“I told you not to read those emails,” he says, shooting words out like bullets. “You promised you wouldn’t. Was that just another lie?”
My most private thoughts are posted on the Internet and my parents have grounded me till after the SAT because they read them after making me promise not to read anything of theirs that the hackers posted. And now Dad’s accusing me of lying because I read something that was on the front page of every single paper? The slowly simmering fury of the quiet voice inside finally boils over.
“Are you serious?” I explode. “I didn’t lie. In case you missed it, that news was on the front page of all the papers. As Mom would say, it made pretty eye-opening reading.”
Dad’s face pales as he realizes his mistake, and he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get a chance because I’m on a roll.
“I’m sick of this! I’ve spent sixteen years doing everything right and I do one thing wrong and it’s the end of the world. But meanwhile, because of what you’ve done, my whole life is ruined.”
“Stop exaggerating, Sammy. Yes, it’s going to be difficult for a while, but your whole life isn’t ruined.”
“Isn’t it? So when college admission officers google me and find my freaking journal online, that’s not going to hurt my chances of getting in? Or what about when I apply for a job? Are you telling me that bosses aren’t going to google me, either?”
That gives Dad pause, because he knows I’m right on both counts. My parents are the ones who are always warning me about posting stupid or inappropriate things online for that very reason.
He exhales slowly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend this hasn’t caused our family damage and life going forward will be easy,” Dad says. “Do you think it’s been a cakewalk going to work every day?”
“No,” I admit. I’ve noticed more fine lines around Dad’s eyes and streaks of gray in his hair. Even now, there’s a slight tremor in his fingers that I never noticed before. But then again, he’s in charge, so wasn’t it his job to make sure this didn’t happen in the first place?
Is our family going to survive this?
“I know I haven’t been the best father lately, and I’m sorry. But Winston Churchill said ‘never to surrender ourselves to servitude and shame, whatever the cost and the agony may be,’ ” Dad reminds me. “It’s going to be agony for a while. Trust me, I’m not underestimating the cost to you and RJ. I worry about you guys constantly.” He gives me a brief hug. “But Mom and I need to be able to trust you to do the right thing. Especially now, with so much else going on. Okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble, not really sure how we got from my dad’s emails to inspiring Winston Churchill quotes. But it’s not okay. Because he hasn’t explained the stuff I read in his emails. He’s just sort of stepped around it and that makes me feel worse. I wanted there to be a good reason for my dad saying such terrible things. There has to be more to the story than what was in the email. But if there is, he isn’t telling me. And that just makes me wonder if maybe there isn’t—if some things are just black and white.
And what I wonder, but don’t have the courage to say, is if I can trust him to do the right thing anymore.
“Here’s your phone,” he says, handing it to me.
“What about my laptop?” I ask.
“You’ll get it back later tonight, as soon as the cyber-security expert assures me that our home situation is secure.”
He turns to leave, his shoulders hunched as if burdened by heavy weight.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Sammy?”
I can’t help myself and the words rush out: “Mom said I’m grounded till after the SAT and I can’t go out to anything. Even prom.” I look at him pleadingly. “But … it’s prom, Dad.”
My dad frowns. “When you make a bad decision, you have to learn to live with the consequences,” he says.
“But, Dad …” My fists clench in frustration as I bury my face in my hands. I know I brought the punishment on myself, but because of the hack, it feels like I’m being punished out of all proportion.
I sense him walking toward me and feel his hand on my shoulder. I pull away as I look up, feeling my teeth grinding together as I wait for him to speak.
“Here’s the deal,” he says, his hand dropping to his side. “You can earn back the right to go to prom. I’m not making any promises. But if you behave well between now and then, you can go.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be good. I promise.”
What I don’t tell him is that I don’t even have a date yet.
April 10
My parents actually expect me to go to school today. But I don’t think there’s a strong enough outer shell in the universe to protect me now that the hackers posted my journal. It’s like being the emperor who wears no clothes, except it’s my bare naked thoughts being paraded around Brooklawne High. And it’s not just around my school. Around the whole freaking world.
There’s no way I can walk into that building. Not with all those eyes staring at me, all the whispering mouths.
Last night I made the mistake of going on Instagram. Someone took a screenshot of my probability trees of Jamie asking me to the prom and tagged both Jamie and me. So there’s a ZERO percent probability that he hasn’t seen it. I made my Instagram private, but even still—the comments people made, people who don’t even know me (and even some who do), made me cry myself to sleep. They’ve been playing over and over in my head like one of those marquee signs in Times Square, ever since I woke up.
If it wasn’t for Scruffles curled up next to me on the bed, I think I’d totally lose it. The soft inhale and exhale of his breath and the warmth of his furry body remind me that there’s at least one living being on this planet who still loves me and thinks I’m wonderful.
Last night I promised Dad I would do the right thing so I could earn back the right to go to prom. But doing the right thing is going to have to start tomorrow, because there’s no way I’m going to school today. Not on your life.
Mom wants to drive me to school, but I tell her I’m going to take the bus. RJ looks at me like I’m insane for wanting to do that, today of all days, but what he doesn’t know is that I don’t plan to take the bus at all.
“Are you sure, Sammy?” Mom asks. “Today’s going to be tough.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say.
“It’s not going to be an easy day for any of us,” she says. “So maybe you could put the snark on hold?”
I didn’t even think I was being snarky. I thought I was just being me. “Sorry,” I mumble. “But it’s fine. I’ll take the bus.”
Picking up my backpack, I head for the door. “Hey, RJ,” I call over my shoulder. “Don’t let the dimwits get you down.”
“I’ll try,” he says through a mouthful of cornflakes, which is totally gross, but I give him a pass because his day is going to suck enough as it is.
Scruffles follows me out the door and as far as he can down the driveway before the electric fence warning kicks in. I give him a good-bye pat and keep walking. When I look back, he’s still there waiting, watching me, his fluffy tail firmly hidden.
I wish I could tell him that I’ll be back sooner than he thinks.
There’s an old cemetery about a half mile from our house—and when I say old, I mean so old that nobody’s been buried there for well over a century. A bunch of gravestones stick out of the ground like jagged teeth within a crumbling stone wall that you enter through a surprisingly ornate iron gate. Most of the gravestones are so worn you can’t even read them. And while it’s kind of creepy to be here by myself, I figure it’s probably the best place to hide out until Mom leaves with RJ.
The gate creaks loudly as I push it open. It hasn’t been oiled or painted in years, and the New England winters have taken a toll; rust clings to it like barnacles on the bottom of a boat.
It’s just me and the old New England dead people, chilling until Mom takes RJ to school in … I check my phone—thirt
y-five minutes. By that time I’ll be more than chilling. I’ll be freezing. I should have worn a warmer jacket. The sun made it look warm in my bedroom, but here in Graveyard Central not so much.
Wait. Isn’t spirit activity preceded by a blast of cold air?
I look around nervously, half expecting to see a ghostly colonial dude in a tricorn hat. Maybe … what’s the barely legible name on this gravestone here … Obadiah Prescott. Nope. It’s just a chill spring breeze. Obi-P Kenobi had a wife, Constance, and four kids, who are all buried here, too. One of his kids didn’t even make it to a year old, poor little thing.
Things were tough in those days. At least Prudence Prescott, died age seventeen, didn’t have to worry about the content of her brain being posted for the entire world to see. But with a name like Prudence, she was probably too smart to write down the contents of her brain in the first place.
My feet are cold. And my fingers are cold. I curl them around my cell, tempted to see what’s happening online.
“What would you do, Prudie?” I ask the gravestone.
Dead leaves scrape across the stone as the wind blows them over to the next grave. Kind of like how my thoughts are being carried from one place to the next, except it’s not by the wind, it’s over the Internet.
After last night, I decided to stay off social media and stick to news. There’s enough danger in the facts, without diving into everyone’s opinions.
The New York Times reports that Aisha Rana, the executive in the New Territories Bank emails, is suing for discrimination in both state and federal courts on the basis that the company knowingly conspired to pay her less for the same job than they would pay a man. The lawyer for the bank claims that the emails can’t be admitted as evidence because they weren’t legally obtained.
That just sounds like they’re weaseling so they don’t have to admit they did something wrong, if you ask me. It’s all kinds of messed up. Dad’s the CEO of the bank. He shouldn’t have let her be paid less in the first place, and once he did, he should be honest and face the consequences, the same way he and Mom expect me to do about going to the concert.
Too bad I can’t ground my parents.
I check the time—another twenty-five minutes till I can go back to the house—and put my phone back in my pocket. The news is just driving me nuts.
Instead, I take out The Light Between Oceans and find a rock to sit on—making extra sure it’s not a gravestone first because the last thing I need right now is to rile up some seventeenth-century spirit.
I read a few chapters, when I come to this: “We live with the decisions we make, Bill. That’s what bravery is. Standing by the consequences of your mistakes.”
The wind picks up and the gate creaks and slams closed against the latch. F-R-E-A-K-Y. The goose bumps that rise on my skin aren’t because of the cold.
If standing by the consequences of your mistakes is bravery, I guess sitting here reading this book in a graveyard while pretending to my parents I’m at school must mean I’m a coward. And now I’m freaking out that a seventeenth-century ghost has come to tell me just exactly how much of a coward I am.
I shudder and snap the book shut.
Fortunately, when I check my phone this time, it’s late enough that Mom and RJ should have left.
Stiff from the cold, I stand and brush the dead leaves and dirt off my jeans. I pause before Prudence Prescott’s grave and quickly say the Shema. I know it’s not the right prayer and she wasn’t even Jewish, but I want to show respect, and it’s the thought that counts, right?
Then, pulling my coat tighter around me, I head for home.
Scruffles greets me as if I’ve been gone for a week instead of like an hour. He barks and jumps up to lick my face.
“Okay, okay, crazy dog,” I tell him. “I missed you, too. Now relax and let me take off my coat!”
It’s strange to be home by myself at this time of the morning when I’m not sick. Until two days ago, I’d never skipped a single class, ever. Now I’m turning into a Grade A truant. See what these hackers have done to me? And what did I ever do to them? Nothing, that’s what—other than being born Dick Wallach’s daughter.
It’s so unfair. But as I’m learning more and more every day, life isn’t fair. What I have to figure out now is how to live with knowing that.
Taking my phone out of my coat pocket, I text Rosa.
hey. ditching school today because of diary dump. i’m sorry about it all. was supposed to be private.
I wait to see if she texts back. Nothing. Maybe she’s in the part of B wing where there’s lousy Wi-Fi signal. Or maybe she’s in class and can’t text without it being obvious.
Or maybe she’s so angry about what she read that she’s not talking to me.
I try Margo:
hi. cutting school today because i can’t face everyone. even you and rosa. i’m sorry about the stuff in my diary. never thought anyone would read it. is it terrible at school?
Nothing from Margo, either.
Maybe they both have broken cell phones.
Or maybe both Margo’s and Rosa’s parents forgot to pay their cell phone bills?
Yeah, right.
More like they probably both aren’t talking to me. Things just keep getting more awesome.
I slump onto the sofa, pick up the remote, and turn on the TV. Scruffles jumps and curls up beside me, his presence a warm comfort.
Channel after channel of boring nothingness. Talk shows. Toddler shows. News channels. Definitely skip. I can’t even find a decent cartoon or movie I want, to take my mind off everything that’s going on outside this house. Sighing, I drag out The Light Between Oceans from my backpack. Might as well use the opportunity to finish it.
A few days ago, I couldn’t imagine living on that remote island with no Internet. Today it seems like a much more attractive proposition.
The phone rings. I see from the caller ID that it’s Mom, so I ignore it. Then my cell rings. That’s Mom, too. I press IGNORE.
Then she texts.
WHERE ARE YOU?!!! I’m getting unexcused absence emails left, right, and center.
CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. :/
“I guess I better call her,” I tell Scruffles. “Even though it’s the last thing in the world I want to do—well, except for going to school.”
Mom picks up on the first ring.
“Samantha Wallach, where are you?” she yells. “I’ve been worried sick. And I’ve got enough to worry about right now.”
“I’m at home,” I tell her.
“Why aren’t you at school?” Mom asks in the cold, steady voice that means she’s beyond livid. “And why didn’t you pick up the phone?”
“I didn’t pick up the phone because I didn’t want you to know I wasn’t at school,” I say. “And I’m not at school because … because I couldn’t face it, Mom. You read my journal. You saw what was in there. How am I supposed to go to school and face people ever again?”
Silence, except for Mom’s breathing, which sounds a little ragged.
“Sammy, you can’t cut the rest of junior year. You’re going to have to face people.”
“I know, Mom. But … I just couldn’t face doing it today. I was up at four in the morning stressing about it.”
“Everything looks worse at four in the morning, Sammy. It’s the most lonely, miserable time,” Mom says, her voice gentler now. “I’ll call school and explain what’s going on. They’ll probably still count this as an unexcused absence, but at least they’ll know there are extenuating circumstances. But, Sammy—”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Next time, ask. Don’t just cut school and scare the heck out of me when I get the email and don’t know where you are.”
“What? Are you serious? You mean, come to you and say, ‘Hey Mom, I want to skip school today’? Like you’d ever in a million years say yes?”
“Not if you just said, ‘I want to skip school,’ but if you explained how you were feeling like you did just now, th
en maybe we could decide you need a mental health day.”
I can’t believe my mom is being so … reasonable. I feel like asking her who she is and what she’s done with my mom, but she asked me to hold the snark this morning.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say instead. “That’s what I’ll do next time.”
“At the rate you’ve been skipping school, there better not be a next time for a while,” Mom warns. “I’ll see you later. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I mumble, and hang up.
Since I’m now home on a parentally sanctioned mental health day, I figure I might as well make cookies. This has the dual benefit of thanking Mom for being so understanding and allowing me to pig out on cookie dough, the perfect food for my current mental state.
When the third tray of cookies is in the oven, I get a text from Noah.
where are you today? you okay? BTW, i finished the light between oceans. wow.
home. mental health day. making cookies. yeah, i know, wow.
cookies? :) save me one!
what’s the magic word?
abracadabra? oh, wait, PLEASE! :p
okay, will do.
srsly, are you okay?
My thumbs pause over the keypad. How do I answer that question? Do I lie and say, “Yeah, fine?” like people expect? Or should I risk being honest?
not so great. rosa and margo aren’t returning my texts. the thought of going to school tomorrow makes me sick.
hang in there. but if necessary, alfred pennyworth will be there with a barf bag for you.
Despite my dread of going to school tomorrow, I laugh.
thanks. i hope i don’t need it.
I just have to keep remembering that Winston Churchill quote Dad keeps repeating: “Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never …”
Easy for old Winnie to say. He had a security detail.
In high school, you’re on your own.
Except at least I know I’m not 100 percent on my own. And that makes it a tiny bit easier. Assuming that Noah doesn’t read my journal and change his mind, that is.
April 10
In Case You Missed It Page 10