“I’m sorry,” I told her again. “It will never happen again.”
“I know it won’t. But just to make sure, Dad and I are grounding you.”
I’d never been grounded before. But I’d never done anything to deserve it. Mom sat on the floor next to me. Our backs were against my bed. I set Captain Carrot on the floor. We watched him hop around the carpet for a few minutes, and then Mom shifted and put her arm around me. I leaned my head against her shoulder. If I were any smaller, I probably would’ve climbed into her lap. But being next to her, this close, was almost as good. I was still crying a little bit, but it was a good kind of cry, the kind where you’re relieved that everything is going to be all right.
Mom had her other hand on my hand, and she squeezed. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
“I am now,” she said, squeezing my hand again. “Those couple of hours of not knowing where you were—those were probably the hardest parenting hours I’ve ever had.”
“Harder than when I split my chin ice-skating and needed nine stitches?”
“I hated seeing you in pain,” Mom said. “But I knew a bad cut wouldn’t kill you.”
“Harder than when you and Dad told me about the split?”
“That was a hard day,” she said. “This was worse.”
“And when we moved away from Dorr Road?”
“We always had each other, you and me,” she said.
“And Captain Carrot, too.”
“Of course, Captain Carrot,” she said, and she reached out a hand to pat his back. “I know the last few months haven’t been easy for you, Chloe. You’ve been so good about it.”
“Except today,” I said.
“Today was not your finest hour,” Mom agreed. “And it just wasn’t like you. Did something happen?”
I shook my head. But then I said, “Actually, yeah, a bunch of things did.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
I hadn’t wanted to, but now suddenly I did. I told her about the Kindness Club patches, and Monroe and the It Girls, and how it was impossible to be kind to everyone, but I’d made cookies because I’d wanted to try. “I didn’t tell you everything when it was happening, because I didn’t want to make you upset,” I told her. “I wanted to be perfect.”
“Oh, Chloe,” Mom said. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to me. You can. You always can. You don’t need to be perfect. But you have to let me know what’s going on.”
“It’s not like you could change anything,” I said.
“That’s true,” Mom said. “But sometimes it feels better to talk things out, don’t you think?”
“It feels better to talk things out with you,” I said. “I’m so lucky you’re my mom. I’m sorry about today.”
“So you’ve said. A few times.”
“Well, I’m sorry a million more times. I’m sorry that you worried so much, and I’m sorry you had to talk to Dad. You guys can go back to not speaking again.”
“We were never not speaking.”
“Sure you were.”
“Chloe, you’re our child. We’re your parents together. We’ll always be on speaking terms.”
“But you made me ask Dad for the check.”
Mom gave a hard nod. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay. I knew you didn’t want to,” I said. “And I want to be kind to you.”
Mom let go of my hand to rub out an invisible stain on her slacks. “Is that why Dad thought you were angry at him? Because you had to ask him for the check?”
“Dad said I was angry with him?”
“He said you’d gotten upset at dinner last night, and you hadn’t spoken to him on the ride home. He worried that had something to do with you making cookies and disappearing.”
“Dad was here? Inside the house?”
“Chloe, you were missing. Of course he was here. The only reason he wasn’t here when you got home was because he was looking for you. I would’ve been out looking, too. But the police felt it was important for one of us to stay home.”
“Oh.”
“So why were you angry at your dad?”
“He was angry at me.”
“I got that much from him,” Mom said. “Are you going to tell me why?”
Captain Carrot was nibbling the sole of my shoe, and I pulled him back into my lap. “Dad has a new girlfriend,” I mumbled into the rabbit’s fur.
“What?”
I lifted my head. “He has a girlfriend,” I repeated.
“Gloria,” Mom said.
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I’ve known your dad a long time,” she said. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
“But did you figure out that Gloria’s daughter Sage has a dad that lives a few thousand miles away, and that my dad has kind of stepped in and he just loves her.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s true,” I said. “But I hate her. Gloria, too.”
“I’ve never heard you say you hated anyone,” Mom said.
“There are people I hate,” I told her. “Like, I hate Hitler, and I hate the guy who was the dictator in Russia that Uncle Russell once told me about.”
“Stalin?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, him.”
“I’ve never met Gloria or Sage,” Mom said. “So I’m not speaking from personal experience here. But I do suspect it’s probably not fair to lump them in with Hitler or Stalin.”
“Okay, so they never killed anyone,” I said. “At least not that I know of. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“It seems dumb now,” I said. “But Gloria sits in your old seat. Well, not really your old seat because it’s a new table. But it’s exactly where you would sit. And Sage sits in my seat, and she’s always bragging about everything she can do, like her perfect dives, and being in the school play. So I was mean to her about how she can’t eat bread.”
“Sage is the one with celiac?” Mom asked.
I nodded. “It’s not that I actually care so much about what we eat at Dad’s,” I said. “But sometimes I think he forgets what it was like when we were all together.” I paused, and took a long breath. “Sometimes I think I’m forgetting it myself.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom said. “I understand exactly what you’re saying. Yesterday I noticed the lightbulb in the upstairs hall was out, and I climbed up on a chair to replace it, and it didn’t occur to me until afterward that I hadn’t changed a lightbulb since before I married your dad, because he was the tall one.”
“That’s what I mean,” I said. “He reached the high things, and cooked dinner, and you knew everyone’s schedule, and made sure I cleaned my room. Now it’s all mixed up.”
“I think it’s a sign that we’re growing,” Mom said. “I felt good about changing that lightbulb.”
“I still wish Dad were here to do it,” I said.
“I know it’s harder now, Chloe. Maybe it’ll always feel a little bit that way. But what you were saying before, about forgetting. I think that means it’s starting to be okay. I think that means that this new life is feeling normal. And I want that for you. I want it for me too.”
“I do, too,” I said.
“I’m glad we’re talking about this,” Mom said. “I think you should talk to Dad, too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It all just feels . . . I don’t know. Do you think he’d still be married to you if you liked the way he sang?”
“No one likes the way your father sings,” Mom said.
“But what about if you cooked with him, like Gloria does?”
“No, I don’t,” Mom said. “Honestly I don’t. The thing about being married—it’s much bigger than what anyone makes for dinner. It’s more than I could ever describe. Being married to your dad, well, it was like taking a really big trip—parts were magical, and parts were tough, but I wouldn’t change it. Especially since I came home with the best souvenir.”
&
nbsp; “What was that?” I asked.
She pulled her arm back from behind me and twisted around to face me, and put her arms on my shoulders. “You,” Mom said. “You.”
I smiled. “Kind of like a bright side?”
“Kind of like all the stars in the sky put together,” she told me. “I’ll never make you ask for the check again. Not that your dad minds paying for these things. He doesn’t, and I don’t, either. It’s a pleasure for us to share expenses for you, because we love you so much and there’s no one else in the world we’d rather spend our money on. But it’s not your job to be kind to me that way, and I’ll be better about what I ask of you from now on, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I hope you feel better about telling me what you’re thinking.”
“I do,” I said.
“Good. Now. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
“Do you know if there are cookies that people with celiac can eat?”
“There sure are,” Mom said. “I can get a recipe from Lori in Dad’s office.”
“You’re still in touch with her?”
“Occasionally.”
“Could you get the recipe now, then?” I asked. “And can we go to the supermarket? I know I’m grounded, but couldn’t this be an exception?”
“Well,” Mom started.
“And can I borrow money?” I added. “I used it up on the ingredients for the cookies I made today.”
“You spent all your money from Grandma on cookie ingredients? What did you put in them—gold?”
“The pants I bought with Monroe were pretty expensive,” I admitted. “Ninety-nine dollars. Plus tax.”
“Oh, Chloe,” Mom said. “You’re ten years old. You know I don’t want to tell you what to do with your own money, but you certainly don’t need hundred-dollar pants. I’m forty-two, and I don’t need pants that expensive.”
“I know,” I said. “But it was important to Monroe. She wanted us to be pants twins.”
“You shouldn’t have to pay your way into friendships, sweetheart.”
“I don’t have to pay for anything else,” I told her. “I’m in the It Girls now. And if you loan me the money for the gluten-free ingredients, I’ll pay you back, I promise. You don’t have to give me an allowance until I do. Please?”
Mom glanced at the books on my desk. “Did you finish your homework?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve been, you know, pretty distracted.”
“Do your homework,” Mom told me. “I’ll loan you money, and we can go on the way to Dad’s house tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER 22
On Friday, I was back in the It Girls, and it was like nothing had ever happened. We headed to the cafeteria, skipping the hot-lunch line for the sandwich bar. “Hang on,” I told Monroe. “I just need to tell Lucy something about our project. I’ll be right back.”
Before she could tell me not to, I’d jogged over to where Lucy was. She’d gotten her food already and was by the water dispenser. I looked at her tray with a bit of envy: it was macaroni and cheese day.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“Did anything happen with Mrs. Gallagher?”
“No,” Lucy said. “Theo and I watched for an hour before he had to go home, and this morning when I left for school, the basket was still there, kicked over. But it’s okay. Mr. Dibble said he cared more about the process than the results. Plus we have our supplemental work, and Theo started making some graphs last night.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I can help.”
“I don’t think he needs any help,” Lucy said.
“Oh. Okay.”
“Chloe, come on,” Monroe called.
“One sec,” I said.
“I guess you made up with her,” Lucy said. “With all of them.”
“I did.”
“I’m happy for you,” Lucy said. “You got the friends you wanted.”
My affirmation automatically popped up in my head: I have the best friends in my new school.
“Chloe!” Monroe called again.
“I’m coming,” I said. “Well, ’bye Lucy.”
“’Bye.”
Mom dropped me at Dad’s that evening, after taking me to the supermarket first, just like she’d promised. When I walked into the building, he put his arms around me. “I know you know that what you said in front of Sage was wrong,” he said, once he’d released me.
“I’m really sorry,” I said “And I promise I won’t do it again.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We’ll call the Tofskys a little later so you can apologize to Sage yourself.”
Dad took my duffel bag from me, and I carried my backpack. “I really hate apologizing out loud,” I said. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“I think what’s embarrassing is doing the thing you need to apologize for to begin with.”
I was walking ahead of Dad, so I got to the third-floor landing first, and I held the door open for him. When we got to Dad’s front door, he unlocked it, and held the door open for me.
“Speaking of apologies,” he said. “I owe you one, too. And I owe you an explanation. The first thing you need to know is I love spending time with you. There’s no one I’d rather be with. When you’re not here, I talk about you all the time.”
“Really?”
“Of course. Sage is a great kid, don’t get me wrong. But you’ll always be my number one.”
“Even if she jumps off every high board and gets the lead in every school play?”
“Even then,” Dad said. “The only thing you have to do to impress me is be you.”
“I’m not a disappointment to you anymore?”
“You’re never a disappointment,” Dad said.
“You said I was,” I reminded him. “When I said those things to Sage.”
Dad shook his head. “I was disappointed in your behavior,” he told me. “But you yourself are never a disappointment. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Actually, not really.”
“There’s a difference between doing something bad and being bad. We’re all capable of doing bad things. But you, my sweet Chloe-Bear, you are not a bad person. You are my pride and joy. You are thoughtful and generous and kind. The proudest thing in my life is that I get to be your dad. Sometimes you do disappointing things, the same way I know I sometimes do things that disappoint you. We’re only human after all. But I think we can both do better, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I told him. “I think we can.”
“I miss you when you’re at your mom’s, and I’m so excited when you’re here that I want to show you off. But that wasn’t being fair to you, because I wasn’t thinking about the fact that you probably don’t want to be shown off all the time. And I’m sorry about that. This weekend, it’ll be just us.”
“Did you already tell Gloria and Sage that?”
“I did,” Dad said.
“I do want some time for just us,” I told him. “But, actually, I was hoping we could see them, too. Mom called Lori and got a recipe for gluten-free cookies, and we picked up all the ingredients.”
“Where are they?”
“In my duffel,” I told him.
“I wondered why it was so heavy. It felt like there were a couple bricks in there!”
I smiled. “It’s called xanthan gum,” I told him. “Will you help me make them, Daddy-o?”
“I would love to,” he said.
But first there was business to take care of. Dad called over to the Tofskys’, and talked to Gloria first: “Hi . . . yes, Chloe’s here. . . . We’re fine, and you guys? . . . That’s good. . . . That’s great. . . . Well, Chloe has something she’d like to say to Sage. Is she around?”
Gloria must’ve said yes, because Dad handed the phone to me. My palms were super sweaty and I was making a slippery mess of the phone, just waiting for Sage to come on the line. But once she did, the apology itself didn’t ta
ke very long. I said, “I said some things I didn’t mean the other day, and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
And Sage said, “That’s okay.”
I said, “It’s not really okay. But that’s why I’m apologizing.”
She said, “I accept your apology.”
And that was that. Before we hung up, I asked her if she and Gloria wanted to come over for dinner the next night. Dad and I had discussed that I should get to be the one doing the inviting. Sage said she’d talk to her mom and call us back. I was a little worried that the answer would be no, and that would mean she didn’t really accept my apology. But Sage called back to say they’d be there.
They came over just before seven o’clock on Saturday. Dad and I had done all the cooking already ourselves, and we had a taco station set up with all the fixings. Corn tortillas are completely safe to eat if you have celiac disease, and Sage had two of them. She had sat down in her usual seat, which used to be my usual seat. But it was okay. I was getting used to my new seat, and our new company. Sage seemed nice and not at all braggy. Maybe I’d just been oversensitive to it before, thinking Sage was a new-and-improved daughter who was replacing me. Or maybe Dad was right and Sage had just been doing it to try and get me to like her. And now that I did like her, she could relax and just be herself.
Afterward, Dad cleared all our plates and piled them by the sink, and I brought out the cookies. I’d hidden them in the pantry so Sage wouldn’t see them until dessert. I’d wanted them to be a surprise, and it was totally worth it. Sage ate a cookie, and then went for a second. “Do you like them?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” Sage asked. “I just ate two cookies without even breathing. They’re the best things I’ve ever tasted.”
“Hold on,” Dad said. “Better than anything I’ve ever made for you?”
“Well . . . ,” Sage said.
“Oh, no,” Dad told her. “I feel a song coming on.”
“Dad, no!” I cried.
But he pushed his chair back and belted out: “It’s the hard-knock life for me!” Gloria, Sage, and I put our fingers in our ears.
“I’ll make them for you anytime you want, if you can get my dad to stop singing,” I said.
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