Chapter 5

Before I left for Dad’s on Tuesday night, Mo forced me to pack everything I owned into cardboard boxes to store in our musty basement all summer. Even though I pointed out the renter would have no need for a miniature bedroom with wobbly bunkbeds, Mom still insisted I clear out every item, down to the last paperclip. Luckily George was spending the day with his mother, so he wasn’t around pestering me. But still, I almost didn’t finish in time to make the last bus to Bittersweet.

Before I grabbed my duffel bag and raced out the door, Richard startled me with a small pat on my back. He didn’t say anything, as usual, but I could tell he was trying to say something. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to get away from there as fast as I could.

At the bus station, Mo was too preoccupied with their upcoming trip to make a big deal out of mine.

“Let me know immediately if your father’s condition changes,” she said. At first I thought she meant the housesitting, but then I remembered my little health fib. “And don’t forget to always wash your hands after being in public places, never eat grapes unless they’re organic, and call me if you get any spotting.”

I couldn’t believe she was bringing that up again as her last words to me. “Are you done yet?”

“You have all the contact numbers, right?”

“I have everything, Mo.” I pecked her on the cheek and jumped out of our old minivan.

“Can I bring back anything special from the mighty Midwest? Turquoise jewelry? A cropped country top? A cute straw hat?”

“Just take lots of pictures,” I said and shut the door. Then I leaned in the window and added as a second thought, “And maybe some of those seeds to grow a few sunflowers.”

***

After the divorce, my father not only taught college students, he pretty much lived with them too. His apartment building was meant for young, single teachers who couldn’t afford their own off-campus apartments. My father wasn’t young, and he wasn’t completely on his own if you counted Viva and me. But he was a popular professor and an accomplished cellist, so they made an exception for him.

It always felt awkward to be constantly surrounded by his students, especially those who considered my father to be a musical genius. They stopped him on campus to ask questions and interrupted us when we ate in the dining hall, like he was a celebrity. They rarely noticed I was even there until Dad introduced me.

Technically, my parents had divorced only each other, but in some ways it felt as if they’d divorced Viva and me as well. They never seemed to have the time—or want to make the time—for just us anymore. We constantly had to share them with strangers. So when my dad agreed to let me live with him all summer in a big house away from the college campus, it was a dream come true for me—something I’d thought would never happen again. For almost three months, I would have my father all to myself.

As soon as I spotted him across the bus station, I raced over and hugged him so tightly that tears filled my eyes. Lately I felt like crying all the time, but this felt different. Like tears of relief. Dad kissed the top of my head, then bent over and picked up my duffel bag.

“This is all you need until Labor Day Weekend?” he asked.

I didn’t want reminders of my life back in Kettleboro, so I hadn’t packed much other than a few changes of clothes. Of course, the giant box of menstrual pads with the bow on top had been left behind as well.

“It’s summer!” I said. “Plus, I figured you had shampoo and all that junk.”

Dad draped his arm over my shoulders as we walked out into the dark night air. “The house is well stocked,” he said and smiled. “I think you’ll like it.”

We climbed into a fancy green sports car with no back seat, another cool perk of this housesitting deal. Since the divorce, my father hadn’t been able to afford a car. He usually borrowed one or got rides when he performed. For the most part, he rode his bicycle everywhere, even in winter if the roads were plowed.

As we drove out of the parking lot, Dad kept glancing over at me.

“What?” I said.

“When did you get so much older, Agnes? It’s as if you’ve changed overnight. I think you’re as tall as I am now.”

My father is actually shorter than my mother, not something you see that often. But everything about Mo and her personality feels too big to me. My dad is athletic and always on the move, so he’s never seemed small—more like compact and efficient.

“So what are we going to do for the next three months?” I asked, preferring not to talk about the ways my body had changed.

“It’s your summer vacation. What do you feel like doing?”

I was so focused on putting everything behind me, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’m up for anything,” I said, “even hiking in the woods or watching those boring documentaries you like.”

Dad drove slowly through the center of Bittersweet, past the sloping lawn in front of the college. The formal stone buildings, illuminated by spotlights, looked bigger at night. I felt as if we were driving through a long tunnel where a new beginning awaited us at the other end.

“Listen, Agnes,” said Dad as we turned off Main Street and onto an unfamiliar road, “I love that you want to spend time with me. And I’m really thrilled you’re here. But I’m afraid I have to lock myself in the second-floor office and work all day. At least for the next six or seven weeks.”

“What do you mean?” My father hardly ever stayed indoors other than to practice. “Are you getting ready for a big concert?”

I used to enjoy listening to my dad play the cello, even when he practiced endless hours in our little living room, and Mo forced Viva and me to keep quiet or stay outside. But ever since the divorce, it was as if his cello had morphed into the enemy, like a swamp creature that invaded our family and lured my dad away from us.

“Actually, I’m not performing at all this summer,” he replied. “I’m taking some time off to finish my PhD.”

It turned out the real reason Dad was living away from campus and housesitting was to write his dissertation. That’s a very long report, as long as a book, which you have to write if you want to get a PhD and become a doctor of something. For my dad, it was a Doctor of Music Composition, which meant he would be an expert in writing orchestral pieces, featuring his beloved cello, of course.

As far as I could tell, my father had been working on graduate degrees his entire life, but I assumed it was something all professional musicians did. Although I knew it was another detail about Dad that upset Mo, who claimed he could never finish anything.

“Why do you have to write another paper?” I asked. “You already teach at a college and play in their orchestra.”

“Lots of reasons,” he said, shifting the clutch to climb a steep hill, “but most importantly, once I get my PhD I’ll make more money, so I can buy my own car and live in a nicer place, and you can visit more often.”

That sounded good in the long term, but disastrous for my summer plans. I didn’t know anyone in Bittersweet, and there was nothing to do out here in farm country. I’d assumed Dad would spend a lot of time with me, because he never taught classes during the summer. It hadn’t occurred to me he would be busy with something other than practicing his cello and riding his bike.

But as soon as I reminded myself of all the horrible things the girls had whispered about me, especially Megan—or the thought of spending months in Topeka with the miniature butler—I knew I wanted to be here more than anywhere else.

“I don’t mind,” I said, and then fibbed, “I have stuff I’m working on too.”

“Good,” he replied and sighed. “I’m glad to hear that. And you can have friends, like Megan, visit if you want. The house has three bedrooms and four bathrooms!”

I didn’t want to think about Megan, and definitely didn’t want to explain the real reason why I wouldn’t be inviting her. So I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Her family’s kind of a mess right now. I think her parents are probably getting divorced.”

“Daniel and Annie are splitting up?” said Dad. “Wow, never would have guessed. Those two seem so close. How’s Megan doing?”

It was funny. I didn’t even have to think about my version of the facts. They instantly appeared in my head as if they’d really happened.

“Not so great. I feel like I need to take a break from her this summer and let her sort it all out.”

Dad looked at me, his eyebrows scrunched in concern. “But don’t you think she needs you now more than ever?”

I shook my head. “She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t need me at all.”

That part was true, and it hurt. So I decided to stick with the made-up, painless version.

“By the way, Megan made me promise not to tell anyone,” I fibbed some more, “so I haven’t told Mo any of this. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

He reached over and covered my hand. “You can trust me, Agnes. I’m sorry Megan is having a hard time, but I won’t tell a soul.”