Chapter 4

As soon as I knew they were asleep, I gathered my stuff and slipped out the front door. The sky was dark, but the stars lit up the road enough for me to find my way home.

If anyone happened to look out their window, or drive by that late at night, they may have wondered if I was sleepwalking. I didn’t care that my clothes were dragging along the curb or that my hair was sticking out in every direction like a pile of spiky dead pine needles. I didn’t care about anything or anyone anymore. Because no one cared about me.

I cut through the open field that bordered our yard and crept into our little beige house through the back door, which we never locked. The yellowed linoleum crackled like broken glass as I crossed the kitchen floor. A light in the hallway had been left on. I turned it off before opening the door to my tiny bedroom and crawling into the bottom bunk. I could hear George breathing above me, where he slept every Wednesday and Saturday night. In Viva’s old bed.

Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t stop thinking about what they had said, what people must always think when they look at me. What is she? Like a bad art project or a failed science experiment or a freak reptile at the zoo.

I hated who I was, what I looked like, how everything had changed for the worse. My body, my family, and now my friends. I would do anything to start over and be someone else. Anyone else. Just not me.

Suddenly there was light. I tried to open my eyes, but it was too bright.

“Will you be joining us for breakfast, ma’am?”

I must have fallen asleep. I sat up and squinted.

“Is that a flashlight? Get it out of my face, George.”

The beam vanished, but the morning sun still lit up the room.

“Omelets and organic fruit cups will be served in the main dining area precisely at 9 a.m., ma’am.”

He was wearing his official butler jacket, an old black blazer of Richard’s with the sleeves rolled up. It practically reached his ankles. A plaid dish towel was draped over his right arm. He pronounced ma’am as mum, speaking in his ridiculous fake British accent.

According to Mo, after Richard and his wife got divorced, George started this butler bit every time things got tense between his parents. No one knew if he had read about butlers in a book or seen them in a cartoon, but apparently it helped them all to get past their anger and act kinder toward one another.

I, on the other hand, found his butler act incredibly annoying, and didn’t understand why we had to keep encouraging it. But Mo said George’s therapist felt it helped him through the healing process, so no one was allowed to even mention it. As if it was normal.

“Go away, George. I’m not hungry.”

Just then, Mo leaned through the doorway.

“Hey sleepy head! You’re home early. How was Megan’s party?”

The cheerful way she spoke caused everything to crash into reality. I dropped back onto my pillow and stuffed my head under the blankets.

“Can everyone please get out of my bedroom and leave me alone?”

“Very well, m’ lady.” The butler bowed. “Will you be available then for a light luncheon at noon?”

I groaned.

“Sounds like someone didn’t get much sleep last night, Georgie,” said Mo. “Let’s go. Your dad’s eggs are getting cold.”

I tried to imagine a summer on the other side of the country trapped with these people. At least it would be somewhere far away—not here in Kettleboro where I had no friends. Where everyone thought I was hideous. Maybe we could move to Topeka permanently if Richard got hired by that museum. Mo could probably get a job at a drugstore. But it might include being stuck with George forever. And what about Dad and Viva back here in Vermont?

I let my eyes drift around the room until they landed on becoming a woman. The book was on top of my bureau, leaning against a giant pink box of menstrual pads with a glittery bow on top.

Why was my whole life falling apart?

My phone vibrated on my nightstand. I assumed it was Megan texting me from her new smartphone. There was no way I was talking to her ever again, but it kept vibrating, so I flipped it open just to glance. It was my dad’s number. A small photo of a bike appeared on the screen, followed by a text: What do you think?

Dad is almost as obsessed with his bicycles as he is with his cello. Mo said it’s his way of escaping responsibilities, but I think he likes the way it feels. He once told me that riding as fast as you can down a steep hill is the closest thing to flying.

Cool, I wrote back, relieved to be distracted. Is it new?

While I waited for him to reply I checked my messages to see if by any chance Megan had tried to call. Nothing. She probably thought I was still asleep in the corner of her family room.

The bike? No, that’s my old hybrid. I mean the house.

I popped up so quickly, my head bumped the bottom springs of the top bunk. The photo showed his bicycle parked against the steps of a yellow porch.

What about the house? I asked.

I’m taking care of it this summer while Julia is away. So maybe you can stay longer than a weekend!

All at once, the world didn’t seem completely against me anymore. I called my dad.

***

“Not a chance, Agnes.”

Mo was sitting on the kitchen floor with George, helping him sort through a pile of buttons, as Richard stood in front of the sink filled with soapy water.

“You’re not listening,” I said. “Dad’s living in a house, a big house this summer. Not the dorm. I just talked to him and he said there’s more than enough room for me.”

Mo’s left eyebrow arched into a sideways question mark.

“Who owns this enormous house?”

“His friend, Julia, from the college.” Dad had mentioned Julia a few times before, and they seemed to be spending more time together lately. Just last week, Dad had texted me about his latest biking adventure with a photo of the two of them in bike helmets. “She’s teaching or doing something somewhere far away this summer, so he’s housesitting for her.”

“Shall we count the big ones or the little ones first?” asked the butler, butting in and hogging all the attention as usual. “I rather like these wooden buttons.”

Mo held onto Richard’s leg as she hoisted herself up from the floor. “Why don’t you separate them first into all the subgroups, Georgie? I’ll be right back.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder and mumbled something to Mo. He was wearing his daily uniform, an old T-shirt with some political statement and ripped jeans, both speckled in paint. His stringy silver hair, like always, was pulled back into a pitiful pony tail.

“I know, Richard,” Mo replied, “and I appreciate it, but I don’t agree.”

Mo was the only person who could ever hear the mumbler, which didn’t make sense since her idea of a normal conservation was shouting.

She dragged me by the elbow toward the den, as far away as we could get from the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I said and yanked my arm back. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

“Because this trip means a lot to Richard,” said Mo. For once, she kept her voice down.

“Is that what he mumbled to you? That it means a lot to him?”

Mo frowned. “Not exactly, but you know he doesn’t like to upset anyone.”

“And you do?” I snapped.

“Listen to me, Agnes. This summer will be a wonderful chance for the four of us to bond as a family.”

“Except my family includes Dad and Viva, not your freeloading boyfriend and his mutant offspring.”

Mo’s whole body went rigid as she stuck her thick finger in my face.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Agnes Moon, but you need to shape up, and shape up fast! Richard and Georgie are part of our lives now, and that’s not going to change. Got it?”

As a matter of fact, that was exactly the moment when I got it . . . when I knew I had to do something drastic to change my life. To change me.

There was no way I was staying in this town or going with Mo and her new family to Kansas. I was spending this summer with my father, the only person who cared a sliver about my feelings.

“I didn’t want to have to tell you this, because I promised Dad I wouldn’t.”

She dropped her finger and crinkled her forehead. “Well, it sure sounds like you should, Agnes, so spill it.”

I took a deep breath to add dramatic effect. “He’s not doing very well,” I lied, frowning. “He sounds terrible.”

“What are you saying? Is Timothy sick?”

For once, I had her full attention.

“He didn’t give me the details, so I’m not sure what it is exactly, but I could tell that he really wants me to come this summer. I think it’s partly why he got the housesitting job.”

Mo’s head dropped. I was surprised how easily these little fibs fell out of my mouth. It actually felt good to twist the truth.

“Well, this changes everything,” she said and sighed.

As if on cue, George appeared and yanked on Mo’s sleeve.

“Come on, Mo,” he said in his non-butler, bratty voice, “I’m done separating all the buttons. I want to count them now.”

My mother wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

“Of course, you should be with him, Agnes,” she said softly as she patted George. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me himself, but I’ll call him.”

“Call who?” George whined.

I panicked a little. “But you have to promise not to tell Dad what I told you, Mo. I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready to share.”

That was one thing Mo respected: therapy talk. The four of us had been in therapy together as a family, and even post-family a few times. Mo was the only one who ever seemed to get anything out of those sessions. But they did come in handy as lessons in persuasion. If you ever wanted to convince my mother of something, speaking in therapy talk worked best.

George blurted, “Tell you what? Share what? Can I have one?”

“It’s nothing, Georgie,” replied Mo. “Wait for me in the kitchen. I’ll be right there.”

As he stomped away in his full-length butler blazer, Mo gave me one of her too tight, too long hugs.

“Of course, I’ll keep it between us, Agnes.” Then she added, “I hope you know you can always trust me.”

And there it was. Just like that, I got my way. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.