Chapter 11
Jack

“George is here!” Morgan bellows from her room across the hall before hammering down the stairs. Sunlight creeps in through the blinds, and the glow of Jason’s phone screen illuminates the ceiling. After staying up late playing cards with Jason, I barely slept all night, yet somehow, it’s morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mom and Dad, and how nobody wants me. How Dad even replaced me.

“What?” The air mattress sounds like two balloons rubbing together as I twist toward Jason in his bed above. I didn’t think my cousins knew George. Aren’t they kind of old for—

“Yeah,” Jason responds, his voice sluggish with either lack of sleep or lack of interest. “Dad said he could come over today.”

That’s all the confirmation I need. I pop off the bed and follow Morgan downstairs, the pounding of my footsteps matching my heartbeat. I can’t believe it. George is here!

“ACK!” I scream as I crash into Uncle Dave at the bend in the stairs and nearly fall over.

“Careful there, pal,” he says, slinging a duffle bag over his shoulder and reaching an enormous hand around to catch me. He’s a bit of a friendly giant, with a long black beard and a generous belly.

“Sorry, Uncle Dave.” I brush past him and don’t look up again until I’ve reached the bottom step. Slowly, I lift my eyes from my bare feet to the bright light coming in through Aunt Rachel’s wide-open front door.

And there, standing in the doorway, in his grubby blue jeans and green collared shirt, is that horrible friend of theirs whose name I couldn’t remember.

George. So that’s his name.

With barely a word, Morgan and impostor-George push past me and head downstairs to play on the computer or whatever new gaming system they have down in the basement now, while I decide that anything in the world would be more fun than that. Anybody need help watching paint dry? Filing tax returns?

I find Aunt Rachel in the kitchen, wearing a burgundy pantsuit and a Star Wars apron, washing pots before she goes off to work. Perfect! “Can I help?” I ask.

She smiles. “Of course.” She chooses the biggest pot for herself; I dig around to find the smallest one for me. Every little bit helps, and I’d like to do the littlest bit possible while still seeming helpful.

Silently, I scrub the sponge back and forth against the bottom of my pot, focusing on the crusty yellowish spot that just won’t go away.

“Jack,” Aunt Rachel begins, using an I feel sorry for you voice, which means she’s about to bring up Mom.

“Where’s she going?” I interrupt, squeezing the sponge. Soapy water oozes from my fist, making its way through the stack of pots and down the drain.

Aunt Rachel swipes her hands on her apron before placing one on my shoulder. It’s still wet. “I don’t know. She’s still not answering my calls but she texted to insist she’s fine.” Grimy pot-water soaks through my T-shirt, sending a chill down my body. “You have to understand, whatever she said to you, that isn’t her.”

“It sure sounded like her,” I snap, sick of excuses.

“No. What I mean is, your mother has . . . is . . .” She squats down so we’re eye to eye. It’s a little eerie how much her eyes look like Mom’s. “Your mom needs to get help.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Shocking,” Morgan taunts. Aunt Rachel and I flinch as the unexpected eavesdropper barges into the kitchen, her friend close behind. I wonder how long they’ve been listening.

“What she’s trying to say,” not-my-George says, “is that your mom is a nutcase.” He and Morgan chuckle together.

My left hand clenches into a fist as my right one hurls the sponge across the room. It smacks lesser-George across the face.

“Hey!” he shouts, putting his hands up.

Before I can lunge forward and tackle him, Aunt Rachel pulls me to her side. “George, you need to go home,” she orders. Her face is red. Everyone freezes. “Now.”

“But I just got here,” he argues, dropping his hands to his sides.

“And now you’re leaving!”

“But—”

“I said go home, George.”

Morgan shrugs her shoulders innocently. “We only wanted a snack.”

“And you,” Aunt Rachel says sharply to her, “go to your room.”

“But Raaaaaaach,” she whines.

“And leave your phone in the basket.”

When nobody leaves, I slip between Morgan and impostor-George, through the dining room, up the stairs, down the hall, into Jason’s bedroom. The door slams behind me.

Can you believe them? Mom bought them pizza, she took them to the zoo, and now they talk about her like this.

I freeze as I spot the duffle bag Uncle Dave was carrying, now sitting at the end of my mattress. What the—?

I unzip it and find my cell phone and clothes that I’d left back at home.

Are you kidding me?

“Where did you get this?” I demand, barging into Uncle Dave’s home office and dropping the duffle bag onto his tiny wooden desk. His big frame looks almost comical hunched over the small furniture, but I am not in the mood to laugh.

His eyes dart over my shoulder, frantically searching for any answer besides the truth. “Your dad . . .” he begins uncertainly.

“My dad? He was here?” My mouth drops open. “Why didn’t he come in and see me?”

Uncle Dave’s smile fades, and he rises to his feet. He towers above me. “You were sleeping,” he tries to explain. “He didn’t want to wake you, and he had to get to work. He has a trip.” Another work trip, another excuse. “He said he’d be back in a few—”

“You could’ve woken me up,” I shout.

He nods. “I know.”

“Then why didn’t you?” He reaches out, but I step back. “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you know what’s going on here? Don’t you know my mom and dad are gone? My dad found someone special to replace me, and I swear Mom’ll be next. Don’t you care?”

“Of course we care!” he insists.

“I don’t believe you,” I snap. “I don’t believe any of you anymore.”

Uncle Dave reaches out but can’t decide whether to pat my head or rub my shoulder or do nothing, so his hand sort of hovers around me, awkwardly stroking the air between us. I’m sobbing. It’s pathetic. I hope Morgan and Jason can’t hear how sensitive I’m being right now. “Do you want me to call him?” Uncle Dave asks softly.

I shake my head. “No.” I back away, sniffling. “Give me his number. I’ll do it.”

I close Jason’s door behind me and sift through the things that Dad brought for me. Shirts, pants, socks, underwear, my phone, and my charger. That’s it. I scrape the bottom of the bag, hoping I’ve overlooked an “I miss you Jack” note, but of course there’s nothing. You can’t miss someone you don’t care about.

This is the closest we’ve been to each other since he left, and he didn’t even want to look at me. What is wrong with me? I don’t want to think about it right now, so why can’t I stop? My lip trembles, and I can feel another waterfall pending.

I unclench my fist and un-crinkle the neon orange sticky note with the ten digits scrawled in Uncle Dave’s barely legible handwriting. I tap the number into my phone. It rings and rings and rings. No answer. No surprise. I hang up and turn off the phone. It’s clear Dad doesn’t want to be with me, so why force him? He can’t even give me a—

“Hi Jack.”

I jump about five feet in the air, nearly thumping my head against Jason’s dresser. There, peeking out of the closet, is a familiar, part-walrus-like figure. I gasp.

He stares back, grinning. “Psst. It’s me. George.” He steps out of the closet, blinks twice, and clears his throat. “Do you want to see a magic trick?”