The Best Possible Answer

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  Surprisingly, that makes them stop.

  I lie in Sammie’s bed alone and think about my dad. I wonder what she looks like—this woman, Paige. She talked about “the kids.” Kids. Not just one, but two or maybe more? Like it wasn’t an accident. It was planned, thought out, wished for. I try to imagine their faces. I wonder if they have the same red hair that I do and if their eyes are light like mine.

  I finally, somehow, drift off into a restless sleep.

  I wake up gasping for breath.

  I know what I need to do.

  I need to see them.

  I pick up my phone. It’s 4:30 P.M.

  Maybe he hasn’t left yet. Maybe there’s still time.

  I grab a shirt and pants out of Sammie’s drawer and throw them on. I run down the stairwell and through the lobby, heading toward the corner bus stop across the street from Bennett Tower.

  I stand behind the faded glass, and I wait. This woman, Paige, thinks that he’s coming home at six, so I hope he hasn’t left from our place yet. With any luck, I can catch him.

  At twenty past five, he emerges from the lobby of Bennett Tower dressed in a suit and tie, a small duffel bag in his hand. He puts on his sunglasses and starts walking north. I stay on my side of the street, and then I follow him.

  My father’s always been a fast walker, and I’m trying not to be too obvious in my tracking of him. I do my best to keep a safe distance but also not to stay so far away that I’ll lose him. He heads up Clark Street and makes his way into Lincoln Park, where it’s harder to stay out of his sight. I slow my pace and almost lose him when he ducks under a bridge and back onto the street. I run after him and catch up enough to be able to follow at a steady pace for another ten minutes or so.

  He turns a few corners and walks down some small tree-lined streets, and then finally he arrives at a large and beautiful brownstone on a fancy street named Geneva Terrace. It’s three stories high and newly renovated, with a bright red door and perfectly manicured bushes. This other family lives in a giant house on a side street in a much nicer neighborhood than where we live.

  He pulls out his key, unlocks the door, and walks inside.

  Oh, no.

  I wasn’t thinking.

  I had this vision of him opening the front door and his other wife and his other kids running to him, of him lifting them into his arms, embracing them on the front steps. As though this is something he’d want the world to see.

  I sit on the edge of the curb and stare at the house: this house in this nice neighborhood, which might have very well cost him a million dollars or more, that belongs to my father but does not belong to us.

  It’s my birthday. I’m seventeen today. There’s no cake, no candles, no streamers, or songs. Just me, alone, on a curb, following the lies of a man whose life I once thought I understood.

  I make my birthday wish anyway.

  I sit and I wait. And then I close my eyes.

  And I make a wish.

  I make a wish that one day I’ll understand.

  I make a wish that one day I’ll be able to see the truth of it all.

  * * *

  An hour later, part of my wish comes true.

  I have to scramble to hide behind a parked car when I see my father come out of the building. And behind him, a tall, stylish brunette with bangs and an elegant skirt. He holds the door open and then lifts a stroller down the steps. There’s a little boy in the stroller, and the woman, Paige, presumably, is holding the hand of a little girl who follows him down the steps. My father reaches his hand out to Paige and pulls her close.

  The kids both have red hair, curly and wild, like my father’s.

  Like mine.

  This is it.

  There they are.

  They’re a beautiful family, model-perfect. It’s like they stepped out of a catalog. Paige is young and pretty, and the kids are well dressed, the boy in khakis and a Cubs hat, the girl in a purple paisley dress, her hair in pigtails. She’s clutching a stuffed lion. It’s just like the one he brought for Mila.

  More than anything, I think.

  You matter, I think.

  And then I think, I could follow them to dinner or to the park or whatever place they’re going to.

  But I’ve seen enough.

  From this one sight alone, I have my answer.

  I know what it’s like to have a beautiful mother, a beautiful sister, a father who brings home toys from his fancy business trips abroad and who holds his wife’s hand lovingly.

  I know exactly what it’s like to be them.

  This family I see before me is beautiful and perfect.

  And it’s also a lie. A cruel and terrible lie.

  I could run up to them, make myself known, ruin their lives just as much as he’s ruined ours. And then I could run home, tell my mother about everything.

  I could take them all down, ruin them all.

  But then I think about Mila, her birthday wish, how she wants us all to be together.

  I let my father and his other family turn the corner, out of sight, and I head back toward Bennett Village.

  Instead of walking back through the park, I take the long route home down Lincoln Avenue.

  I look in windows.

  I sit at bus stops.

  I stare at people.

  I try to understand.

  It’s all too much.

  I don’t know where to go, what to do next.

  I could text my dad. Or not.

  I could talk to my mom. Or not.

  I could keep it all to myself and pretend I never saw anything.

  Nothing makes sense. I can’t figure it out.

  There are too many choices but no right answer.

  Habits of an Effective Test Taker #7

  More often than not, answers that are longer and contain more detail are the correct ones. Shorter answers are created quickly and are often throwaways that can be easily eliminated.

  I stay at Sammie’s another three nights. I don’t bother going downstairs to get clean clothes. I don’t want to run into anyone accidentally, not my mother, certainly not my father, and not even Mila. I buy a new toothbrush and some underwear, and Sammie lets me borrow her clothes. I text my parents that I’ll be at Sammie’s for a few days.

  My mother calls me and begs me to come home, but after a few uncomfortable conversations, she finally agrees to let me be. My father, on the other hand, texts back: This behavior is unacceptable. Come back when you are ready to have a conversation like an adult.

  What a jerk.

  I go to work, make my way through the day even though Sammie won’t be able to get her shifts changed back to mine until next week, and then I walk around the city, alone, while Sammie and her mom look at apartments in Morton Grove.

  At night, Sammie distracts me by telling me stories about the O’Briens and Professor Cox and Mrs. Woodley. I half-hear them. They seem silly and pointless, but I don’t say anything to Sammie. I just let her talk.

  When I finally return home Thursday after work, my mom’s on her computer at the dining room table, as usual. My dad’s back, and he’s on the couch watching Wild Kratts with Mila. She’s got her head against his shoulder and her pinkie in her mouth.

  No one looks up to say hello to me.

  In their world, everything is fine. I am the one who’s acting strange. I am the one who is illogical, emotional, childish. I am the one who’s threatening their perfect harmony for no good reason.

  I head to my room and shut the door.

  My mom calls out to me: “I did your laundry. Everything in the basket is clean. You just need to fold it.”

  I sit at my desk and open my computer. I haven’t checked my e-mail in five days, not because I couldn’t do it at Sammie’s, but because I’ve been on a mission to avoid the world as much as possible. AP scores are scheduled to come this week, but I haven’t checked, mainly because I haven’t been able to face the results.

  But now that I’m here, seeing my world
as it is—the lies and disappointments that it’s built upon—I figure, what’s another layer of failure?

  It’s there. An e-mail from the College Board that my scores are ready, that I just need to log in to my account to see the results.

  I take a deep breath.

  Here we go.

  AP English Language: 2 (Possibly qualified)

  European History: 2 (Possibly qualified)

  Physics B: 5 (Extremely qualified)

  How is that even possible? Physics is my worst subject. How could I have aced the physics exam and bombed both English and history?

  I print out two copies of the results. I grab my backpack and stuff it with clothes from the laundry basket. I close my computer, grab a different pair of shoes, fold one copy of my results and put it in my pocket.

  I take the other copy to the dining room and throw it on the table.

  “I suppose you’ll want to have a talk about why I got screwed up on my AP tests.”

  My mom looks up at me. “What?”

  “Vivi?” Mila jumps up from the couch. She runs to me and wraps her arms around my waist. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Hi, Mila.”

  My father walks over to the table and picks up the paper.

  “I didn’t get perfect scores on my exams like you wanted. In fact, I pretty much bombed them.”

  “Where have you been?” Mila looks at my backpack. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.” I kiss the top of her head. “Out.”

  He looks at the paper. “You got a five in physics.…”

  “But I got twos on my other exams. And two B’s on my report card. So yeah. There goes Stanford. They’ll never accept me now.”

  My father looks up at me. “After that photo debacle, I’m surprised you thought they’d still even consider you at all.”

  “Wow,” I say, shocked. “Real nice, Dad. Way to support me when I’m down. It’s not enough that I messed up on my exams, you’ve got to remind me about how I messed up my personal life as well—”

  My mom snatches the paper out of my father’s hand and crumples it up. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I don’t care about these stupid tests.”

  “But he does,” I say.

  Mila starts to cry. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you sleeping here?” She pulls at my backpack and then at my arm. “Stay, please. Daddy, can’t you make her stay?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Of course I can make her stay. Viviana, you are not going anywhere, not while I’m home, not while you’re living under my roof.”

  I laugh. “You know what, Dad? You’re a liar.”

  I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t say anything. At least not now. Not in front of Mila.

  But I finally see him as he is. After all these years of pushing me to be like him, now for him to just walk in here and pretend like the last six months never happened, like everything in his life isn’t a lie. “You’ll never be able to make me do anything again.”

  “Excuse me?” He steps toward me as though he wants to hit me.

  “You heard what I said. You’re a liar. And an ass.”

  “Viviana!” my mom yells. “Apologize to your father!”

  “Vivi, why did you say that? Daddy’s not an ass!”

  “Mila!” My mom takes her by the shoulders, urges her down the hallway. “Go to your room! Now!”

  But Mila resists. She pulls away from our mom and crawls underneath the dining room table and turns herself into a ball. She covers her ears and wails.

  “I said NOW, Mila.”

  I’m sorry, Mila, but Daddy’s a liar.

  I’m sorry, Mila, but Daddy has another family.

  I’m sorry, Mila, but he loves this other family more than anything.

  More than us.

  I get out of there as fast as I can, before it all comes out.

  I run down the hall toward the emergency stairwell. I push the door open and run down the stairs.

  I’m on the fourteenth floor when I hear an upstairs door slam.

  “Viviana, wait!” It’s my father.

  I start jumping down the steps, two, three, five at a time. I need to get away from him.

  I’m on the ninth floor when his voice bellows again through the corridor: “Viviana! Come back here! NOW!”

  When I was younger, the sound of his voice would have scared me into submission. Even the me of six months ago would have stopped for him. The me of six months ago would have turned around, gone back upstairs, begged for forgiveness.

  But right now, the sound of his voice pushes me to run faster, to jump farther, to leap down the steps.

  His steps echo above me. He is racing to catch up.

  I’m on the fourth floor.

  I’m on the third floor.

  I’m almost there.

  I just need to get to the lobby and out the front door.

  I won’t come back.

  I won’t come back to Bennett Tower.

  Not ever again.

  I’ll figure out somewhere else to stay.

  I’ll ask Sammie to call someone else for me.

  Maybe Virgo. Or Evan.

  I’ll find any other way to live my life, so long as it’s far away from my father and his sick, twisted life.

  I’m on the second floor when I feel my feet slip on the steps.

  Gravity pushes me down. I roll and I fall and I tumble. I land on my back, my body just another collapsed, failed product of Benjamin Lowe.

  I gasp for oxygen. My lungs are empty of air—the hard impact has knocked them clean. I struggle to sit up, to move, to breathe, to stand up and keep my body moving, away from him. His steps are coming closer and closer. I need to go. I need to get away. But the sharp spasms stab my chest, and all I can do is crawl.

  All I can do is grovel.

  I look up. The corridor spins above me.

  “Viviana?” He’s caught me. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m suffocating. I’m choking. I’m dissolving, melting, drowning because of him.

  He’s here now, his hand on my back, telling me to breathe, that I’m okay, that he’s here for me, that I just need to suck in the air, to let my lungs relax, to tell them to settle.

  For a brief moment, I let him tell me what to do. I let his words in. I let him convince my lungs that they need to relax. I let him tell my body that it needs to breathe.

  The oxygen returns. My lungs become whole again. My body is in pain—my lungs, my head, my back—but I can move. I can sit up.

  I can see him clearly.

  My father, Benjamin Lowe, is a dangerous man. He is manipulative and strange and selfish and mean.

  And then I hear his voice, loud and clear. “Viviana, what is this all about? You’re acting crazy. You need to calm down.”

  That’s it.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  “Calm down? You want me to calm down? How can I? More than anything, Dad! More than anything!”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “Paige, Dad. And your other kids. You love her—you love them—more than anything.”

  My voice lifts into the corridor like thunder, like lightning, like the rage of a thousand storms.

  “You love them more than anything.”

  He sits on the step next to me. “Oh hell.”

  “Yeah. Oh hell. I know everything, Dad. I followed you. I saw them. I saw how you kissed her and you hugged them. You got her a lion? A lion, Dad? You couldn’t even be creative enough to get something different for your different children?”

  I stand up. My body throbs with the pain of my collapse, but I somehow feel stronger than I ever have, maybe in my entire life.

  “You want to have an adult conversation?” I ask. “Fine. Here it is: I’m done. You’ve lost me, for good. You have no right to judge me or push me or criticize me, ever again. You can’t control me anymore.”

&n
bsp; I stumble down the steps, away from him.

  “Wait—” He stands up and reaches out to me. “You’re hurt.”

  “No!” I yell. “Don’t you dare follow me. It’s done. It’s over. There’s nothing you can do to help me now.”

  * * *

  I end up back at Sammie’s only because I know now that he’ll leave me alone. I send him one last text: Tell Mom to let me be. If either of you even tries to come upstairs, I’ll tell her what I know, and then everything will be over for you.

  Sammie’s mom is kind to me. She doesn’t ask me any questions, probably because she’s talked to my mom. She just lets me move in with them. She lets me eat their food and use their shampoo and sleep on their couch.

  Sammie requests her original shift back from Mr. Bautista, so at least I have her by my side again. “It pays to know people in low places,” she jokes. I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.

  That’s because I am hollow.

  I am a sore, broken mess of a person.

  Nothing can fix me.

  PART FOUR

  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

  Professor Cox is back. It’s been six weeks, seven thunderstorms, and five more Episodes since the tomato attack in June. Everyone’s talking about the unusual summer weather: rain sixteen days this month, and it’s the middle of August. On the very few hot days, the pool is packed with kids, and I want to scream from the chaos and the claustrophobia, and on the very many cool and rainy days, the pool is empty, and I want to scream from boredom.

  Today is one of those days.

  It hasn’t rained since the morning, but the sky is gray and dark, and Professor Cox is the only one in the water. He’s swimming in circles and singing kids’ songs to himself: “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain,” “The Ants Go Marching.” Virgo’s on duty, and after a while, he joins in his deep baritone voice. Professor Cox gives him a thumbs-up and then sings more loudly.