16

My dad insists on taking me out to breakfast before school on Tuesday. Which means I have to get up about an hour and a half earlier than usual. I can barely keep my eyes open as I sip black tea at the kitchen table and wait for him. Mom waits with me, but instead of stumbling around in her bathrobe, half-awake and shushing anyone who tries to talk to her before she’s finished her first cup of coffee like she normally would at this hour, she’s already showered and wearing a full face of makeup.

She moves around the kitchen, frying bacon and scrambling eggs. She brings me a plate with both, plus a side of dry toast.

“You know we’re going out to eat, right?”

“Yes, of course. I just want to make sure you have something in your stomach, in case your father is late or the service is slow and you don’t have time for a proper breakfast.”

Up until this moment, a “proper breakfast” has always consisted of cereal or Pop-Tarts or anything else my mom could shove in my hands on my way out the door. And I was fine with that. It was actually preferable, because she’s clearly only doing all this to look good in front of and/or piss off my dad. But I eat a couple bites just to make her happy, then set my fork down again. Mom taps her nails against her place mat and under the table I type out a text to Reese that says, I’m starting to wish my parents would just divorce and get it over with.

When we hear Dad’s car pull into the driveway, I sling my backpack onto one shoulder and head to the door. Mom follows me like a shadow. She scoffs when she sees Dad isn’t getting out of his car.

“I’ll see you after school.” I hop down the porch steps and look back. Mom is hovering in the doorway, hand on hip in a practiced pose designed to make her look slimmer. She waves, and I duck into Dad’s car.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He kisses my cheek, and I try not to lean away from his coffee breath.

“Morning.”

“So, where do you want to eat? Anything in particular sound good?”

“Anywhere close to school is fine.”

We end up at a diner on one of the mile roads. I order the short stack of pancakes, because even if my mom does start cooking breakfast on the regular (which I doubt will happen), this is one thing she always burns.

“How are things going with school?” Dad asks when he swallows the first forkful of his omelet.

“Fine, I guess. Second semester senior so...not much to report.”

“Right.” He smiles awkwardly and tucks into his food again. He glances out the window and I notice a fresh nick on his throat where he caught himself shaving.

“How’s the apartment?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Nothing special. When I get a bit more furniture, you’ll have to come over. We could have dinner.”

So much of that sentence depresses me. I picture my dad alone in a dingy apartment. An empty living room with battered carpet and bare white walls. Eating frozen dinners and fast food every night because he sure as shit doesn’t know how to make anything besides grilled cheese, and even that would probably be too much effort. The fridge is probably filled with old take-out boxes and beer, nothing else. The trash crammed with empty pizza boxes.

“Sounds great. Just let me know when.” With my fork, I pick at my pancakes. Slide the pat of butter around the top until it melts.

“And uh...” Dad chews and swallows. Tugs at the collar of his shirt. “Holland? How’s he doing?”

“He’s good. We’re good.”

Dad frowns at his plate. He sets his fork down and reaches for his mug of coffee. “You sure you’re holding up okay?”

I take a big bite of pancakes so all I have to do is nod. It’s nice of him to ask and all, but honestly. What’s he going to do about it if I say something different? How does he expect to help me when he’s barely keeping his own shit together? Not that it matters anyway, because I’m fine. I had my crying jag, did the whole eating-cake-and-too-many-marshmallows thing with Reese. I’m over it.

Dad clears his throat and turns back to safe topics like senior year. He tells me all about the pranks his friends pulled when he was a senior—bringing garbage bags to school and two-liter bottles filled with water, so they could create a waterslide down the senior hallway. A food fight that broke out right before graduation, and how the administration actually suspended people, even though there was only a week left before finals.

“So I wouldn’t recommend going that route,” Dad says with a chuckle.

“Yeah.” I smile and shovel in more pancakes. It’s like cardboard in my mouth, so dry I can barely swallow. I pour a little more syrup on top.

My dad keeps one eye on his watch, and when it’s time to take me to school, he waves the waitress over to pay the bill. He frowns at my half-eaten breakfast. “You sure you got enough to eat?”

“Yeah, I’m all set. Thank you.”

We drive over to the school in silence, and just as I’m about to get out of the car, Dad opens the center console. “Almost forgot. I’ve got a check for this month’s heating bill.” He pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. “Would you mind giving that to your mother?”

I turn it over in my hand. “Okay.”

Except, it’s not okay. I shove it into my backpack and wrench the zipper shut. Pop open the door. But Dad catches me by the strap of my backpack.

“Hey, hold on a second.”

“What?”

“You tell me. What’s going on?”

I sink back into the seat and slam the door closed again. “I just don’t see why you couldn’t have given that to Mom yourself this morning. It was bad enough when you fought around me. Now you’re going to fight through me? I’m not a carrier pigeon, you know?”

As it is, my mom will make me recount every moment of my morning with Dad as soon as she gets home from work. I can only imagine the things she’ll have to say when I hand the envelope over.

Dad runs a hand along his jaw. “You’re right.” He looks me in the eye. “Aubrey, I apologize. I didn’t think about it from your perspective, and I’m sorry.”

I hug my backpack to my chest. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I’ll do better, okay? I’m trying.”

“You both keep saying that. You say you’re trying to work it out, but I don’t see either of you really trying.”

We both stare out the windshield for a long moment. “This isn’t the sort of thing that can be fixed overnight. But I promise we are trying.” Dad runs his hands over the steering wheel and frowns. “Kiddo...I know this isn’t easy on you. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” I reach for the door again, make it all the way out of the car this time. “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for breakfast.”

I shut the door before he has a chance to respond, and head into school. I stop by my locker and check my phone. Reese responded with: You don’t mean that.

She’s right. Or at least she’s mostly right. I don’t like how things are now, but a divorce would probably just make them even more hostile toward each other.

I also have a text from Holland, who sent a picture of Lucy with the question, When can we see you?

Between his basketball schedule and various family obligations—which Holland admittedly has more of than I do these days—lately it’s been hard for Holland and I to get together, even on the weekends. I pause at my locker and type out a response: This weekend?? but only if you bring Lucy...

“Hey.” Veronica leans against the locker next to mine. Webster’s locker that he never uses. “Can I borrow your lab notes from yesterday? I feel like I missed some stuff.”

“Yeah, sure.” I rifle through my backpack for my Anatomy notebook and hand it over.

“Thanks. See you in class.”

“See ya.” I shuffle my books around, dumping the ones I brought home last week and replacing them with the ones I’ll need for my first couple classes. That stupid envelope keeps jumping out at me, and all I can think about is having to give it to my mother later and what she’ll say about my father when I do.

The shot of excitement I got from texting with Holland is already wearing off. It takes all my energy just to get myself to class. By the time third period rolls around, I’m exhausted.

I have bags under my eyes from lack of sleep, my entire chin is broken out from stress, and all I want to do is go home to my empty house and sleep for a million years and not have to talk to anyone.

And it isn’t until I walk into Life Skills that I realize my day is about to get worse. Because today we start our reproductive health segment.

“Congratulations, everyone, you just became parents!”

Miss Holloway picks up the nearest doll and holds it like a real baby. “Some things you should know—these dolls are high-tech. Which means I’ll know if you neglect your baby when it’s crying, or if you forget to feed it, or if you let its neck snap back. Every day you will bring your doll to class and I will upload the data to find out how you did the night before.

“Your responsibilities should be shared equally between both partners. Traditional gender roles do not apply. If you have two men in your group, you still have to feed the baby. If you are the only woman in a group, you should not be doing all the diaper changing. Are we clear?”

A collective grumble fills the room in response.

“Super. Then one person from each table can come up and adopt your child for the next two weeks.”

I go up and take the doll Miss Holloway hands me, along with the magnetic-tipped bottle and cloth diapers. Inside its carrier, the thing weighs a ton. I am not looking forward to lugging it around for the next two weeks. Which I guess is the point. Well played, public school system.

When I set the carrier on the table in front of Webster, he leans forward to get a better look. “Aw. She has your eyes.”

A sigh is all I can muster.

“First order of business,” he says. “She needs a name.”

“So pick one.”

“Okay,” he says with enough enthusiasm to make me immediately regret giving him permission. “You know what name I’ve always loved? Imogen.”

My jaw locks. I know for a fact I never told Webster that was my middle name.

“Doesn’t she just look like an Imogen?” His eyes are too bright, a smile trembling across his lips.

He’s trying to get under my skin again. It’s like he feels compelled to make up for the fact that I witnessed him actually trying for once. And no matter how I react, I’ll play right into his hand.

I decide to let it go. Not say anything. Always the safest bet with Webster.

Miss Holloway walks us through how all of the sensors work in more detail, then activates our dolls and immediately has to deal with one doll that seems to be defective. It won’t stop making a monstrous screeching noise. Meanwhile, Webster has taken Imogen out of her carrier and is bouncing her in his arms.

“It’s okay, Immy. Don’t worry about the loud noise. Mom and Dad love you very much—”

Okay, I can’t. “How’d you find out?”

“Hmm?” He raises his eyebrows, tilts his head like he doesn’t understand the question.

“My middle name. Who told you?”

He grins. “I overheard your mom yelling outside once when you were in trouble.”

I sigh, then face the front of the class.

“So anyway, I was thinking I could have her on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and then you—”

“Wait, what?” I swivel back toward him. “You think I’m going to take her all weekend? I have a life.”

He bites his bottom lip and squints at me as if to say, Do you, though?

“Shut up. I’ll take this week, you take her next.” I pull out my planner and write down a schedule.

“Sounds good, partner.”

“Great.”

“Maybe we should exchange numbers,” he says. “In case anything comes up while I have Immy.”

My hand stills over my planner. I’m reading too much into this. I know I am. Because all I can think now is that he could message me online if he needed to get in touch. So him asking to exchange numbers seems like it could mean something, like maybe we’re becoming friends, except, literally every time I let my guard down with Webster, he makes me regret it. Either way, I’m glad I decided to delete his number from my phone last year, since he clearly deleted mine.

“Okay.” I’m gripping the edge of the table so hard. My fingers will be frozen into this claw for the rest of the day.

He pulls out his phone and types in the number I tell him. Then he hits Call and holds the phone to his ear until he hears it ring.

“What, do you think I gave you a fake number?”

He makes a funny face, like that thought never occurred to him, because in the history of him getting people’s numbers, it has probably never happened.

He lowers the phone and hangs up. “No, I was just calling so you’d have my number, too.”

“Oh. Right.” My vocabulary is just stunning today. It’s no wonder I did so well on my SATs.

“So yeah, if you ever need a break...” he starts.

“Excuse me?”

He scratches the back of his neck, not looking at me. “Like, when you have Immy, if it gets to be too much. Or if you just want to get out for a bit...we could always take her to Chuck E. Cheese or something.”

“That’s maybe the creepiest idea anyone’s ever had.”

He tries not to grin. “I was just trying to think of somewhere kid-friendly.”

It’s entirely possible Webster is being nice to me for the obvious reasons. Because I’m with Holland, or because he still feels sorry for me. That first summer, Webster didn’t talk much about his parents’ divorce, but it was obvious how much it affected him. He had to move, start at a new school in a completely different state than his dad. He understands what the last few weeks have been like.

But as I watch the tips of his ears turn pink, I start to think it might be more. That maybe Webster feels as ridiculous as I do about how we’ve treated each other since last year. That he’s ready to start over.

I glance down at the doll so I don’t have to look at him. “Well, thank you. And if you end up needing anything when it’s your turn...”

“I’ve got your number.”