Chapter 17
Jack

The sound of Morgan swooning carries from the living room to the stairwell as I head downstairs for breakfast. “I’m in loooooove.” What? The giggling that follows draws me in. I find Morgan wrapped in a blanket, kneeling on the couch and facing the end table.

“Stop it,” Jason snaps at Morgan, standing with his arms crossed. “It’s not funny.” Neither one is aware of me standing directly behind them.

“You stop it,” Morgan spits back. “I’m your sister, but all you care about anymore is him. Let me have my fun.” She reaches over the armrest.

A beep sounds, followed by a familiar voice: “Jack. It’s me.”

“Mom?” I blurt out.

A surprised Morgan’s arm slips out from underneath her, and she nearly hits her head on the table, as Jason lurches toward the answering machine. Mom continues. She sounds ecstatic. “Listen, Jack. I have something to tell you—”

“MESSAGE DELETED,” the robotic voice says in response to Jason’s finger.

Wait.

What?

Deleted? Jason just deleted Mom’s message?

“Why did you do that?” I demand.

Jason is momentarily speechless, shame and panic spreading across his face. “She’s not coming back yet, Jack. For another week. Maybe two. I didn’t want you to hear—”

“The message that was for me? I thought you were my friend.”

“Jack, you know I am.”

“I’ll show you how great a friend I am if your mom ever calls.” I’m steaming, and I can’t stop. “But we both know that’s never gonna happen.”

Morgan gasps and thrusts the blanket off her shoulders. “Excuse me?” She pops off the couch, about to dive for me. Jason reaches out and grabs her, holding her back, but I don’t trust his skinny arms to restrain her for long. I race out of the living room and through the front door. I don’t even have any shoes on, and of course, it’s pouring, but I can’t go back there right now. Mom’s still gone, and Jason’s conspiring against me.

Each barefoot step across the lawn is met with a disgusting muddy squish. My clothes are drenched within seconds. I wish more than anything that I had shoes, not to mention a raincoat, but I’m not turning back.

Once I hit the sidewalk, things aren’t any better. Stretches of slick pavement are interrupted by several inches of water at each crosswalk. I slip again and again along the way, muddying my knees with each stumble. I keep pushing myself up, with so many awful thoughts racing through my mind. Mom wanted to tell me something, and Jason ruined everything. I trusted him. I have literally nobody except George, and I’ve abandoned him so many times. I’m just like Mom and Dad.

By the time I barge through the front door of my own home, I’m a dripping, shivering mess. My T-shirt is at least ten pounds heavier, the cold fabric desperately clinging to my chest. George pops his head out of the bathroom. He is also inexplicably wet. “George, I am so sorry,” I say. I think I’m crying, but with the water running off my hair and down my face, it’s hard to be sure.

“It’s okay,” he assures me. “It’s just a little mess. I’ll clean it right up.”

“No,” I correct him. “I mean for leaving you. For forgetting you. For ignoring you. Because that stinks. It really stinks.”

The whiskers of George’s mustache flutter as he exhales deeply through his nose. He should be telling me not to worry because I’m his best friend and sometimes best friends mess up, so why does he look so conflicted?

After an extended silence, he twitches. It sounds almost involuntary when he finally says, “Not to worry. You’re my best friend, Jack.” Water splatters across the room when he shakes his head as if trying to toss the words from his lips. “And sometimes best friends mess up. What? No!” His eyes widen as he looks at me. “I mean, yes, of course that’s true, Jack. But . . .” He gulps. “I learned a new walrus trick! Lemme show you!” He bolts back toward the bathroom.

I follow him, but I swear I catch a glimpse of a small bunny scurrying across the living room and into the kitchen. I slam on the brakes beside our faded floral sofa.

“What was that?”

“WHAT’S WHAT?! IT’S NOT A VOICEMAIL FROM YOUR DAD!” George exclaims, before turning around to find me peering into the darkened kitchen.

A what from my who? His whiskers twitch, and his eyes widen.

My neck cranes toward the phone. There’s a towel draped over the end table. “What’s this doing here?”

“Oh, Jack,” George stammers, “it’s nothing. Don’t touch that. It’s not important.”

I lift the towel. The red light on the answering machine is flashing. There’s a message.

“Uncle Chester called,” George is rambling. “Turns out we can send each other phone calls by blowing bubbles underwater.”

I tap the Play button. “Ronnie, you there?” Dad begins. I freeze. “Ronnie, please.”

“My dad called?” I glare at George. “Why did you hide this?”

George shrugs as Dad curses. “The language?”

Dad continues: “I never should’ve given you custody of Jack. You told me it would kill you if you lost him and I believed you, but now you haven’t just lost him, you’ve abandoned him and you . . . I want my son back, Ronnie, and if you don’t call me back, so help me . . .”

I imagine my eyes are crimson as they turn to George, who is shivering. “Wait. My dad wants me? He actually wants to see me. And you knew?” I’m screaming over the end of my dad’s message, but I’ll play it again a million times later. I hurl the towel across the room, knocking over a lamp that crashes to the floor. George cowers.

A trail of smoke must be spewing from my ears as I take a step forward. “I was wrong about you. Best friend? Pssh. You knew this was all I wanted, and you hid it from me. Why? So we could hang out and play stupid games like we were our own stupid little family, and pretend my actual family wasn’t real. Pretend nobody else cared about me besides you. You’re not my friend. You’re pathetic.”

It must be the water dripping in my face or the steam from my ears that makes George seem to flicker in and out right before my eyes. “Jack, I have a trick that’ll cheer you right up.”

“ENOUGH WITH THE MAGIC!” I scream. “You are NOT a magician. I never made you that way.”

George’s eyes are wide and pleading. “Maybe it was my family who made me that—”

“Enough with your stupid fantasies, George. Guess what? Your family: also not real. Because you. Are. Not—”

“Jack!” George interrupts me, pointing to the door.

I follow his gesture to find a sopping Jason standing in the doorway, concern scrawled across his wobbly lips and slanted brows. Oh crap.

“Get out!” I yell at him instinctively. “Just leave me alone!”

Jason holds both hands up, muttering, “Sorry. Sorry, Jack,” and quickly exits.

“Fantastic,” I grumble. If he tells Aunt Rachel and Uncle Dave where I’ve been, they’ll kill me. “Now look what you’ve done,” I snap at George as if it’s somehow his fault. Racing back out into the storm, I call out, “Jason, wait!”

He’s gone.