The Best Possible Answer

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  “You mean your girlfriend?” Dean asks with a laugh. He sounds like a six-year-old.

  I really want to throw up.

  “And that’s none of your business,” Evan says. He gestures toward the door. “I’m going to ask you one more time to leave.”

  For some reason, Dean’s refusing to budge.

  I catch my breath. “Dean, would you just go? Please?”

  “Does your friend here—” He’s laughing and slurring his words. “Does he know about your texting habits?”

  “Dean, please stop—”

  “Does he know how you like to break up with people over text? How you don’t even allow them the courtesy of a face-to-face conversation? How you like to—”

  Oh God, my heart.

  “You can stop.” Evan puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Now.”

  Dean laughs and then tries to sucker punch Evan, but thankfully Evan’s too fast and Dean’s too weak and too drunk to make the hit.

  Instead of punching his face, Dean sort of lands weakly into Evan’s chest, which allows Evan to grab hold of him by the shoulders and basically push him out the door. “You’re letting hot air in the room. Be safe now.” And he slams the door in Dean’s face.

  “Ex-boyfriend?” Evan says.

  “Something like that.” I nod, stunned, unable to say anything else.

  “I should call campus security.”

  “Please don’t.”

  Evan nods. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry further. Instead, he just turns up the music and sits next to me, his shoulder pressed against mine.

  I do my best to catch my breath. I try to make my breathing slow and quiet. Somehow, it works.

  A few minutes later, Virgo and Sammie return with pizza in hand.

  Evan doesn’t say anything to them about Dean or what just happened. We spend the rest of the night in their room, eating pizza and listening to music. The three of them talk about everything from school to Kanye West to Game of Thrones to the Mars One project and whether or not they would apply. I mostly just listen.

  Evan doesn’t ask me how I am anymore, but it’s okay.

  I feel really good, sitting here with him next to me.

  He doesn’t have to ask.

  Mistakes to Avoid Your Senior Year of High School #1

  You should challenge yourself in new ways, but don’t overextend yourself, either. It’s not worth taking all AP classes if it lands you a C or you can’t pass the exam.

  Every Monday morning, I sneak back into my apartment when I know that no one will be home. I usually text my dad to tell him to make sure the apartment is empty so I can go in by myself, and he always texts back a simple Okay. I woke up on Saturday morning back in Sammie’s bed and found a multisentence text from him saying that he was leaving for Singapore for a week, and that the apartment would be clear for me today. He also wrote that I should come back home now that he’s gone, that my mother and Mila need me and miss me.

  But I’m not ready to move back in. I’m afraid that I might end up telling them everything I know. I don’t want to be the one to ruin their lives.

  I unlock the front door.

  The apartment smells like onion and garlic. I miss my mom’s cooking so much. I miss her.

  But I just can’t face her yet.

  I head to my room. She’s made my bed and straightened up my desk and left a basket of clean, folded clothes on my bed. There’s a drawing there, too, from Mila, with my paycheck from Bennett Tower, Inc., and a note from my mom: Come back when you’re ready. I love you, Viviana. I love you unconditionally.

  I fold the papers and stuff them in my backpack.

  I walk down the hallway to Mila’s room, which is a mess, as usual. The floor is covered with stuffed animals, Legos, uncapped markers, and crumpled clothes. My parents never let me live like this when I was her age. My dad would yell at me if I even left my bed unmade. I don’t feel jealous so much as relieved that Mila is experiencing a freedom they never gave me. It actually makes me hopeful in some way.

  I go into my parents’ room. The bed is made, and everything is clean, as my mom likes it. The photos on the walls are perfectly lined up. She had my dad put them up the week after she was diagnosed with the cancer. She knew she was going to have to rest in bed for months, and she said she didn’t want to stare at blank walls, that she wanted to stare at the people she loved more than anything else. There are photos of me as a child with my mom’s family in Israel on various trips that I hardly remember taking before Mila was born, and then there are photos of all of us together at the hospital when Mila was born, at her first day of kindergarten, of my eighth-grade graduation.

  My mom’s put a few more photos on her dresser, ones that I haven’t seen before. They’re from my old Instagram account, photos of Sammie and me, our silly faces filling up the frames. She must have printed them out before I canceled my account. I never knew she’d done this.

  I pick up one of the pictures. We took it freshman year, long before Sammie’s dad died, before my mom got sick. It’s been over two years since then. We look younger, of course—Sammie still has braces, and I’m sporting my sorry attempt at bangs—but even more, we look different because we look happy. We were happy. We were different people completely. Maybe Professor Cox was right. We didn’t really know anything about the world. Maybe we still don’t. Maybe it will only get worse, like he said.

  I place the picture back on the dresser. My dad has left some of his stuff here in his wooden tray—a broken watch, a pair of sunglasses, a pile of receipts. I leaf through the receipts. There’s nothing too exciting—some from airport cafés and taxis in Singapore, all with the word work written on top, and then more from home: Starbucks, Macy’s, Target.

  I start going through his drawers, looking for something. I don’t know what exactly. Pictures of them, maybe. Letters. Something, anything, to explain who they are, why they’re in his life, why he’s decided to create one in theirs.

  I pull out his shirts, his pants, his socks, everything. There’s nothing here, but I empty the drawers anyway. I clean them out. I throw it all on the floor.

  The last drawer is nearly empty when I hear something heavy fall out. I drop to the ground. I scramble through the fabric and find it: a set of keys with a label attached. The bastard was dumb enough to leave them here, and even dumber to label them: Geneva Terrace.

  My legs start to shake, and then my heart quickly follows.

  They’re the keys to the other house. He’s left them here, hidden in his clothes, and now I’ve found them—they’re in my hand.

  There’s a rustling at the front door, a turn of the lock, and voices—my mom’s voice, and Mila’s—she’s crying. What the hell. It’s ten-thirty, and they’re not supposed to be back until this afternoon.

  I slide the keys into my pocket and quickly stuff all of my dad’s clothes into his drawers, careful not to slam them closed. I slip out of their room and tiptoe down the hallway toward the living room, the keys burning in my pocket.

  “Viviana!” Mila screams as she runs to me. “Are you back? Are you home for good?”

  “No, I’m not.” I look up at my mom. “What’s going on? Why are you guys home so early?”

  “I threw up!” Mila says, with a proud smile on her face. “We were on a field trip to the Field Museum and I got carsick on the bus and I threw up all over Nicholas Smith. He had to go home, too.”

  “Are you okay now?”

  “She’s fine,” my mom says. “But, Viviana, thank God you’re here. Could you stay home with her for a few hours? I’m missing my class.”

  “Mama, I have to be at work at one.”

  “Please, Viviana. I will be back in two hours. I have a meeting with my professor at eleven. I was going to cancel, but he wants to talk to me about an internship—a paid one—and it would mean the world to me if you could stay so I could go.”

  “I really don’t think I should—”

  Mila pulls at my arm and gives me
a sharp, angry look. “Why don’t you want to stay with me? Are you mad at me, too?”

  I look at my mom. “What if she throws up again?”

  My mom goes into the kitchen and pulls out Gatorade, emergency saltines, and applesauce from the cabinets. “She won’t, but just in case, only feed her this.” And then before I can say anything else, my mom grabs her briefcase, kisses Mila on the forehead, and runs out the door.

  * * *

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  It’s the twentieth time she’s asked me in the last hour, and for the twentieth time, I respond by saying, “Because it’s none of your business.”

  We’re curled up on the couch watching Planet Earth on Netflix, and I’m trying to get her just to watch the show, to get her to stop asking me so many questions, especially since all I can think about are these keys in my pocket.

  “Is it because of Daddy?”

  I ignore her question and keep my focus on the TV. “Why is it called a flying lemur if it doesn’t fly and it’s not a lemur?”

  She stares at me. “It’s called a colugo. It lives in Borneo. And it’s not flying. It’s gliding.” And then: “Is it because of their almost divorce?”

  “This is crazy!” I ignore her question and point to the screen. “Look at how far they travel through the air. How do they do that?”

  “It’s the same as a flying squirrel. It’s not that exciting.” And then: “Is it because you’re mad that they won’t pay for your Academy camp thing?”

  “But how does it do that? It moves like a Frisbee.”

  “Is it because of what happened at school with your ex-boyfriend and the picture you sent him?”

  I nearly fall off the couch. “What? How do you know about—”

  “I live in this house, too,” she says. “The walls are thin, and I have really good hearing.”

  “But that’s none of your business!”

  “Why won’t any of you tell me anything?”

  “Because,” I say, “you’re too young to understand.”

  “I am NOT too young! I’m not stupid. I see everything. I know that Mama and Daddy are having problems. And I know that you’re having problems and they’re so bad that you have to move out, and now Daddy’s gone and Mama’s busy with school and—and—” She starts to cry. “No one cares about me anymore and no one will tell me anything!”

  She collapses into the couch and screams into the cushions.

  “Oh, Mila, no. That’s not true. That’s the opposite of true. I care about you. I care about you so much.”

  “Then why won’t you come home?” Her voice is muffled from the pillows. I sit down next to her and put my hand on her back.

  “Don’t rub my back. Answer my question. Why aren’t you home?”

  “I just— I can’t be here right now.”

  “Are you going to come home soon?”

  “If you take your face out from the couch, then yes, maybe, soon.”

  She lifts her head. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” I’m not sure I mean it, but I want her to calm down. “I love you, Mila.”

  “Okay,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’m glad you love me.”

  “We all do.” More than anything, I think.

  She doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, she makes me sit down next to her, and then she puts her pinkie in her mouth and rests her head on my shoulder. We sit like that, watching TV in silence, my fingers gripping the keys in my pocket, not knowing what to do next.

  Mistakes to Avoid Your Senior Year of High School #2

  Senior year is actually too late to start thinking about college, especially for the top schools. Start preparing for the process of applying to colleges in your junior year, making sure to be involved and engaged in all aspects of your educational career.

  The storms return the next day. The forecasters are predicting an “Extreme Summer Storm,” complete with more hail, high humidity, and damaging winds. The suburbs may even see tornadoes. It’s a “supercell” of a storm that’s certain to damage property. Mr. Bautista orders Virgo to close the pool and we all get text messages not to report for work until Thursday.

  Sammie and I get the text while we’re getting ready.

  “Hallelujah,” Sammie says, throwing her brush in the drawer.

  “No work for two days. I mean, it sucks we’re stuck here and can’t go to the beach or something, but at least we get a few days off.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I’m not so good at doing nothing,” I say. “I thought I wanted inertia, but I’m not so good at it. Plus, being at work—even when the helicopter moms are complaining about the no-floatie rule—it distracts me, you know?”

  “Yeah. I get it,” she says. “Well, we have the whole day. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing?”

  We both laugh at first, but then she gets quiet. “Vivi, you’ve seemed more upset these past few days. Did you hear from your dad? Did something else happen?”

  “What? No.” I haven’t told Sammie about finding the keys or seeing Mila or the fact that she knows about the photo. Just thinking about it makes my heart race. The last thing I need is to talk about it, too. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

  Our phones buzz. Extreme Summer Storm calls for game of Extreme Summer Ping-Pong Championship, wouldn’t you say? It’s a text from Virgo to Evan, Sammie, and me.

  “Awesome,” Sammie says. “Want to?”

  I nod.

  She looks up at me. “They’ll be here in about forty minutes. Want me to give you a crown braid?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Thanks. I can do whatever you want, too.”

  “Okay, turn around.” She starts combing my hair into strands. “We’ve got to make you look good for Evan.”

  “Sammie, come on. Stop. That’s not happening. I will not destroy my friendship with you over a guy.”

  “He’s not. Anyway, I’m not into guys who are totally into my BFF.”

  I smile. “Okay. Fine. Stop, though, please. After that whole thing with Dean, I doubt anything’s going to happen as it is.”

  “Fine.” She tugs my hair into a braid. “I will. Whatever you say.”

  * * *

  I have to admit: Playing Extreme Ping-Pong during an Extreme Summer Storm on the thirty-eighth floor of a building is a much better distraction than sitting at work all day. Evan’s also brought his guitar, and Virgo’s brought a violin, and in between matches, they play songs for us while the building shudders from the wind and thunder.

  We spend the morning going back and forth between Ping-Pong, songs, and sitting on the floor and watching the passing storms. Then, around twelve-thirty, we go back down to Sammie’s to gather leftovers for lunch.

  “My mom made dinner last night. Do you guys like Filipino food?”

  “I’ll eat anything,” Evan says.

  “Even chicken innards and pork bits?”

  “Yes, probably,” he says.

  Virgo raises his hands. “Thanks, but I’ll pass on both.”

  “I’m just kidding.” Sammie takes the food out of the fridge. “Today’s menu is just chicken macaroni salad and pork adobo, no innards or bits included.”

  She leans into the fridge and pulls out a six-pack of Coke. We help her grab plates, napkins, and utensils, then head back upstairs. She spreads a picnic blanket on the ground near the window, and we fill ourselves on her mom’s awesome food.

  “Your mom’s adobo is the best,” I say. “I am so going to miss it.”

  “It’s not like we’re moving to Canada. We’ll still see each other on weekends.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do after Sammie moves?” Virgo asks. “Are you going back home?”

  “I guess. I mean, I have nowhere else to go.” I take a sip of Coke. “Can we talk about something else? This conversation is depressing the hell out of me.”

  “Sure,
” Virgo says. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just sick of talking about my problems. I want to hear about someone else’s problems.”

  “I’ve got one,” Evan says. He puts down his plate and then shifts uncomfortably. “I got a message from my ex-girlfriend last night.”

  “Whoa,” Virgo says. “Joanna? The high school sweetheart?”

  “You mean the tenth-grade sweetheart? The one I pledged my life to when I was fifteen, the one I thought I’d marry and grow old with? Yeah, that one.”

  “You seriously thought you were going to marry her?” Virgo laughs. “No one should be talking about marriage when they’re in high school.”

  “Well, we did.” Evan’s shoulders slump. “And then she broke my heart.”

  “How?” Sammie asks.

  “She cheated on me. Even though we were going to different colleges, we promised to stay together, since we’re only a few miles away. But then she got together with another guy her first week at Northwestern, and she told me about it a week later. Said she was racked with guilt and couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “When you say ‘got together,’” I ask, “you mean—”

  “Well, almost got together,” Evan says. “They didn’t have sex. But they made out. And they got close.”

  “Dude,” Virgo says. “You don’t tell!”

  I look at Virgo. “What do you mean, ‘You don’t tell’?”

  “I mean, you don’t tell.” He pauses to take a drink. “Even if it’s flirting with someone else. You keep that stuff to yourself.”

  “But then you’re lying to your significant other,” I say. “And your whole relationship is a farce!”

  Virgo raises his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get you so upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m just—I just disagree.”

  “Wait,” Evan says. “So let me ask you this. She called me last week and said she wants to try again, that she feels terrible about what she did. She wants me to forgive her and give her another chance.”

  I’m surprised he’s telling me this, especially after our night in his dorm room.