“They swapped,” said Imogen.
“Oh,” said Willow. And then her eyes widened. “Oh!”
She suddenly looked very apologetic for coming off so abrasive.
“Well…you look so pretty, Ez! And you’re doing great.”
I blushed again. And I was WEARING BLUSH. My face probably looked like the red planet, Mars.
“Thanks, sis,” I mumbled.
Willow smiled maniacally, giving me an overenthusiastic thumbs-up.
From then on, it was like nothing had changed. Everyone was shockingly on board with the new Viola. We performed just as good as—if not better than—dress rehearsals.
Nearly two hours later, Sebastian and Imogen were in each other’s arms, as were Holden and I, and Willow was storming off furiously, declaring vengeance upon House Olivia.
We exited the scene.
Tucker sang his song.
The moment Tucker stepped offstage, the audience exploded sharply in a bullwhip crack of applause. That was our cue. We flooded the stage in an arranged order. I was at the center. On my right was Holden, and on my left, Imogen. We held hands and bowed in a synchronized wave, and as we came up, threw our interlocked hands in the air.
It was very, very, very difficult not to smile. The happiness of this moment was splitting my face open.
That’s when someone’s embarrassingly loud dad yelled, “WHOOOOOOO! VIOLA AND MALVOLIO! THEY’RE OURS! THOSE ARE OUR KIDS!”
Willow—holding Holden’s other hand—locked mortified eyes with me, and then we spotted them. Our parents. Mom and Dad were sitting right next to each other. Maybe they weren’t holding hands or looking terribly romantic, but they were standing, and clapping, and cheering, and smiling with a pride that made my heart swell with the highest level of happiness: stupid-happy.
At least, I felt that way for a moment. Then I felt a phantom itch—like the itch an amputee feels in a limb that’s not there anymore. Only this itch enveloped a whole body.
I looked left.
I looked right.
I didn’t see Wynonna anywhere.
I knew exactly where she was supposed to be—to my left, between Captain and Curio—but she wasn’t there. Instead, Captain and Curio were stepping together awkwardly, filling a gap that had clearly just been evacuated.
As soon as we were free to stop bowing, I made a quick, determined exit. Forced and weaved my way through the crowded stage.
“Ezra?” said Imogen. “Where are you go—”
The backstage door closed behind me.
I veered into the main hall. Searched clockwise. Heard the soft chokes of sobbing. I followed the sobs until I was practically upon them—and yet, the source was invisible.
I glanced at the two side-by-side water fountains, wedged in an alcove in the wall. Glanced down.
Wynonna was lying on her side, curled up and inserted beneath them. Her eyes were red.
“I’m not crying,” she said, and sniffed.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Okay, well…what do you want?”
“Are you okay?”
Wynonna’s facade of okayness collapsed effortlessly, like a house of cards. She wept.
“Hey, hey, hey,” I said.
I curled up on the floor facing her. Her hands were draped limply in front of her face. I don’t know why I did what I did next—it was so uncharacteristic of me—but I took her hands. They became a ball in my own hands, and I squeezed them.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
She finally opened her eyes. Our gazes met sideways, across the plane of the vinyl tile floor.
“Carol didn’t show,” she said finally.
“Is that why you were crying?”
“No. But it still hurts, you know? I mean, you two were really connecting. I thought for sure she would show.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was crying because of your parents.”
“My parents?”
Wynonna tried to nod. The mere effort, however, was making her lip quiver and her eyes flood.
“They just love you and Willow so much,” she said. “And it kills me because part of me thinks I was so close to having that again. So close. But I don’t. And I know I’m the one pushing Roscoe away, and I know I’m the one who can’t forgive him, but…but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. You know? Of course I want a family! Of course I want a dad! But why does it have to be like this? Why does it have to hurt so much?”
I didn’t say anything. Words felt inadequate—my words most of all.
She looked at me with tearstained eyes. “Does that make any sense? Am I crazy?”
“You’re not crazy.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh god, I don’t know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know what I don’t want.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want my motherfucking dad to go to Switzerland without me! I don’t want to go to Switzerland with him…but I don’t want him to go without me.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding—which is a weird, almost impossible thing to do with your head lying sideways on the floor. “Then let’s stop him from going to Switzerland.”
Wynonna looked at me quizzically, like I had proposed a non-option. “Can we even do that?”
“You’re Wynonna fucking Jones,” I said. “I was under the impression that you do whatever you want.”
Wynonna laughed and cried simultaneously. It came out in a single emotional burst.
“So?” I said. “Are we gonna stop your motherfucking dad from going to Switzerland or what?”
“Yeah,” said Wynonna—smiling, sniffling. “Let’s stop that motherfucker.”
Holden and Imogen what we were doing, it was like we had extended each of them a formal invitation. It wasn’t even a question of “Can we come?” The only question was:
“Why does your dad want to burn Switzerland?” said Holden. “Is he some sort of anarchist?”
“What?” said Wynonna.
“Oh my god,” I said.
Imogen threw her long arms in the air in exasperation. “He’s moving to the city, Bern—B-E-R-N—Switzerland. Keep up, Holden.”
“Oh,” said Holden, slightly disappointed. “Dang. I thought this was like a stop-the-pyro-terrorist sort of mission.”
“Nope,” said Wynonna. “My dad’s just a chef. A food chef. He doesn’t cook meth or anything.”
Holden opened and closed his mouth during Wynonna’s clarification. I swear to god, if that was his actual question—!
“Dang,” Holden repeated. “Okay. That’s cool. I was just starting to feel like Jack Bauer from Twenty-Four, is all.”
“You can still be Jack Bauer,” said Wynonna. “Think of it as a…um…rescue operation.”
“Please, don’t encourage him,” I said.
“Rescue operation?” said Holden, totally perking up.
“Yeah!” said Wynonna. “We’re rescuing him from the Evil Corporate Agenda. You know, the one that steals fathers from their homes, making them slaves to the system, while their children die of parental neglect and loneliness.”
“Actually,” I said, “Leif’s restaurant is a small, independently
owned— Ow!”
Wynonna punched me in the arm.
“Yeah!” said Holden, nodding his head, getting more and more pumped by the second. “The Evil Corporate Agenda! Hell yeah!”
It was like his entire existence had prepared him for this one critical moment—which was beyond stupid. But I sighed and let him have it.
Imogen massaged her temples, like this was all just a bad dream. Not the mission. Mostly just Holden.
Of course, we had just finished performing a two-and-a-half-hour play directly after school ended. The four of us were experiencing varying degrees of starvation. We resolved to hit up IHOP, snarf down some pancakes, and strategize. We all agreed any for
m of a game plan sounded nice, and pancakes sounded even nicer.
It was decided. I went directly to my parents to tell them we were going out for food and also to be smothered in their love and adoration.
Willow looked relieved. She’d been on the receiving end of enough love and adoration to last a lifetime.
“Hey, there he is!” said Dad. He ruffled my hair—the way I was almost ashamed to admit that I loved—and then pulled me in for a hug. “You did great, bud, real great.”
“Okay, okay, Mom’s turn, hand him over,” said Mom.
She literally pried Dad’s arms open, stole me from his grasp, and hugged me even harder.
“You were excellent,” she said into my ear. “You and Willow. We’re so proud of both of you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Hey, my friends and I were wanting to grab dinner together at IHOP, is that okay?”
My parents looked wounded—as if I had presented them with DNA evidence that I was adopted, and this was the first they’d heard of it.
“Oh,” said Dad. “Well, your mother and I were thinking of taking you and Willow out to dinner as well…but…”
“But it’s fine,” said Mom, in a damaged tone that indicated the opposite. “You have friends. We understand.”
“Yeah…” said Dad, nodding sadly. “Sure…”
“It’s okay…” said Mom, and I thought she might cry.
Even Willow looked devastated. Like I had just filed for my own parents’ divorce.
“But…” I said, “um…”
I stole a sideways glance at Wynonna, Imogen, and Holden, standing a distance away, but not far enough to look like they weren’t shamelessly eavesdropping.
Wynonna sighed. Nodded that it was okay. Forced a weak smile in the name of family.
“But…you could meet us there?” I said. “And sit and eat with us? If you’d like?”
“Oh!” said Mom, and her entire countenance changed. “Are you sure?”
“We wouldn’t be intruding?” said Dad.
Wynonna strolled over and threw her arm around my shoulder. “Hey, we’re family now, remember? Of course we’re sure!”
As my family burbled with elation, Wynonna winked at me.
I couldn’t help feeling like she was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
• •
We did our best to endure IHOP with my family. On the one hand, it was wonderful. I couldn’t remember the last time my family ate out together.
On the other hand, well…Wynonna.
She scarfed down her food as a sort of anxious reaction to the situation, then spent the rest of dinner twiddling her thumbs with existential dread.
As we finished eating, Mom insisted on paying for everyone’s meal. Wynonna, Holden, and Imogen thanked her. As the waiter ran Mom’s card, I asked if I could hang out with my friends a bit longer.
My parents—thrilled to be asked permission for anything—said yes.
• •
At first, Holden, Imogen, and I waited around the corner of the building hallway—peeking, of course—while Wynonna knocked on the door. After knocking for the third time, she whipped out her phone and attempted calling instead. He didn’t pick up.
At this point, Holden’s, Imogen’s, and my attempt at hiding had kind of fizzled out.
As Roscoe’s voice mail played, Wynonna dropped her arms and gave me a desperate “What now?” look.
“We could kick his door down,” Holden suggested. “I’ve actually been studying Jack Bauer’s technique. I think the trick is to become one with the door—”
“OH, COME ON,” said Imogen.
“The door is like water,” Holden continued, undeterred, “and when you kick, you want to kick through it, like it doesn’t exist. I think it helps if your daughter has been kidnapped, and you’re fueled by the fury of justice—”
A door opened—suddenly, brashly—causing all of us to jump.
It wasn’t Roscoe’s door.
Rather, it was Roscoe’s next-door neighbor to the right. He was huge, wearing an apron dusted with flour strapped over an orange Bears jersey, and—I swear to god—oven mitts on both hands.
“Can I help you?” he said, in an irritated tone that indicated the opposite. His voice was André the Giant–deep, but his accent was embedded in the roots of Chicaaahgo.
“Sorry,” said Wynonna. “We’re trying to get ahold of my dad.”
“Dad?” said André the Bears Fan. “Who, Roscoe?”
All four of us nodded our heads eagerly.
André’s eyes narrowed to skeptical slits. “Roscoe doesn’t have any kids.”
“Um, well, he does,” said Wynonna, annoyed. “I just stopped living with him when he went to prison, thanks.”
“No shit,” said André, genuinely flabbergasted. “Damn. Well…Jesus, I don’t know how to tell you this. He just moved all his things out.”
“What?” I said. “When?”
“This afternoon.”
My heart plunged.
Wynonna opened her mouth—wordless, breathless.
“Sorry, kid,” he said, and he looked like he meant it. “Alls I know is: Some guy was helping him move, and they were talking about flight information and passports, and uh…Sweden. Yeah, they kept talking about Sweden.”
It was too late. We were too late.
No.
No, it wasn’t too late. There was still a chance.
“Okay, thank you, gotta go,” I blurted out.
I grabbed Wynonna’s hand and tore off down the building hallway—dragging Wynonna behind me like a water-skier.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” said Wynonna. “What are you doing? Ow, my arm!”
“Sorry, sorry!” I said, letting go. “I think we can beat him to the airport.”
“Which airport?”
She had a point.
By the time Holden and Imogen caught up to us, I had already started the car. (That’s right, I was driving.) When the last door closed, I peeled out of the parking lot, out of the gate just as it was closing behind another car, en route to US-51.
“What…is…happening?” said Holden, out of breath.
“Everyone, look up Illinois flights to Bern!” I ordered. “I’m on my way to the Southern Illinois Airport. Let me know if I need to redirect. Preferably before I hop on the highway.”
There was a surprising deficit of argument. Everyone silently whipped out their phones, tapped on quiet digital keys, scrolled through pages and options.
“I think I’ve got it!” Imogen exclaimed. “It’s the only flight to Switzerland. Thirty-two-hour trip, layovers in Detroit and London. It arrives in Zurich—not Bern—but I think that’s the closest major airport. Departure is…oh wow, four a.m. Yuck.”
“Which airport?” said Wynonna.
“Uh, let’s see, let’s see…”
Her round face went as pale as a turnip.
“O’Hare International,” she said. “That’s in Chicago.”
“Chicago?” I said. “That’s a four-hour drive!”
I glanced at the time. It was almost eleven.
Imogen scrolled through all her information. Frantically double-checked everything.
“I know, but…that’s it. That’s the only flight I’m seeing.”
Holden glanced up from his phone. “I’m not seeing anything else.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Wynonna started sobbing.
“Hey,” said Imogen, softly. “It’s okay.”
“No!” Wynonna shook her head violently. “It’s not okay! What if he changes his phone? Don’t people change phones when they move to a different country? I don’t know his address. He’s not on social media!”
“Relax,” said Holden. “He’s wouldn’t just disappear from your life.” He shot me a glance so I could back him up. “He wouldn’t, right?”
“You don’t know that! You weren’t there, Holden. You didn’t hear all the horrible things I said to him.
I called him a drunk piece of shit. I told him I’d never forgive him. I told him he was nothing to me! Why wouldn’t he disappear from my life? If I were him, I would!”
She looked at me—blubbery-eyed, devastated, practically begging me to prove her wrong.
Knowing full well that I couldn’t. I was, after all, there.
“We’re not gonna give him the chance,” I said.
• •
It was a cold, hollow vacuum of a road trip. Endless stretches of pitch-black countryside. Occasional small towns—dead as midnight—filled the vast space in between like trail markers. The fact that I was going fifteen above the speed limit was overwhelmed by the three hundred and fifty miles between here and there.
I didn’t dare go faster. If I got pulled over, any chance of us stopping Roscoe was toast.
At some point, Holden fell asleep.
Maybe an hour later, Imogen fell asleep, too. And she had quite the impressive motor on her; her initial snore was a crack of thunder.
The only thing more shocking than the sheer decibel level was that she fell asleep to begin with. She’d won the Whose Music Are We Going to Jam Out To contest, which was why we were currently “jamming out” to the Les Mis soundtrack (tenth-anniversary edition). “One Day More” swelled from the Subaru speakers—sad, swooning, glorious. Until minutes ago, she had been singing along at the very tippy-top of her lungs.
“Okay,” said Wynonna, reaching for the volume knob. “Let’s dial down the revolution a bit.”
She dialed down the revolution significantly—settling on a soft, subtle rebellion.
It was only Wynonna, me, and Imogen’s snoring—set to a low-key revolutionary ambience.
Even so, it felt like there were miles of silence between Wynonna and me.
“Just so you know,” said Wynonna, finally, “I have lots of things I want to talk about, and a billion questions I want to ask, but they’re all bouncing around in my head like bingo balls, and it’s hard for me to make sense of any of it, so I’m mostly just silently panicking.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Am I making a mistake? Was the mistake not doing this two years ago? Does doing this mean I forgive my dad? Can I ever forgive him for what happened? What is forgiveness anyway? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Et cetera, et cetera.”
Where I End and You Begin Page 29