her mom handed her the health insurance card and hurried back out the glass doors.
The woman at the front desk gave Mia a clipboard. There was a form about her skin history that had two outlines of a body, one labeled front and the other back. The instructions said to put an X over areas of concern. Mia considered X-ing out the entire picture of the body, front and back. That was how she felt most days, like her body was full of uncertainty. Her boobs had finally started growing, except that the left was coming in bigger than the right. She had some hair under her arms but none down there yet.
Mia handed the paperwork to the receptionist and picked up People. The cover story was “Sierra Laybourne in Distress.” There was a grainy image of Sierra Laybourne being rushed into the emergency room on New Year’s Eve. The article was about how the official cause was dehydration, but anonymous sources said it was an overdose, that she may have spent last fall in a secluded rehab.
Mia had read this online already. People at school were saying that was why Zoe had returned to Hankinson after Christmas break when she’d told people she was moving back to California. Mia wished she could tell Zoe that she hoped everything was okay with her mom, but she was still too intimidated to talk to her.
“Mia Flint?” a woman in pink scrubs asked.
Mia’s heart was beating fast as she followed the woman into an examination room.
“Change into this gown, open to the back,” she said to Mia. “Panties on and bra off.”
No one had said anything about stripping down. The mole was on her elbow. She wished her mom were here to tell this woman she could stay dressed.
“Any questions?”
“I really have to take my clothes off?” Mia asked quietly.
“How else is the doctor going to examine your skin?”
When the woman walked out, Mia slowly pulled off her jeans and shirt and wrapped herself in the thin green robe. Her boobs looked lopsided, and her legs were dry and stubbly. She wanted to curl into a knot on the paper-covered table and disappear.
A moment later the door opened. The woman was back and this time the doctor was with her.
“I’m Doctor Kimball,” he said, extending his hand. He was short and potbellied with nest of gray hair. At least he wasn’t a Ken doll.
Even so, Mia stared at her hands, lacing them tightly in her lap.
“So . . . Mia,” he said, glancing at the computer on his desk. “What brings you here?”
“A mole on my elbow,” Mia whispered. “I want to make sure it’s not cancer.”
“Have you been reading books about kids with cancer?”
Mia shrugged. She actually had, but what did that have to do with anything?
The doctor laughed. “I’m just playing with you. Have you ever had a dermatological exam before?”
Mia flushed as she shook her head. The woman was reading a chart and didn’t even look up.
“Do you have a parent here with you?”
“My mom’s on a call,” she said.
“Well, let’s have a look.”
Dr. Kimball’s hands were cold and smooth as they raced over Mia’s back and front, legs and arms. He paused for an extra second at Mia’s elbow, shining a bright light on the mole. Mia squeezed her eyes shut. Her stomach felt as sour as curdled milk.
“So,” he said, switching off the light, “everything looks good. That mole isn’t going to kill you. You won’t end up like a character in a book. You’ll get your happily-ever-after, or whatever it is you kids want.”
As he turned to his computer he and the woman laughed like it was a big joke. Like Mia’s entire life was a big joke.
MARCH
WHITNEY
MOM JUST TOLD me that she and Dad saw a custody mediator today, Alicia texted.
Whitney adjusted the band on her yoga pants and looked around to make sure no one else had seen that. She and some other people from the chorus were in the back of the auditorium at a rehearsal for Grease. They were chatting and swapping shoulder rubs. Whitney so didn’t want to think about her parents’ divorce right now. These days, rehearsal was the one place she felt good. She didn’t even care that she didn’t get a big part. The chorus had become really close. Plus, the choreographer was putting her in front for all the dances.
Okay . . . whatever, Whitney texted her sister. Hopefully, that would shut her up.
The custody stuff was probably Alicia’s fault. After they split up, their parents had agreed that Whitney and Alicia would divide their weeks between their mom and dad. Except then Alicia decided she hated their dad and was refusing to go there. That left Whitney alone to haul her stuff back and forth every three days and eat takeout Chinese alone with her dad and hear all about his tropical fish.
No, it’s worse than that, Alicia texted back.
Worse than what? Whitney wrote, but instead of keeping up this conversation with Alicia, she tucked her phone under her leg. Alicia needed to get a life. It was like she enjoyed making Whitney upset.
“Did you know that today is the Ides of March?” Gus asked. He was a sophomore and a three-season jock. A hamstring injury had kept him out of basketball this winter, so he’d tried out for the play and h
ad gotten into the chorus. He also happened to be Whitney’s boyfriend.
“What’s that?” Laurel asked.
“March fifteenth,” Gus said. “The day that Brutus killed Caesar.”
Whitney positioned herself behind Gus and squeezed her fingers into his wide shoulders. He stretched his neck from side to side. She and Gus had been together for two weeks. He was cute with short curly hair and he’d just gotten his license. They made out in his car after they dropped Laurel off every night.
Laurel was definitely Whitney’s best friend now. When Kyra didn’t get cast in Grease, not even in the chorus, she stopped talking to Whitney. A total freeze-out. Kyra sat at a different lunch table and turned her head when she passed Whitney in the hall. Whitra was dead and so was Kyrney.
Whitney’s phone pinged under her leg. She ignored it. It pinged again and then again.
“I think someone’s trying to text you,” Laurel said.
Whitney leaned in and kissed Gus’s neck. He moaned a little and squeezed her thigh. Maybe she’d let him go to second base after rehearsal tonight.
“Want me to see who’s texting you?” Laurel asked, reaching for Whitney’s phone.
“No!” Whitney said, pulling away from Gus. The last thing she wanted was to have anyone see those texts from her sister. She slipped her phone out.
You wanna hear how bad it is? Alicia had written. They went in to fight over custody of our DOG. I hate them.
Whitney was aware of her friends, chatting happily around her, totally oblivious.
Custody of Vic? she wrote to Alicia. That was their white Jack Russell terrier. Since her dad had stayed in the house after the separation, he’d gotten the dog.
Are there other dogs in the picture? Alicia texted back. Of course Vic.
Why can’t they just figure it out on their own? Whitney asked.
Because they’re immature infants, Alicia wrote. I hate them both.
“Do you ever wonder what Caesar thought?” Laurel asked, taking a sip of water from Whitney’s bottle.
Whitney set down her phone. Her head felt woozy. “What he thought when?” she asked. She wanted to pretend things were normal, that her parents weren’t going through a divorce and fighting over a dog and her sister didn’t hate everyone. She wished she could live in this world of Grease and never leave.
“When Brutus was coming at him with a knife,” Laurel said.
“It wasn’t just Brutus coming at him,” Gus said. “It was the entire Senate.”
“Brutal,” Whitney said.
Everyone laughed. When her phone pinged again, she turned it off.
APRIL
GREGOR
GREGOR DID NOT see this coming. At least they were doing dishes so he didn’t have to look his dad in the eye.
“As I imagine you know,” his dad said, “there are several brands. When you do need a condom, I recommend starting with a conventional maker like Trojan or Lifestyle.”
At least his mom and Erica weren’t home. They were searching for prom dresses at the mall. He and his dad had made burgers and eaten in front of the TV. Things had seemed normal until . . . this. Gregor’s cheeks felt feverish, and his ears were ringing.
“Do you know about lubrication?” his dad asked, handing him a sudsy plate.
Gregor stooped over the dishwasher, taking extra time to fit the plate in.
“I guess,” he finally managed. “It’s moisture, right?”
“Exactly.” His dad handed him two forks. “A condom with lubrication will be more comfortable for your partner . . . and for you. Spermicide is important too. I’ll buy you some condoms to try on when you’re ready. It’s good to have practice.”
Now his dad was going too far. Way too far.
“Dad.” Gregor’s voice was barely a squeak. “I’m kind of dying here. Can we change the subject?”
“Too much?”
“Maybe a little,” Gregor said. “Maybe a thousand times more than a little.”
“Got it.” Gregor’s dad tossed him a sponge to clean the counters. “Here’s a good story for you. This is an embarrassing one from when I was in high school.”
“It’s not about condoms, is it?”
His dad shook his head and then squeezed dishsoap into the frying pan. “One morning my mom was dropping me off outside the band room.”
Gregor tried to picture his grandmother as a mom, driving her son to school. Nana Margaret had gotten her license taken away a few years ago when she’d knocked over three mailboxes in a five-day period.
Gregor’s dad continued. “She was driving a green Oldsmobile station wagon with a bumper sticker that said My Child Is An Honor Student.”
“Sounds bad,” Gregor said, grinning. He was still recovering from the condom talk, but he liked stories from when his dad went to Hankinson.
“I opened the passenger door, got my oboe case, and stepped out. Just at that moment, Nana Margaret backed up, rolling over my foot. But instead of continuing to reverse, she braked to remind me I had an orthodontist appointment that afternoon.”
“She drove over your foot? Were you okay?”
“No!” Gregor’s dad laughed. “But just as I was about to scream, I saw three cute girls on the path going into school, watching me.”
Gregor groaned. He tried to imagine that happening to him. It was too horrible to think about. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘Back it up, Mom.’”
Gregor winced. “You said it like that? What did the girls do?”
“They were laughing like crazy.”
“How was your foot?”
Gregor’s dad smiled as he turned off the faucet. “Two broken toes. I couldn’t run cross-country for the rest of the season. But the girls seeing it was probably worse.”
Later that night Gregor sat on his bed with his journal open in his lap. No denying it, his dad had been a dork in high school. The “Back it up, Mom” story was total proof.
He chewed on his pen cap. He could hear his parents oohing and aahing in the other room as Erica modeled her prom dress. Russell was a junior, which was why Erica was going to the prom even though she was only a sophomore.
The thing was, Gregor’s dad had been a dork, but he’d eventually grown taller and gotten his braces off. He went to Reed College out in Oregon and then Cornell Law School. That was where he met Gregor’s mom. They got married and moved back to Hankinson and bought a house and had kids and this really nice life.
Gregor imagined a similar situation playing out for him. That was what he was planning to describe in his journal, except when he started writing, this was what came out instead:
April 11
Condoms
He scribbled that out so that no one could ever see it. Even the word condom freaked him out. Sure, he got boners, but to imagine needing a condom was insane. That would mean a girl was in the picture. And whenever Gregor thought of a girl, he thought of Whitney. Which was even more insane.
ZOE
“YOU NEED A thing,” Aunt Jane said to Zoe.
They were hanging out in the kitchen, waiting for the mac and cheese to finish baking. Zoe had made the béchamel sauce by herself.
“What do you mean?” Zoe picked a chunk of Gouda off the cutting board and popped it into her mouth.
“Interests,” Aunt Jane said. “Sports, music, a cooking class. You need to do something, start hanging out with other kids. Your grandmother loved cooking, you know. She passed it on to me. I can look into some classes. . . .”
Zoe shook her head. No, she wanted to say. I’m not ready. I can barely make it through seven hours of school without wanting to fall asleep. That was how it had been since she’d gotten back from California. She was even supposed to return to Hankinson, but then New Year’s happened and everyone decided it was better for Zoe to be here while Sierra figured her life out.
Her phone rang. It was Whitney Montaine.
“A girl from school,” she said to her aunt.
“Go ahead and answer,” Aunt Jane said. “We’re not eating for a few minutes.”
“No, it’s okay. I can—”
“This is what I was just saying. You need things in your life. Answer your phone.”
Zoe hurried into the living room so Aunt Jane couldn’t listen in.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Zoe? How’s it going?”
Of all the girls at Hankinson, Whitney was definitely the nicest. Whenever Zoe braved the cafeteria, which was maybe once a week, Whitney waved her over. Whitney picked her in gym, and she was always inviting her out with her and her friends. But Zoe never said yes. Whitney was too gorgeous and perfect. Being around her made Zoe feel blurry.
“A few of us are going to the mall tomorrow night,” Whitney said. “They’re having a sale on prom dresses. But it’s not like we’re only looking at dresses.”
Zoe knew from the lunch table that Whitney was going to the prom with a popular senior, Tripp, who was Brock Sawyer’s older brother. She’d broken up with Gus when Brock’s brother asked her to the prom. Brock was the cute guy who used to go out with Kyra. Kyra used to be Whitney’s best friend, but they didn’t talk anymore. Or maybe they were talking again. It was exhausting to keep it all straight.
“That sounds cool,” Zoe said, sitting on the piano bench. She definitely didn’t want to be stuck at the mall with Whitney and her friends.
“My mom is driving us. It’ll be me and Laurel and maybe Kyra if she’s talking to me tomorrow.” Whitney giggled. “We can also hang out, try on bikinis. Can you believe it’s almost summer?”
Zoe scratched at a pimple on her arm. She’d been trying on a bikini in London when Sierra flipped out and screamed at her. That was what had started all of this. Or maybe not. Maybe things were going to fall apart no matter what.
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I’m busy tomorrow night. Thanks for asking.”
“That’s okay,” Whitney said. “I just thought I’d ask. Wish me luck with the dress search.”
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