But I don’t know where to go.
I have nowhere to go.
I have no one to go to.
PART THREE
Viviana Rabinovich-Lowe’s College Application Checklist
□ May: AP Exams bombed
□ June–July: Design and Engineering Summer Academy thwarted
□ July: Work on College Apps
□ August: Work on College Apps; Study for SAT
□ September: Finalize Stanford Application
SAT Math: Sample Question
A researcher wants to know if there is an association between lies, heartbreak, and life suckage for the population of sixteen-year-olds in the United States. After conducting a broad survey, which of the following conclusions is most relevant to this study?
(A) Girls who fall for cute guys despite their best intentions experience the most major life suckage.
(B) Girls who kiss their best friend’s crushes and then lie about it experience the most major life suckage.
(C) Girls who discover their fathers are involved with other women mere months after leaving their families experience the most major life suckage.
(D) Girls with broken hearts experience the most major life suckage.
(E) All of the above.
The Fourth of July is one hundred times worse than Memorial Day. Maybe it’s because I have to work every day this weekend. Maybe it’s because Sammie’s requested a shift change, and so now I’m on the desk by myself. Or maybe it’s because it’s 102 degrees, which means that everyone in Bennett Village is here, and they can’t understand why there aren’t enough umbrellas, or why we’ve run out of Diet Coke, or why it’s taking me so long to record their visitor passes. Or maybe, as usual, the answer is all of the above.
I wish I could quit. After that day on the balcony in Professor Cox’s apartment, I tried to tell my mom that I wanted to stay home after all. She asked me if I’d been having more panic attacks, sort of accusing me of having them, not asking out of a real sense of concern. So I rescinded my request.
And I said no.
Which is a complete and utter lie.
Ever since that day, the heart palpitations and choking feeling have been constant. And I’ve had two more Episodes in the middle of the night. But I didn’t wake her. I didn’t want to end up back at the hospital for something I knew would pass eventually.
When she persisted in asking me why I wanted to quit, and I didn’t have a good answer, she just shrugged and said, “If you are not sick, I see no reason for you to quit. It’s an easy job and decent money.”
So I’m here all weekend.
And it’s full life suckage.
Vanessa joins me behind the desk and scans the ID of a resident who’s been complaining, rather loudly, the whole time she’s been in line about how she’s “melting in this heat” and how “this is taking forever.”
“Thank you,” I whisper after the woman is gone. “She’s been giving me the side-eye the whole time she’s been in line.”
“People are jerks,” Vanessa says while swiping more IDs. “Where’s Sammie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You guys aren’t scheduled together anymore?”
“Guess not,” I say with a shrug.
“Had a fight?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Vanessa says. “That blows. Hope you guys make up soon.”
I don’t say anything.
“Do you have any plans for tonight? Any parties?”
This city loves a party. Summer in Chicago means concerts, parades, and street fairs. Fireworks shows at Navy Pier two times a week. Taste of Chicago, with its rows and rows of restaurant fare. Normally, I love a party, too, especially for the Fourth of July weekend, which has always been when Mila and I celebrate our birthdays. Every year on Saturday night, we have a small party. Mila invites a few of her friends, and we have a rooftop barbecue, with my dad cooking hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and then we watch the fireworks show from the roof, all of Mila’s little friends oohing and aahing at the explosions. I only invite Sammie, so it’s not really a party for me, but Mila demands that my name be on the cake, too. We’re always together.
We haven’t planned anything this year. Mila said she doesn’t want one, since Dad’s not here. When I asked my mom what we should do for Mila, she recommended that I bring her down for an afternoon swim so she could put some streamers around our apartment for a little afternoon surprise party.
She didn’t say anything about my birthday.
I don’t really feel like celebrating anything anyway. In addition to our birthdays, we’re supposed to be celebrating independence and the pursuit of happiness, but I feel anything but free, anything but happy. I am trapped in this knot of isolation and lies and secrets. I can hardly even look my mom in the eye without wanting to cry. I thought I could never experience shame worse than what I experienced with Dean, but knowing my father is already with another woman somehow feels a thousand times worse.
“No plans,” I say. “At least not yet,” I add, so as not to sound completely lame.
I think maybe she’s going to invite me to do something, but I’m not really in the mood to go out, even if it is the night before my birthday.
Instead, Vanessa tells me that she has to go to a barbecue on the North Side. “It’s going to be boring. Just my family, hanging out on lawn chairs, eating cheap hot dogs and watching the fireworks.”
I don’t say anything in response. I don’t say how perfect that sounds, or how much I miss cheap hot dogs and fireworks and boring family parties.
Instead, I turn my attention to the next family in line and scan their IDs.
* * *
I clock out and head upstairs to get Mila. I expect her to be panting at the door, raring to go, but instead, she’s slumped on the couch, watching National Geographic and sucking on her pinkie. My mom’s at the dining room table, working on the computer, as usual.
“Happy day, birthday girl!” I force this out, and then pick up the remote and click off the TV. “Are you excited to be going swimming?”
Mila leans toward me, takes the remote from my hand, and turns the TV back on. “No.”
“No? What’s wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong. Daddy’s not here.”
“I know,” I mumble. I try to take the remote from her hands, but she holds on tight. “I’m sorry. But don’t you want to go to the pool? We can still celebrate your special day!”
She puts her pinkie finger in her mouth and sucks on it. I haven’t seen her do this in years.
“Come on, Mila. I’m going to get my suit on. I’ll take you out for ice cream after.”
My mom looks up from her computer. “Yes, Mila. You have to go.” My mom winks at me. “I have a conference call I have to take, and I need the apartment to myself.”
“But it’s my birthday and I want to be with you.” Mila starts to cry. “I don’t understand why you have to have a call on a Saturday. On my birthday? I mean, why do you have to work so much?”
I think that maybe my mom will bust out with the truth that she’s just trying to get us out of the apartment because she has a surprise for Mila, but she sticks to the story. “I’m sorry, Mila. I have certain responsibilities. One day you will understand. One day you will have to act like a grown-up, too.”
This seems harsh. I want to call my mom out on her unnecessary guilt trips, especially on Mila’s birthday, but I figure it will just lead to another fight, and the only thing I can really work on right now is getting Mila down to the pool.
“Come on, Mila. We’ll go down for a little bit, and then when we come back upstairs, maybe there’ll be a surprise for you.”
That perks her up. She takes her finger out from the corner of her mouth. “What kind of surprise?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Now go get your suit on!”
Mila jumps off the couch, runs to her room, and r
eappears in less than two minutes fully decked out in her purple bikini, goggles, a snorkel, and flip-flops.
We head downstairs and snag a shady spot next to a potted plant.
“Is Evan here?” Mila asks as I spray her with sunscreen. “Are you going to kiss him again?”
“What are you talking about? I’ve never kissed him.”
“Yes you did. That day during the tomato attack. You kissed him while we were under the umbrella.”
“I—how—how did you see that?”
“I’m not blind, you know.”
“Well—turn around, let me spray your back—I haven’t kissed him since and I’m not going to kiss him again. Anyway, it’s none of your business.”
“I like Evan.” Mila peers around toward the pool. “Is he here?”
“Yeah, probably somewhere.” He was working earlier when I was here, but we didn’t speak to each other, partly because it was so busy, and partly because I’ve put up a wall that he knows not to cross.
Since that day in Professor Cox’s apartment, I’ve had only a few days when Evan’s been working, and each time, he’s tried to talk to me with whispered apologies and questions.
As he leaned over the desk to grab his whistle: “I didn’t realize Sammie liked me.”
While I swept the deck: “I’m so sorry you guys aren’t talking now.”
As I counted money: “Why won’t you talk to me?”
From his chair while he was on duty: “Aren’t you at all curious about Professor Cox?”
As we passed in the hallway by the equipment room: “Can’t we even be friends?”
At first, I didn’t say anything. I just stared at him until he backed off. But finally, after he asked that last question, I responded with a quick reminder that it’s none of my business—not Professor Cox, not Sammie, not his desire for friendship. “Can’t you please just leave me alone?”
And since then, he has. For a good week, he hasn’t asked any more questions. I still feel his gaze sometimes, while we’re talking in groups, or if he comes into the office when I’m there. But he doesn’t talk to me anymore.
“Okay, okay, I’m covered.” Mila steps away from me and the sunscreen bottle. “The sun’s going down anyway. Can we go in already?”
She runs away from me toward the water. I spray myself as quickly as I can and follow her. Mila’s at the foot of the lifeguard chair, where Evan is on duty. Vanessa’s sitting at the edge of the pool, dangling her feet in the water.
“You’re back!” Vanessa says to me. “I thought you were gone for the night.”
“It’s Mila’s birthday, and she wanted to go swimming.”
“I didn’t want to go swimming.” Mila crosses her arms across her chest and pouts. “I wanted to sit on the couch and watch my program.”
“You’d rather watch TV than swim?” Vanessa asks.
“It was National Geographic. They were talking about how there’s a kind of moth that lays its eggs in sloth poop. They have a symbiotic relationship. It’s gross but also cool.”
“Symbiotic?” Vanessa asks. “How old is she?”
“I’m nine today!” Mila says, beaming. And then she looks up at Evan. “Hi, Evan!”
Evan keeps his eyes on the pool, which is packed with kids.
“Will you play Marco Polo with us again today?” Mila calls up to him.
“Wish I could,” Evan says without looking down at us. “I have to work.”
Mila pouts and drops her shoulders.
“I’ll play with you,” Vanessa says.
This appeases Mila, and we all jump in.
I dive underwater, and when I come up, I can’t help but look over at Evan to see if he’s looking my way like that day in June.
He’s not.
I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
Mila splashes water in my face. “You’re it, Vivi!”
I close my eyes and reach out to play the game.
Habits of an Effective Test Taker #4
What if you aren’t familiar with the topic, and you aren’t sure which is the best possible answer? One helpful strategy is to eliminate the extremes that are obviously wrong, and then take your best guess. This gives you higher odds of getting the question right.
Vanessa joins us for our celebratory ice cream at Scoop Heaven, this little place at the edge of Bennett Village, and then Mila and I head back up to our apartment. She’s busting to see the surprise. And after getting two texts, first at 6:45 and again at 7:15, from my mom telling me not to come back yet because she wasn’t ready, I have to say my curiosity is firmly piqued. Streamers shouldn’t take that long.
We open the door, to find the entire apartment filled with not only streamers but dozens of balloons, and there’s a giant cake that my mom’s now lighting with candles. I search the apartment for the extra surprise—the one that’s supposed to be for me—but I don’t see anything unusual beyond the fact that my mom really did go crazy with the decorations, and I’m not sure how we’re going to eat all that cake.
Mila is jumping up and down with excitement, her previous complaints silenced for good. That smile is there again on my mom’s face. It’s good to see. She begins to sing “Happy Birthday,” and she motions for me to join in.
So I do, and Mila’s beaming with excitement. She loves this attention from our mom—she’s been desperately craving it for months.
We sing the last line—and that’s when the surprise appears.
My father.
He steps out from the hallway and sings the last line with us.
He’s standing there with a huge, cocky smile on his face, singing as if he hasn’t been gone for nearly six months, as if he never left.
Mila runs to him and wraps her arms around his waist. He hugs her tight and then lifts her up into his arms. “Daddy! Daddy!” Mila yells. “You’re the best surprise of all!”
“Quick,” he says, putting her down. “Blow out your candles before they melt into the frosting.”
I look at my mom. Her smile is weak and strained. It’s not like the one she was wearing before.
I feel sick.
“Viviana,” she says coldly, “say hello to your father.”
I don’t move.
I can’t move.
My dad puts Mila down and looks at me. He opens his arms, as though I’m just going to walk into them. As if the past six months haven’t happened. As if he hasn’t already moved on from us. As if he hasn’t been living a lie.
“Come, now, Viviana,” my mom says, her voice softening. “Your father is home now—with us. He is home now, for good. Everything is fine.”
She doesn’t know the reality of the situation. She can’t see the real answer—that he’s a liar, a cheat, a complete and utter weasel. She thinks this was just a fight—nothing more—and she thinks he’s going to move back and we’re all going to be okay.
My head is dizzy with this terrible surprise.
I wonder how much she knows. Or doesn’t know.
They are looking at me and waiting for me to say something, to do something, to walk into my father’s arms and trust him again.
I see the choice that I have: Pretend that I don’t know the truth, embrace him, welcome him home. Or say something: ask him where he’s been for six months, ask him why he suddenly wants to be with us again, demand that he tell my mom and Mila about Paige, about his other life, the one where he loves some woman named Paige and we don’t exist.
Mila runs over to me and pulls at my arm. “Viviana,” she whines. “It’s Daddy. He’s home.”
I don’t have this choice now. Not in front of Mila. Not on her birthday.
I walk up to my father.
I wrap my left arm around his waist and I force out the word: “Hi.”
“Where’s my hug?” he asks before sweeping me up into his arms. I let him squeeze me, but I don’t return the hug. He puts me down and steps back. “You’ve gotten taller, I think.” He looks at Mila. “Both of you.�
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“We haven’t seen you since January,” I say. “That’s six months.”
“Viviana, be nice,” my mom says.
“I know,” he says. “And I’m so sorry I had to be gone so much.” He doesn’t say anything about the separation. The almost divorce. I look over at my mom.
She motions for us to sit at the table, which is set with the good china, the dishes we never use, the ones they received as a wedding present. “Let’s just sit. I’ve made a stuffed chicken and noodles, and then we’ll eat some cake.”
My father takes his seat at the head of the table.
I sit down at the opposite end, far away from him.
Mila moves her chair so that it’s close to my dad. My mom brings in the food from the kitchen.
He looks at me across the table. “How’s the new job?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“She works too much,” my mom says. “She’s supposed to be resting.”
“Mama, I’m fine.”
My dad frowns. “You made a promise to your mother—”
“I said I’m fine. Would you just let me be—”
“No!” Mila yells. “Stop it! There’s no arguing today. It’s my birthday, and I made a wish that there would be no more arguing. So stop it. All of you.” She’s on the verge of tears, but she’s not crying. Not yet.
“Okay, Mila,” my father says. “We’re sorry.” He looks at my mom and me. “We’re all sorry, right?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I’m sorry, Mila.”
“You’re right,” my mom agrees, finally taking her seat. “Let’s eat now.”
We are silent for a few minutes, except for the sounds of my mom dishing out noodles onto her plate and Mila choking back tears.
I can feel it. I am struggling against an Episode. I want to cry, too—to cry and collapse and scream. But I can’t. Not now.
I can’t eat, so I take a few sips of water.
Mila gives me a funny look, like she knows what’s happening inside my mind and she’s daring me to try to stir it all up again.
Finally, my father pulls out a stuffed lion he brought back for Mila from Singapore, and Mila is distracted and fine again. She jumps into his lap and she’s smiling and laughing and snuggling against him, her new toy in her arms.
The Best Possible Answer Page 11