The Best Possible Answer

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  I ask to be excused for a minute. I head into my room, where I collapse onto my bed. I breathe and breathe and breathe, slow and steady, like the doctors told me to. It works. My head settles and my bones turn solid once more.

  I have to be okay tonight.

  I have to.

  For Mila.

  She made a wish.

  * * *

  Mila doesn’t get to sleep until nearly midnight, what with our father’s return and the sugar rush from her three pieces of cake and the excitement of the fireworks. She begged my parents to take her up to the roof so she could see them better, and when I asked (politely, I thought) if I could stay downstairs by myself, my mom gave me a look of death. I acquiesced, quite unwillingly, and then all night, my father kept asking me, “Are you okay, Vivi?” And then Mila would prod me: “Why aren’t you smiling, Vivi? It’s my birthday. Yours, too, tomorrow. And Daddy’s here. Please smile, Vivi. Why aren’t you okay?”

  Now the city’s quiet, and Mila’s asleep. I’m alone in my room, finally.

  I shut off the lights and crawl under my covers.

  I let the day rush over me.

  I try to make the tears come, and to let myself cry, but I can’t scream into the pillow like I want, I can’t sob like I want, or they’ll all come running in here asking if I’m okay.

  I desperately want to text Sammie.

  I desperately want to run upstairs to her room.

  I miss her so much.

  My father knocks at my door. “Viviana? Can I come in?”

  I catch my breath and hold it. The door’s locked. If I am quiet enough, he’ll think I’m asleep and leave me alone.

  “Viviana?”

  I hold my breath.

  “Let me in, please.”

  No. Go away.

  “Your mother and I have to tell you something, before tomorrow. Before Mila wakes up.”

  Leave me alone.

  “We need to talk. An honest talk.”

  He hooks me. I want an honest talk.

  I let out my breath and open the door.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Would you please stop asking me that? I think the answer’s pretty obvious.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. He pushes his glasses up on his face and looks away from me.

  I’m making him nervous.

  Good.

  “Come in the living room for a few minutes?”

  I follow him. My mom’s sitting on the couch, a pillow held against her chest. My dad sits down next to her, and she places her head against his shoulder.

  “So you guys are back together now? No divorce?”

  My mom lifts her head. “Please, Viviana, lower your voice. Mila—”

  My father pats the couch next to him. “Please come sit down here.”

  I ignore his request and lean on the armrest of the recliner instead.

  “What’s going on?”

  He puts his arms around my mom, but instead of softening into him, she stiffens. “We are trying to work things out,” he says.

  “Why couldn’t we have had this conversation with Mila?”

  “Because we figured you might have questions,” my mom says. “Questions about what’s happened that maybe we couldn’t answer in front of Mila.”

  I do have questions. So many questions. He said we were going to have an honest talk, and now’s my chance to lay all my cards on the table.

  But I don’t know where to start.

  “So that means you’re here now?” I sputter out. “For good?”

  “No,” he says. “Only for a few weeks. And then I’m back to Singapore. But only for a month this time.”

  “I thought you were trying to work things out.”

  “I still have a job.”

  “And we still have bills to pay,” my mom says.

  “Does Mila know that?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But she thinks you’re here for good.”

  My father nods. “We’ll tell her first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I want to ask all my questions. They run through my head. Do you know about her, Mama? Are you done sleeping around, Dad? Who is this Paige, this other woman in your life? Why are we everything to you now? Why weren’t we everything to you before? How am I supposed to trust you?

  My questions are on the tip of my tongue.

  I could tell them what I heard—what I know.

  He inches toward me and reaches for my arm. “I’ve come to realize that you three matter to me more than anything.”

  His words to Paige echo: more than anything.

  The room spins.

  I could tell her now. I should tell her now.

  My mom looks at my father. “We are trying to save twenty years of our lives together.”

  I want to cry, to scream, to yell, to wake up Mila, to wake up the entire building, to shout the truth about his horrible, cruel lie to anyone who will listen. I want my mother to know that she’s been tricked—we all have.

  I look at her. She whispers, through her tears, “We love you both so very much.”

  I can’t do it. I can’t hurt her, and I can’t hurt Mila. If they find out, their entire lives will be destroyed.

  I stand up, and my father stands up, too, thinking he’s going to be able to give me another awkward hug. But I don’t let him. Instead, I run to my room.

  I lock the door and collapse on my bed.

  I hear my parents’ whispers in the hallway, my name, Mila’s name—they hover by my door, and then they walk away.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Slowly, slowly, the darkness settles me. I listen to my parents’ night noises and finally I am calmed by the silence of a sleeping apartment. I lie on my back and take control of my breath. With each inhale, I see it all: my father for what he is, my mother for how she tries, Mila for everything she wants from us.

  I’ve already learned what it means to hurt someone I love.

  I will never do it again.

  Habits of an Effective Test Taker #5

  Trust your first impressions. The first answer that comes to mind is often the correct one.

  I can’t fall asleep. It’s 4:00 A.M. I’ve tried reading, staring out the window, writing five texts to Sammie that I ended up not sending, and looking up Evan’s Instagram account because when you’re on the verge of a full-blown Episode in the middle of the night, all rational thoughts are meaningless, and even guilt isn’t enough to stop you from doing stupid things.

  I can’t toss and turn anymore, so I finally get out of bed. I head to the kitchen to make myself some toast. I figure I’ll watch TV on mute to see if that will help me fall asleep. And if I don’t fall asleep, I’ll just suck it up and be tired at work later. I’ve gone days without sleeping before. I’ll just make sure not to get on any bicycles.

  I’m about to spread jam on my toast when I see it.

  My dad’s phone.

  It lights up and buzzes.

  Someone’s texting him in the middle of the night.

  I reach for it.

  Fortunately, my dad doesn’t have a pass code on his phone. For someone who likes to lie so much, he really should.

  I slide the phone open and open his messages. There it is. A message from Paige. More Than Anything Paige.

  Can’t sleep. Too excited to see you tomorrow. 6:00 P.M., right?

  And then a second text:

  The kids can’t wait, either. All day they kept asking if Daddy will bring them toys, but I know they really just want YOU here.

  And then a third:

  You’ve been gone too long these past few months. We need to talk. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s hard. I will go back to work if it means you finally coming home for good.

  And finally:

  Please let’s talk? I know you’re awake. Your secretary said you were on your way to the airport. Talk to me, Benjamin.

  She thinks he
’s in Singapore.

  She thinks he’s her husband.

  She thinks he’s the father of her kids.

  She doesn’t know about us.

  The toaster dings and snaps me out of my shock, but not soon enough. The bread is completely burned and the kitchen stinks.

  I shut off his phone and run to my room.

  I text Sammie.

  Please can I come over? My life is falling apart.

  I press SEND, but I don’t wait for her response.

  I throw on my gym shoes, grab my mom’s keys, and run out of the apartment.

  * * *

  My phone vibrates.

  Of course.

  It’s Sammie. I never should have texted her. I should throw my phone off this roof.

  A few minutes later: Where are you?

  Where am I?

  I am thirty-eight stories into the sky. There are stars here. I am on my back, falling into this hard, damp floor. I close my eyes, and the words are there in the dark of my lids. I am spinning below them.

  My mom just got home, but she’s asleep. Come upstairs.

  There is a hot wind. There is the weight of rain, not yet here. A heavy pressure of water coming.

  I’m at the door. I’m waiting for you.

  The words of this other woman. The real truth of her life. Of his life. The words are there in the dark of my lids.

  I’m here. Where are you?

  Breathe, Viviana. Breathe yourself out. Breathe yourself out of this spinning place.

  The words are still there when I open my eyes.

  You matter.

  More than anything.

  All of it: lies.

  * * *

  Sammie finds me. I don’t know how she does it again, how she knows, but she finds me on the roof, and she leads me back to her place, where she tucks me into her bed. She brings me water and feeds me cookies and sits with me until I’m ready to talk.

  “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. I’m not ready.

  “Do you want to cry?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want another cookie?”

  “No.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  “Okay.”

  She plays with her phone while I stare out the window. It’s my birthday today. I’m seventeen. One more year until I’m eighteen. One more long year before I can leave this terrible place and get away from my selfish, irresponsible parents.

  “Did you hear about Professor Cox?”

  “No.”

  “Evan didn’t tell you?”

  I bristle at his name. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to talk about anything. “He tried,” I mutter. “But I didn’t let him.”

  “Oh.”

  I roll over and look at her. “I’m not going to do that to you anymore.”

  Sammie puts down her phone and shrugs. “I’m over it. I’m over him.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t force someone to like me,” she says. “And I don’t want to get in the way of someone liking you.”

  “Come on, Sammie. I’m not choosing a guy over you.”

  “Well, that’s good. I’m glad to hear it. But I want you to know—seriously—I’m really, really over him. If you decide you want to go for Evan again, he’s all yours.”

  “You’re way too good to me.”

  She sits back against the headboard. “Is that why your life is falling apart? Because of Evan?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you want to tell me why your life is falling apart yet?”

  “No,” I say. “But you can tell me about your life. I’d rather hear about you.”

  “You mean how my mom discovered my Instagram account and how she totally freaked out and made me delete it?”

  “Oh, Sammie, no.”

  “Yeah, no.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “I’m not telling you that fun story.”

  “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “She thinks you’re going to put up nudie pics like me.”

  Sammie wipes her eyes and laughs. “Nudie pics?” Then she shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. That’s not even the half of it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  I hand her a box of tissues. “What’s the other half?”

  “Forget the other half. I don’t want to talk about it.” She blows her nose and clears her throat. “Want to hear about Professor Cox? That’s a better story than both yours and mine.”

  So she tells me. Her mom has been helping him ever since the incident with the tomatoes. It turns out that Professor Cox had been a journalist in the 1960s, a good one who worked for the Associated Press and was on his way to becoming a nationally known writer when he became convinced that he’d caused the Cuban Missile Crisis. He started throwing ashtrays across the office and writing incessantly about all-out nuclear annihilation. At that point, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, along with some other coexisting issues. He was hospitalized for a while, and after that, and years of medication, he also completed a doctorate in psychology, partly in an attempt to cure himself. He gave most of his inheritance from a family fund to charity. His family, deeply concerned and immensely wealthy, finally stepped in. They connected him with the St. Mary’s Seminary, which has parishes in Virginia, where they sent Professor Cox for a “cure of the spirit.” But it still wasn’t enough to help his mental state, and he went as far as to try to fake his own death.

  After that, he was hospitalized again, and this time, he was put on some new meds that actually helped and allowed him to function fairly well. Professor Cox’s family donated a good chunk of change to St. Mary’s, so they eventually agreed to hire him as a professor. But for the past few years, he’d been trying to self-medicate with some illegal pills. That’s what Evan found in his cabinet. That explains the postcards and the tomatoes. “You were right. He does suffer from psychological issues. I feel bad about calling him ‘the Nut.’”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “He’s back in the hospital, and my mom’s been helping to advocate for him. His family’s paying her, but I know she’s happy to do it.”

  “Is that why you’ve been busy with so many errands?”

  “Um.” Sammie picks up her phone. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “Vivi, forget my stuff. What’s going on with you?”

  “Ugh.” I roll on my back. “You’ve done such a good job of distracting me. Please don’t remind me. What time is it?”

  Sammie looks at her phone. “Ten-thirty.”

  I muffle my face with the pillow. “I don’t want to go to work today. I can’t go to work today.”

  “If you tell me what’s going on, I’ll take your shift.”

  “If I tell you what’s going on with me, will you tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “No!” Sammie laughs and hits me. “I already said I’d take your shift. If I tell you my stuff, too, it won’t be a fair deal!”

  “Please, Sammie,” I say. “Will you let me be a friend to you? Please?”

  Sammie thinks for a moment. “Fine.”

  “Okay. Good. Thank you.”

  “Now tell me.”

  So I do.

  I tell her about Mila’s surprise gift of my dad’s return and the strange midnight conversation with my parents. I tell her about my mom, how she held his hand, how they’re promising this honest new life for us. And then I tell her about my father’s double life. About Paige and the texts and the kids who are excited about toys from Daddy.

  Sammie slides down on the pillow next to mine. “Oh my God, Viviana.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to cry?”

  “No.”

  And then I look over at her and I see that her pillow is damp. The tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  “Why are
you crying?”

  “Because this last year has been so awful for us. For you and me both. We’ve lost so much.” She wipes her eyes.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t really thought about how intertwined our lives have been.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be the one crying.”

  I reach over and give her a hug. “It’s okay. One of us should cry. I don’t know why I’m not.”

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “My mom? I have no idea.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Mine’s nothing compared to yours.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Well, besides the whole Instagram thing, then this guy I thought I liked has a crush on my best friend, and it turns out they’re probably perfect for each other, and so even though my heart is broken, I’m also really happy for them.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Shut up. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise you.”

  “Sure,” she says. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “That’s not your news, though. Tell me, for real now.”

  “Well…” Sammie takes a deep breath. “My mom’s been interviewing for a new job.”

  “Okay…”

  “In Morton Grove.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’re probably moving there at the end of the summer. We’ve been looking at apartments. My mom wants to be close to our family.”

  “No more Uni?”

  “Most likely, no. No more Bennett Village. No more Uni.”

  And that’s what makes me cry. I think about my last year of high school without Sammie. I don’t know how I’ll survive.

  I won’t.

  “Your life really is falling apart,” she says. “And so is mine.”

  Sammie texts Mr. Bautista about our shift change. If we can’t be together next year, we can at least, hopefully, be together the rest of the summer. And then we lie in her bed the rest of the morning, both of us crying, blubbering our wet tears into Kleenex, until it’s time for her to go take care of my shift.

  Habits of an Effective Test Taker #6

  On most exams, when you’re uncertain of the correct answer, informed guessing can give you an advantage overall.

  My parents each text me at least a dozen times, until I finally text them back to let them know that, yes, I’m alive, and, no, I won’t be returning home for a while, that I need some space to think, and to please just leave me alone, that it’s the only thing I really want for my birthday, to be left alone.