“Where are you going?” asked Dad.
“I’ll be—” I shook my head and pointed outside. Then I was shutting the door behind myself and activating lights from motion sensors as I ran, scanning the sidewalks and across yards for a gray sweatshirt and black pants. I spotted him two houses down, passing the Karbieners’ monstrosity of a brick mailbox. “Curtis! Curtis, wait up.”
He stopped moving but didn’t turn around. I jogged over and shivered as the cold air filtered through my thin shirt. “Hey.”
He was studying the mailbox like it was actually interesting—not just a mammoth construction of bricks and solar lights they’d put up after Mr. Karbiener had backed over their wooden post for the fifth time. As hard as he was studying those bricks, I was studying him. Trying to figure out the emotions on his face and if it was the streetlight that made the shadows and angles look so harsh. “You’re—you’re angry.”
“And you’re cold. Can we move past the part of this conversation where we state the obvious?” He wanted the words to be a joke, but he didn’t get the cadence right and I was jabbed by their sharp edges.
Anger on him looked different than on Win or Wink. Wink’s anger was injured—it cloaked her feelings of betrayal. Win’s was feral and restless, always anticipating an attack. But Curtis’s—it was restrained, just barely. He didn’t sigh, he seethed.
“I’m not sure what happened in there.” I pointed over my shoulder. “Or what’s happening right now.”
“Well, I haven’t known what’s been happening for a month, so I guess that makes us even.”
“Oh. Okay, um.” It felt like trying to use a microscope in a room with no light source, trying to make a neutral solution when all you had was acids. “Do you want to tell me what you’re confused about?”
“You told me to kiss you—then answered a phone call about math homework.”
My forehead wrinkled. “Are you talking about the first time we ate cupcakes? That was weeks ago. You told me to answer the call!”
“No, I said, ‘Maybe you should answer that in case it’s important’—I wanted you to say it wasn’t. I wanted you to say I was. I wanted you to tell Huck you were out running with me, to take you on a real date. I wanted your parents to already know my name. Or at least for you to act like they’d be hearing it again.”
My throat ached with the impossibility of explaining. “You don’t understand what they’re like.”
“But I do!” He threw his hands up. “You’ve told me. I listened. Your parents have you convinced that people are only ever going to value your looks and dismiss you because you’re beautiful. But how is that any different than what they’re doing to you with your intelligence? You are not only either of those things. You’re more than your brains or your beauty.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I stared at him, feeling heat creep up my neck to sit like flames on my lips. Maybe that knowledge was recent, but it was hard-won and important. And despite looks and brains and everything else I was—it wasn’t enough. “What part of me do you want, Curtis? My brains so you have a challenge in quiz bowl? My body so people can see us on this ‘real date’ you want?” I made air quote around the words; I resented him saying that because there weren’t spectators to our interactions, what we had wasn’t genuine. “What is it you want?”
Curtis dropped his arms. “Your heart, mostly.”
I shook my head. “I need some part of me that’s my own.”
“What if I gave you mine?” He stepped closer, maintaining eye contact that seared me. “What if I’ve already given it to you?”
“Don’t.” I ground my teeth and stepped back. It was like being trapped in the chapter of Anne of Green Gables where Gilbert saves Anne from drowning after her reenactment of a romantic poem goes very wrong. He holds out a friendship olive branch and she almost accepts—but can’t. I couldn’t. “Love is irrational, emotional, illogical. It makes people distracted and kills their focus and ambition. It destroys.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s also one of the best dang things on the planet.”
“It’s a mistake, a weakness.” All the evidence I needed was standing in my kitchen, jet-lagged and furious. My head swam when I thought about what I’d face when I walked back in. Would they stick around long enough to forgive me? “I just . . . I can’t.”
“Yeah, you proved that today.” He turned his back on me and grasped his neck with both hands. “I’d convinced myself you were scared of dating. I didn’t get that you were ashamed of me.”
“I’m not!” I pulled on his arm, hating the defeat in his posture and that I couldn’t see his face. “I told you I’d be bad at this. You said that was okay. You said it was okay to fail sometimes and that was how we learned.”
“You’re not bad at it, Eliza.” It was worded like a compliment, but it didn’t sound like one. I held my breath and waited. “Being bad at it would require you to put in some effort. You’re not even trying.”
I gave up ineffectively tugging his arm and ducked underneath to see his expression. “I am.”
“I refuse to be a joke—not to you.” He scrubbed both hands over his face, but his eyes glistened when he dropped them. “You’ve never made me feel like one. Until now.”
“Are you—are we . . .” I swallowed and licked my lips, searching for any of the sweetness left behind from frosting or kisses. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“No.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, almost staggering from relief.
“We’re ‘not-dating,’ remember?” Curtis said. “There’s nothing to break up. Maybe this is our . . . our apoptosis. Is that brainy enough for you?”
“Apoptosis”: Programmed cell death. Cellular self-destruction to maintain stasis. A natural unnatural end.
I shut my eyes.
Heartbreak wasn’t a real thing—anatomically, nothing abnormal or organ-rending was going on inside my rib cage, but apparently no one informed my pain receptors, because my chest hurt. Even with my fist clutching the front of my shirt applying counterpressure, it was all I could do not to double over while Curtis was standing there. After he left I didn’t bother staying upright, but sank to the curb.
I could’ve filled a field notebook with the things I didn’t say:
I’m sorry
I was wrong
I adore you too
Come back
The cold concrete seeped through the fabric of my leggings. I wanted to go numb. No matter how close I hugged my knees or how far I dropped my chin, I couldn’t assuage the pain radiating from my chest—spreading out to my clenched hands and tight shoulders, until it leaked from my eyes and lungs in great, gulping sobs.
35
From my spot on the curb I could hear my front door opening, my parents shuffling in and out as they unloaded their rental car. They couldn’t see me—thank you, Mr. Karbiener’s inability to reverse—but I could hear snatches of their conversation, their bafflement and the escalation of their concerns. When they reached “Do you think we need her to take drug or pregnancy tests?” I forced myself to stand, reenter the house, and face their judgment.
They were organizing their bags into piles: “bedroom,” “lab,” and “just stack those in the basement.”
I quietly shut the door behind me. “I’m back.”
“You can’t leave without telling anyone,” said Dad, and I ground my teeth to keep from correcting him. I not only could, I had to—because normally there wasn’t anyone to tell.
“Eliza, good grief.” Mom was struggling to get her enormous anorak to fit beside Dad’s in our coat closet. “This is what we come home to? You on the counter with some boy?”
A warped, sickly sound leaked between my lips—half groan, half laugh. I’d been in the lab thirty-three of the past fifty hours. Of course this was when they came home. I spent ninety-nine percent of my time in compliance with their impossible rules, in a state of suspended life and delayed gratification. Waiting to
be worthy and for them to come and collect me, like an umbrella they’d left behind at a hotel.
Except their time was so valuable—an umbrella was never going to be worth retrieving. I’d just proved I wasn’t either.
“Well?” They were a caricature of parental frustration—Mom’s hands on her hips, Dad’s arms crossed over a South Pole Station–branded fleece. “Present the facts, Eliza.”
I didn’t have an answer. Why would they listen to me when they hadn’t to Curtis, and why should I offer them words I hadn’t been able to say for him? My legs felt shakier now than they had after reaching the top of the hill or when Curtis had suggested we do interval pickups for the last mile. I sank down.
They stepped around the table and peered at me in side-by-side confusion. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“Counters, floors—is there something wrong with our chairs?”
“No.” But I didn’t move. I’d once criticized Curtis for the same thing—I don’t sit on counters—but now it seemed absurd. Who cared? “What are you doing here? The Avery isn’t for another week.”
My parents blinked and raised their eyebrows. The way they loomed made me feel like a toddler again. Like I’d asked some foolish question and should already know the answer.
Dad spoke slowly. “You told us you wanted us to come home.”
I slid my hands under my thighs. They were so cold from being outside. I wanted a hot shower—a place to cry. And answers that made sense, because this conversation did not. “That was two weeks ago. I haven’t even heard from you since then.”
“I’m sure Nancy’s kept you informed,” said Dad.
“Um, I’m sure she has not,” I countered.
He stiffened. “Oh. Maybe we should’ve anticipated that and given her direct instructions to do so? Communication has been one of her larger failings.”
“Or maybe you could’ve told me directly?” I ground my teeth and willed back tears.
Mom huffed over to the sink and opened the cabinet beneath, pulling out cleaner. “We’ve been a bit busy. It’s not like we can just pick up a cell phone and call you. Do you know what’s involved in coordinating travel from Antarctica? Moving things up a week was a major hassle. We needed to get people to cover our lab, and pack, and arrange transportation. Transports are already starting to ramp down for the season—we had to find one to McMurdo that had room. From there, it was two days waiting for a flight to Christchurch. California. Pennsylvania. It takes days to get home. I’m sorry, Eliza, but we can’t snap our fingers and grant your wishes.”
She’d moved to the other side of the island, so I couldn’t see her from the floor. I turned to Dad. “You came home for me?”
“Of course we did. Good thing too. We had evidence that something was amiss: iLive band data, your missing log, credit card receipts. Your dentist emailed us that you haven’t made an appointment for the night guard he recommended two months ago. You didn’t mention you’d been grinding your teeth.”
“I forgot,” I lied.
“But despite that, I can’t say we were expecting you to be . . .” He pointed to where Mom was attacking the frosting on the counter with a dishrag. I wanted her to leave it. I wanted proof the good parts of the day had happened.
Mom put down her cloth. “We’re going to have to punish her, Warner.”
“You’re right, Violet.” He nodded solemnly. “Adolescents do best with clear limits. She needs a consequence.”
The looks they exchanged over my head lacked the assured purpose I’d seen them demonstrate in the lab. For a second I wanted to laugh—Frankenstein’s monster was misbehaving, and they had no clue how to handle that.
“We can discuss it on the way home from returning the rental car,” Mom said. I’d forgotten how they did this, analyzed me in front of me, like I was a problem written out on their laboratory whiteboard and they were brainstorming a solution. “And tell her when we get back.”
Which meant I had at least a half hour to call Merri—get her to create a fix-it plan—then call Curtis and enact it.
“But we should take her phone, right?” Dad asked.
“Yes!” Mom plucked mine off the counter with a look of transparent relief. “That’s a good one. Phone and computer. She can use it for homework, but we’ll monitor that.”
“And the car—that’s a logical consequence. We’ll need it, she loses it.”
“What about grounding?” Mom asked. “Or does it harm a child’s sense of autonomy?”
“We’ll look it up on the drive—but if that’s still a thing, then she’ll be grounded too.” They exchanged self-satisfied nods, proud of how they’d handled the situation.
Dad gave my head a stiff pat as he walked past to get his coat. “It’s good to see you, Eliza.”
Mom picked up the car keys—the set with the Hero High fob Merri had slipped into my locker after I got my license with a note signed, Love, your favorite navigationally challenged copilot. Those keys had meant freedom, no more relying on guardians for rides. They disappeared into Mom’s pocket. “Now that we’re home, things are going to change.”
My nod was slow and cautious, because my eyes were wet and I was determined to wait until they’d left to cry. Change. For the better or worse?
36
It wasn’t until late Sunday that I remembered the burner phone I’d left in the center console of the car. Then it was an excruciating hour before Dad was back from the grocery store. I was waiting by the door with shoes on when he pulled in. “I’ll help you unload.”
“Sounds great.” He hummed as he set the first round of cloth bags on the counter. “I never appreciate the luxury of fresh produce quite like I do after coming home from Antarctica. Spinach, grapes, strawberries.”
He followed me out to the driveway as I tried to come up with an excuse to open the driver’s door when the bags were in the trunk. He loaded up his arms while I dithered, then winked. “Another thing we don’t have at South Pole Station—cell phones. You seem to have an abundance of those.” He patted his pocket. “You’ve got the rest of the groceries, right?”
I sighed. Not that he’d waited to hear it.
I had this memory of them, one I wasn’t sure was real—but it centered on a rubber duck. Not a regular one; this one changed color to indicate if the bath water was a safe temperature. It had gone missing. I remembered standing wrapped in a towel on a blue bath mat as my parents had measured the water with a thermometer from their lab and had debated what to do.
“Careful,” Dad had said. “That’s glass.”
Mom had suggested looking up optimal temperatures online. Dad had wanted to search for the duck. “I think it’s too hot. She’ll be scalded.”
I, who couldn’t have been more than four, had got fed up and cold. I’d dropped the towel and stuck my arm in the tub. I’d said something like, “Feels good to me,” and climbed in.
My parents had stared, aghast. I’d splashed them. The night had ended in laughter.
That’s how it felt in our house. They were cautiously taking my temperature, unwilling to plunge themselves into my life—or even to dip a toe—for fear of being burned.
I was twelve years older but still felt as impatient. They were here, right here. Why did they feel so far away? How did I convince them it was safe? When could we laugh?
Merri hummed in the back seat of Toby’s car on Monday’s ride to school. His and Rory’s shoulders leaned toward each other in the front as they planned a “paint-and-play” date—where they serenaded and sketched each other or something obnoxiously sweet.
The humming was Merri’s attempt at white noise to cancel them out. Or maybe it was a manifestation of her impatience, because she was practically vibrating with curiosity. In the school parking lot, she brushed past the guy who’d been waiting to open her door. “Thank you, Fielding, but I can’t talk now. Eliza and I need some time.”
“Oh, right.” He nodded somberly at me. “Merri told me.”
I sucked in a breath. “Told you what?”
“That your parents are back?” He looked between his girlfriend and me.
“Oh. Yes, they are.” I attempted a smile. “Sorry, I’ve got Monday brain.”
His forehead creased, because when had I ever been the type of person to use the words “Monday brain”?
“I’ll catch you later? Maybe in the hall before history?” Merri blew him a kiss and began to drag me across the parking lot. “I promise I only told him about your parents. I wouldn’t have told him”—she looked around—“about the other thing—because I don’t know what’s going on. I know something is, because when you didn’t respond to my texts, I sent Curtis a heads-up about your parents and he responded ‘Too late.’ He didn’t include an emoji, which makes me think it’s bad.”
I swallowed. Dad had made me a smoothie this morning. Some recipe with oatmeal and flaxseed and yogurt and vanilla the breakfast chef at South Pole Station had taught him. It had been surprisingly good—but now my mouth tasted sour and I regretted every sip. “It’s bad.”
Merri studied my face. “Do we have time before first period? If not, the library at lunch?”
“Lunch sounds good.” Because it meant escaping our cafeteria table, and it gave me hours to figure out what to say and how to say it without crying.
“If you need me to kick him or cause a big spectacle before then, let me know.” She squeezed my hand. “Just say, ‘There are other factors to consider,’ and I’m on it.”
She truly would, and that was amazing—but it also meant I was already mentally scanning for any conceivable situation where that combination of words might occur. It kept me distracted, prevented me from focusing on unfixable things . . . which was probably her goal all along.
Lunch in the library wasn’t half as painful as sitting in class with Curtis and having him not look my direction, no matter how fiercely I stared in his.
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