by Piper Banks
Dad and Peyton were sitting on opposite sides of the kitchen table. As soon as Hannah and I entered the room, they stopped fighting abruptly.
Peyton cleared her throat. “Hi, honey,” she said to Hannah, ignoring me as usual. “Did you have a fun night?”
“Sort of. We went bowling. I had to wear the ugliest shoes,” Hannah said.
“Is that sanitary?” Peyton asked.
“Doubtful,” Hannah said.
“Hello, girls,” Dad said, pointedly stressing the plural.
Peyton started. “Oh! Hello, Miranda,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t see you there.”
This was an obvious lie. I was standing right next to Hannah. Peyton would have to be blind to have missed me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Did you go bowling, too?” Dad asked.
I nodded.
“So you two are fighting again?” Hannah asked, hopping up onto one of the tall stools.
“No. Richard and I were having a discussion,” Peyton said stiffly.
“It sounded like you were fighting,” Hannah continued. She twirled a fine strand of pale blond hair around one finger. “I thought you weren’t doing that anymore.”
“Everyone gets into arguments from time to time,” Dad said mildly.
Hannah and I exchanged a look.
“Yeah, but it hasn’t really been, has it? Time to time, I mean,” I said.
“More like all the time,” Hannah said. “It’s getting annoying to live with.”
I nodded. “She’s right. It is.”
Dad and Peyton exchanged a look, and, surprisingly, Dad smiled at Peyton. Peyton didn’t return the smile, but that might be because her face was paralyzed by Botox (which she adamantly insisted she didn’t use, but totally did).
“We’re sorry we’ve been annoying you,” Dad said.
“And we’ve been trying to work out some of our issues with our therapist,” Peyton added.
“Is it helping?” Hannah asked.
“I think so,” Dad said carefully.
“I do, too,” Peyton said. She reached a hand across the table. Dad took it, holding it gently in his hand.
Hannah smiled at me, looking pleased.
I didn’t smile back. My head had started to pound. Too many thoughts were bouncing around it, too many emotions were slamming up against one another. Suddenly all I wanted to do was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and shut out the rest of the world.
“I’m going to bed,” I said abruptly.
Everyone looked at me, surprised. “Are you okay, honey?” Dad asked.
“I’m fine. Just . . . tired. Really, really tired,” I said. I turned and left without another word.
Chapter Twenty-three
Charlie called me on my cell phone as soon as she got home. I was already in bed with my lights out, but I hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Instead, I just lay there staring up into the darkness, while thoughts of Dex—his leaving, his hiding it from me, the way we’d parted that evening—clattered around in my head.
“Hi!” she said when I answered. “Where did you go?”
I didn’t feel like getting into everything that had happened, so I just said, “I had a headache, so I went home.”
“You could have said good-bye,” Charlie said accusingly.
“Sorry.”
“You would not believe how well our big plan went,” Charlie said happily. “Luke was all over me! And Finn was so jealous!”
“Why? What did Finn do?” I asked.
“He started to completely ignore Phoebe. And he kept trying to get my attention.”
“How?”
“You know, typical Finn stuff. He kept saying how goofy I look when I bowl, and making fun of how I throw the ball. You know, generally insulting me. It was great.”
“Sounds like it,” I said dryly. “Um, Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“You used to want to rip Finn’s face off when he insulted you. How did that suddenly become a turn-on for you?”
“This was a different kind of insulting. This time he was obviously trying to divert my attention away from Luke. And poor Phoebe,” Charlie said.
“Poor Phoebe? I thought we hated her.” Charlie had told me this many, many times, refusing to be swayed by the apparently irrelevant fact that I couldn’t hate Phoebe, as I didn’t even know her.
“We used to hate her. Now we feel badly for her,” Charlie corrected me. “She just sat there, her arms crossed, looking like she was on the verge of bursting into tears.”
“Oh, that’s terrible!” I exclaimed. “Charlie!”
“What? It’s not my fault that Finn was neglecting her,” Charlie said defensively.
“Of course it was your fault! It was exactly what you were hoping would happen!”
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?” Charlie demanded.
“Fine, go ahead.”
“I’m not going to tell you if you don’t want to hear.”
I was so not in the mood for this. “Okay, then don’t tell me.”
“Okay, okay. So anyway, we finished the game, and Phoebe got all pouty and said she wanted to go home. And Finn said, okay, but then he didn’t leave. He just stood there and looked at me. Phoebe asked him what he was doing, and Finn asked me if I was coming, too,” Charlie said.
“I thought you drove to the bowling alley,” I said.
“I did. That’s what I told Finn, that I had my car there. And he got all huffy. He was crossing his arms and shooting Luke suspicious looks. Finally, Finn asked if he could talk to me in private. I said fine, so he pulled me aside and told me that he didn’t trust Luke and he didn’t want to leave me alone with him. I told him I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And Phoebe finally got fed up and walked off. And Finn didn’t even notice that she’d gone!” Charlie was triumphant. “I knew it would work! Your stepsister is a genius.”
“So what happened after that?”
“We all left. Finn, Luke, and I walked out to the parking lot together, but neither of the guys would leave—Luke was obviously hoping Finn would get the hint and go away, but Finn just stood there, glaring at us, refusing to leave us alone. So finally Luke had to ask for my phone number right in front of Finn,” Charlie said.
“Did you give it to him?” I asked, curious as to how far Charlie was willing to take this.
“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”
“But Luke’s going to think that you like him.”
“So?”
I closed my eyes and pressed a thumb and forefinger over them. A muscle next to my right eye had begun to twitch.
“Miranda? Are you there?” Charlie asked.
“I’m here.”
“So, what do you think?” Charlie was beginning to sound impatient.
I took in a deep breath. “I think that you should stop playing games before someone gets hurt.”
“Who’s going to get hurt?” Charlie scoffed.
“Luke. Phoebe. They’re both actual people with actual feelings,” I pointed out.
“Well, obviously, I don’t want anyone to get hurt. But how else am I supposed to make Finn realize how he feels about me?” Charlie asked.
“Have you considered telling him how you feel?” I asked.
This was met by an absolute silence that ticked on for so long, I wondered if Charlie had hung up on me.
“I can’t do that,” she finally said.
“Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The only way that would turn out well is if Finn responded by telling me he felt the same way about me. Otherwise, it would be an absolute nightmare. He might think I’m joking, and just laugh at me. Or he might say he doesn’t have feelings for me, and then he’d feel sorry for me. Or he could just say nothing, and everything would always be weird between us forever,” Charlie ranted.
“I still think it’s better than playing games with everyone,” I said. “You said that Phoebe almost cried tonig
ht.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Charlie said.
“I am on your side—” I began, but Charlie interrupted me.
“No, you’re not! You more concerned with Phoebe’s feelings than you are with mine! Besides, I can’t believe you’re being such a hypocrite.”
“Hypocrite?” I repeated, stung. “How am I being a hypocrite?”
“Because you’re giving me advice to do something that you would never have the guts to do!” Charlie continued, her voice thin with anger. “Do you remember when you had a crush on Emmett Dutch for, what, two full years? You never told him how you felt.”
“That was different. Emmett and I weren’t friends. He didn’t even know who I was,” I protested.
But Charlie wasn’t listening. “And then when you first liked Dex, you never came out and told him how you felt about him. And when he didn’t e-mail you while you were in London, you just automatically assumed that it was over. All because you were too afraid to just talk to him about it.”
I wasn’t really enjoying this trip down memory lane. It had been a stressful enough night already, without adding this to the pile.
“What’s your point?”
“You’re not in a position to be giving relationship advice. Unlike Hannah, who clearly knows what she’s doing.”
“Fine!” I said. “Then why don’t you just call Hannah?”
“Maybe I will!” Charlie retorted.
There was another long pause, and I again wondered if Charlie had hung up. Then I considered hanging up. But then I decided that I wasn’t up to getting into a big fight with Charlie right now. I had enough conflict in my life at the moment.
“Are you still there?” I finally asked.
“I’m still here. Do you really think I should tell him how I feel?” Charlie asked, in a very different sort of voice from the one she’d been shouting at me with a moment before.
“I don’t know. You’re probably right. I shouldn’t be giving out relationship advice.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Charlie said, sounding contrite.
“No, I mean it. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t know about anything anymore,” I said wearily. My eye was still twitching, and a headache had started to throb at my temples. “But I probably should go and try to get some sleep. I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”
“Okay. Feel better. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Charlie said. Then she hesitated. “Sorry I yelled.”
“No worries,” I said. “Bye.”
Chapter Twenty-four
When Mrs. Fisher answered the door the next morning, she didn’t look happy. Her eyes were hard and narrowed, her mouth was a taut line, and her cheekbones were flushed high and bright. I took an involuntary step back from her, tripped over the edge of the step, and ended up stubbing my toe on the walkway.
“Ouch,” I said, standing on one foot to favor my throbbing toe.
Mrs. Fisher did not seem to have noticed my lack of grace. “Miranda,” she said, “please come in. My husband and I would like to have a word with you.”
“Mr. Fisher?” I asked tentatively. I’d never met Mr. Fisher. And, judging by how angry Mrs. Fisher seemed, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to meet him now. But I couldn’t think of a way to gracefully bow out, so I limped into the house.
It was silent again, but, even so, I glanced through the French doors into the living room, half expecting to see Amelia at her piano as she almost always was when I arrived. The living room was empty.
“Where’s Amelia?” I asked.
Mrs. Fisher didn’t respond. Instead, she strode off to the kitchen, heels clicking loudly against the tile floor, clearly expecting me to follow. My heart started to beat a bit faster. I had a bad feeling about this.
Reluctantly, I followed her. Amelia’s father was sitting at the table, looking somber and vaguely uneasy, as though he didn’t want to be there any more than I did. In person, he looked even more like Amelia than he did in the family photo I’d seen. They both had the same large, serious eyes, the same angular face, the same too-pale skin.
I managed a smile at Mr. Fisher, despite the nervous wriggling in my stomach. He didn’t smile back at me. Instead, he just nodded, looking grave.
“Michael, this is Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher said shortly. “Amelia, please sit down.”
I sat in one of the ladder-backed kitchen chairs and folded my hands on my lap. Mrs. Fisher took a seat on the opposite side of the table from me, next to her husband. She sat very erect, her shoulders squared.
“Do you know what we want to talk to you about?” Mrs. Fisher asked.
I’ve always hated it when you know you’re in trouble, and the person in charge—a parent or teacher—starts off with this question. What happened to my Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate myself? Sure, this might not be an official courtroom, but at the moment, it sure felt like one. Only Mrs. Fisher was the prosecutor and judge all rolled into one. What did that make Mr. Fisher? I stole a glance at him, and saw that he was gravely regarding me. He was the jury, I decided.
The thing was, I did have a pretty good idea why I was there—Amelia had talked to her mom about cutting back on the amount of time she spent practicing the piano, and somewhere in the midst of that discussion, my name had come up.
I drew in a deep breath. “Amelia talked to you about not wanting to practice quite as much.”
Mrs. Fisher looked surprised. “So you don’t deny that you know about it,” she said.
I shook my head. “No.”
“What business do you have telling an impressionable young girl that she should give up the great passion in her life, the one thing she’s been dreaming of and working towards for years?” Mrs. Fisher asked. Her voice was as sharp and cold as an icicle.
“I didn’t tell her that,” I said indignantly.
“You just said you did!”
“No, I didn’t. I never told Amelia that she shouldn’t play the piano!” I said.
Mrs. Fisher’s lips curled down, somewhere between a frown and a sneer. I could tell she didn’t believe me, so I turned to Mr. Fisher.
“Amelia was upset. Partly because she doesn’t want to change piano teachers, but also because she feels like she’s under a lot of pressure and that all of the decisions about the sort of life she’s going to lead have already been made for her. And I told her that she should talk to you about all of that,” I said.
“Would it surprise you to hear that Amelia told us that you told her she doesn’t have to be a pianist?” Mrs. Fisher asked.
I tried to remember if that was exactly what I’d said. “I guess I did say that, but I didn’t mean—” Before I could finish, Mrs. Fisher cut in again.
“Your story keeps changing, Miranda. One minute, you say that you just told her to talk to us, and the next you’re admitting that you told her to give up the piano. Which one is it?” Mrs. Fisher asked. She folded her arms over her chest and looked levelly at me.
I felt like I was standing on a hill of sand, and with every step up I took, I slid down even farther.
“It’s neither. Or, I mean, it’s both. Sort of,” I said, starting to feel flustered. “The main thing I told her was that she should talk to you about her feelings.”
“And that’s exactly what she did do. At dinner last night, Amelia announced that she was tired of practicing, and that she wasn’t going to play anymore. And she told us that you’d told her it was okay,” Mrs. Fisher said.
“No! I just told that it was her life and she needed to be involved in any decisions that were made about her future,” I said. “She’s just under so much pressure—”
Mr. Fisher looked up sharply then, his eyes troubled. But Mrs. Fisher just pressed her lips into an even tighter line and said, “The only pressure Amelia is under is that which she puts on herself. And she’s hardly an ordinary ten-year-old. She’s a musical genius. It would be a tragedy for her to throw her gift away.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t think she really wants to do that,” I said, twisting my hands together my lap. “But she’s getting burned out. She needs to have a life outside of the piano. To get away from it sometimes.”
“You don’t get to make those decisions for Amelia,” Mrs. Fisher said coldly.
“I didn’t want to . . . I really didn’t mean to . . .” I gabbled. I wanted to say something that would fix this, that would assure the Fishers that all I had been trying to do was be a good friend to Amelia. But I couldn’t seem to find the right words to explain this. It was especially hard sitting there in their gloomy gray kitchen, with Mrs. Fisher spitting-mad and Mr. Fisher so quiet and watchful.
Mrs. Fisher seemed to notice her husband’s silence for the first time. She turned on him. “Don’t you have anything you would like to say to Miranda?”
Mr. Fisher cleared his throat. “Perhaps it would be best if we found alternate child care for Amelia for the remainder of the summer.”
I had been expecting this ever since Mrs. Fisher first led me back to the kitchen. Even so, hearing it said aloud—I was being fired—made my insides shrivel up. I’d been fired from my very first job. Epic fail.
I nodded and stood up, noticing that my legs somehow felt both shaky and wooden. I waited for the Fishers to say something further, but Mrs. Fisher seemed to have run out of steam—she stared down at the table, her arms still crossed, as though she couldn’t bear to look up at me—and Mr. Fisher had returned to his mute, contemplative posture. When it became clear that they weren’t going to say anything else, I turned and headed down the hallway, happy to see that despite the woodenness and shakiness, my legs were still capable of carrying me away.
When I got to the front door, I heard a noise from upstairs. I looked up, and there, sitting on the top stair, was Amelia. She looked very small and very sad, sitting hunched over, with her arms wrapped around her legs. I raised a hand in a halfhearted wave. Amelia waved back.
And then I turned away, opened the front door, and left.
Chapter Twenty-five
It wasn’t that I was avoiding Dex. It was just that the first time he called, I was biking back from the Fishers’ house, still reeling from having been fired. I looked at the caller ID, saw Dex’s name, and decided that while of course I was going to talk to him—eventually—I wanted to be prepared and, if at all possible, somewhat poised when that conversation did happen. I stuck my phone back in my pocket and kept on biking, the ocean breeze drying the tears on my cheeks.