KAT
MEG SOBS INTO MY SHOULDER FOR A LONG TIME. TEARS AND PROBABLY SNOT seep through my shirt and press hot against my skin.
It was actually worth it. The puking in the airport bathroom. The three thousand breaths I counted on the plane before finally falling asleep for the rest of the flight. The long, creepy foreverness of this hallway after Luke dropped me here so he could go to some party. It didn’t feel like it at the time—it felt like I was foolish and irrational—but now it feels like nothing. Because it was nothing if it got me to Meg when she needed me. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and squeeze.
When she finally stops shuddering, I search through my backpack. I find a single probably-not-used Kleenex and offer it to her. She blows her nose, then pats at her makeup-streaked cheeks with the snot-drenched tissue.
“Let’s go inside,” I tell her, gesturing toward her hotel room with my head. I’ve sat in this hallway long enough. I’ve counted every faded gold swirl in this bloodred carpet, have imagined every person who might be behind every door and what they might try to say to me if they found me here, looking homeless and out of place in this hallway. I stand, offer my hand to Meg, and haul her to her feet. As she opens the hotel room door, I grab my backpack and Meg’s discarded Kleenex from the floor—I can wash my hands afterward—then follow Meg inside.
Meg stops just inside the room, shoulders slumped. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and a black smear of mascara cuts across her cheek like a battle scar.
“I had sex with him,” she blurts out.
“LumberLegs?” There’s no way. Her bizarre plan can’t possibly have worked.
“No, Grayson.”
“Oh,” I say. Then, “Oh!” It all makes sense. The mood swings, the panic, her obsession with marrying LumberLegs. “Are you pregnant?”
“Why? Because I’m black? Seriously, Kat? We used protection.”
“No, I—” I break off, catching myself. I want to tell Meg that it has nothing to do with her being black and everything to do with the fact that even though I know in theory that lots of kids in our grade are having it, the word immediately makes me think about health class and signs at the doctor’s office and the terrible things that happen in books like Cider House Rules. But we learned in social studies that people can be racist without even realizing it, and besides, this isn’t about me, it’s about Meg. And if I’ve made her feel like a stereotype, I feel terrible. So instead of asking if they used two different forms of protection, like they taught us in health, I say, “Well, that’s good, then.”
“I guess.” She marches over to the far bed and pitches herself backward onto it, landing with a grunt. She spreads her arms and legs out like a star and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
I’m so incredibly out of my depth here. How are people supposed to feel after they’ve done the s word with someone—ecstatic? swoony? broken? terrified? I’ve never really thought about the emotions side of it, just the pregnancy and STDs and other scariness side.
I snatch the blanket off the other bed. “Here,” I say, spreading it over her. “Make a cocoon.” Cocoons are the best. Warmth, safety—a soft, fuzzy shield.
She blinks at me for a minute, seemingly confused, even though she’s seen me cocoon half a dozen times. Then the haze clears from her eyes. “Yes,” she says simply. She grabs the edges of both blankets, holding them tight against her body. Then she rolls over once, twice, three times, and tumbles off the edge of the bed with a thud.
“Meg! Are you okay?” I leap onto the bed and peer over the edge. She lies facedown on the ground, blanket still wrapped tight around her, face smushed into the grimy carpet, shoulders shaking—with laughter, I hope. “Are you okay?” I ask again.
“Can you roll me over?” she says into the floor. She’s definitely laughing.
I clamber around her, grab an edge of the cocoon, and pull.
Meg blinks up at me, arms pinned to her sides inside the blanket.
“Do you want out?” I ask.
She shakes her head, sliding her hair back and forth along the floor. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.
“Ugh, what is wrong with me?” she asks the ceiling.
“There’s nothing wrong with you!”
“Then why doesn’t anyone like me? Guys . . . friends . . . Grayson . . .”
“He liked you enough to . . . well, you know.” I sit in the nearby armchair.
“Sure. And then broke up with me right after.”
“He did what?”
“I mean, he didn’t explicitly. But he wanted to, I could tell. And so I left, and he didn’t call me again, ever, so that’s basically breaking up with me, right? And it was kind of my fault, but still, I—”
And then she’s sobbing again.
I slide to the floor, rest my hand where I think hers is under the blankets, then lie down beside her on the germy carpet, tilting my head until it presses against hers.
When her shoulders stop shuddering, she sniffs, then cranes her neck forward and wipes her nose along the edge of the blanket. Then her head drops back with a thud.
“Even my own dad doesn’t want me,” she says.
“He died. That doesn’t mean he didn’t want you.”
“No, not—I meant Stephen. I mean, I know he’s not my bio dad, but he was there for like seven years. And then he didn’t want custody of me. Didn’t even ask for visitation time. I saw the court papers.” She kicks her feet, trying to loosen the straitjacket blankets. “I mean, am I super annoying or something?” Kick. Kick. “Do I have bad breath?” Kick. “Is it an ADHD thing?” Kick. “Maybe I’m too forgetful. Or that other thing. Immunity. No. Imbecile. No. You know, it starts with an i and means I make bad decisions.” Kick. Kick. Kick. Kick. “Ugh, I hate when I can’t think of words. Maybe other people hate that, too. Maybe that’s why everyone leaves me.” Kick-kick-kickkickkick.
“Meg, stop! Meg!” I grab at her flailing legs, which are only tangling her up further and further in the mess of blankets, and pin them to the ground. “You are not annoying.” I find the edge of one of the blankets under her knee and pull it out. “And I’d tell you if you had bad breath. Lift your shoulder, please. You are amazing. And your other knee. I mean it. You’re smart, and you’re so brave. For my entire flight here, I kept feeling for your purple button in my pocket, and I thought over and over that if that button held even just the tiniest fraction of your bravery, that would be enough.”
Meg sits up, shaking off the last bit of her blanket prison. She stares at me with big puppy-dog eyes.
I stare right back. “Meg . . . you inspire me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Really?”
“Really,” I say.
“Then why did he leave? Stephen, I mean. Why did he tell the judge I’m not his real daughter?” She leans back against the bed, shoulders sagging. She loved him as her dad—that much is obvious. Which means the next part is obvious, too.
“Because he’s an idiot,” I say. “And a jerk. You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
She stands abruptly. “You’re right. I’m going to tell him that.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now.” She strides toward the door.
I pull the purple button from my pocket. “Do you want—” But she’s already out the door. Which is fine. Because Meg doesn’t need a button to be brave. She just is.
MEG
I POUND ON THE DOOR. THEN POUND AGAIN. AND AGAIN.
After about a million knocks, it finally clicks open. Stephen-the-Leaver stands in the doorway in his plaid pajama pants and oversized T-shirt, lines from the sheets etched into his cheek as if he was already sleeping. Which he probably was. He always went to bed idiotically early.
“Oh, you’re back,” he says, then yawns and turns to look at the bedside clock. “It’s not even eleven yet.”
Turned sideways, he no longer fills the doorframe, and I push past him into the room. As the door clicks shut, we turn to face each other like we’re about to duel. “You left!” I shout. “How could you do that to me? How could you leave like that?”
“I thought you didn’t want me to come to—oh, not that YouTuber thing.” He wipes the sleep out of his eye and studies me. “You mean the divorce. Meg, you’re old enough to understand how these things work. Your mom and I, we just didn’t love—”
“No, not Mom. I mean me. How could you leave me like that? You didn’t leave the halflings. You pick them up all those weekends, and on Wednesdays and special occasions, and I was just supposed to—what did you say, call you whenever I wanted? For like the first six months, you never even tried to call me.”
He runs his hand over his scalp. “You were so angry. I thought you just needed some—”
“What, because a girl’s never been mad at her dad before?”
My cheeks flush hot, and I wish I could take the d word back. He doesn’t think of me like that—not anymore, and apparently not ever. He was my dad, but I was not his daughter. My eyes brim with tears, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough tonight. I am not going to cry in front of him.
I stand as tall and straight as I can. “I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I might have ADHD and be annoying sometimes and have trouble holding on to friends and not understand math, but I’m brave and funny and . . . inspiring, even. You may never have thought of me as your daughter, but you still shouldn’t have treated me like that.”
“Meg.” He takes a step toward me, rubs his eye again. “Is that what you think? That I didn’t think of you as my daughter?”
“That’s what you told the judge.”
His brow furrows. “Did your mother tell you that?”
“No! Don’t bring Mom into this. I read it. In the court documents. They were in Mom’s desk.” I’ve pictured it so many times—how he must have stood there, in the courtroom, saying those awful words. “How could you say that? How could you say it in front of Mom and the judge and everybody?”
His face falls. “Oh, Meg. I hate that you had to read that. Those were just legal arguments. I didn’t even go to court, my lawyer did. I would have had to pay way more money for child support than your mom needs, and my lawyer suggested— Never mind, I just— You and I were so close. I thought we could sort it out ourselves, without any court order. Just you and me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He closes the distance between us and crushes me to him. I don’t hug him back, just stand up straight, blinking and blinking away even the thought of tears. I refuse to cry.
Am I really supposed to believe that? Am I supposed to believe he’d tell a judge—or let his lawyer tell a judge or whatever—that I wasn’t his kid if he didn’t fully, deeply believe it?
He releases me and takes a half step back. “Meg, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made it about the money. I should have known that might hurt you, and you’re so much more important than money.
“And I’m so sorry I took so long to call you after your mom and I split up. I told your mom you could call me anytime, and when I didn’t hear from you, I thought you were just taking your mom’s side. She was so angry with me. I thought with a bit of time, you’d come around and we could start figuring out time to spend together, maybe plan some trips together. I didn’t realize waiting would make it feel like I didn’t want to spend time with you at all. I should have asked you, should have talked to you right away. I’m sorry.”
I shove my hands into my blazer pockets. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m not your kid.”
“You are, though. How can I—I just—I want to—” He pauses, wordless, unable to argue further because there’s no further argument he can make. Then he reaches over to the side table and grabs a black wallet with fraying lime-green trim. “Look,” he says, “when people ask me about my kids, this is what I show them.” He holds it out to me. “Open it.”
Open it? I can tell just by looking at it that it’s the one I gave him for Christmas a few years ago, but that proves nothing; I use his gifts all the time, and I still hate him.
I rip open the Velcro clasp. If he wants to try to bribe me with money, that’s better than nothing. I think.
The wallet opens like a book. One about the halflings. Because there’s Nolan on the left, serious and worried, glasses slightly askew—his most recent school photo—and Kenzie on the right, with her goofball grin and more plastic ponies than she should be able to hold clutched to her chest. Kenzie and I look more like Stephen than Nolan does, but they’re his blood and I’m not, and that’s the only thing that matters, apparently.
I snap the wallet closed and shove it back at him.
“No,” he says. “Not that.” He opens it again, to credit cards this time, then flips past bank cards and memberships, back to Nolan and Kenzie at the front. Then one more flip, to the very first page.
It’s me, beaming, mid-laugh. Behind me, a swimming polar bear clings to a floating barrel. It’s from that day at the zoo. I’m wearing the faded yellow T-shirt I still have tucked away in the back of my closet, even though it hasn’t fit me in years.
I look happy.
“Your mom gave me this year’s school photos,” he says, “but I like this one best.” He closes the wallet and taps it against his palm. “This is what I show people when they ask about my kids. All three of you.
“Meg, I’ve been trying to connect with you. I’ve been calling, texting, asking your mom to have you call me. I’ve got a bedroom for you all set up at my place that I keep hoping you’ll use.”
“You do?” I’m not sure what to say to that. Has he had a bedroom for me this whole time? Kenzie and Nolan have never mentioned it. Maybe he just means a guest room. I can’t bring myself to ask.
The blankets on the bed behind him are thrown back. A sleeping mask and earplugs lie abandoned on the nightstand. He was definitely sleeping. The fluorescent red letters on the clock read 10:59.
It’s true that he’s been calling. Or at least, he was before I blocked him. So maybe it’s true that he tells people I’m his kid. Maybe I do have a bedroom—a place where I belong—at his house. Or maybe he’s lying.
Or maybe he’s not.
He’s never lied to me before, but even if he’s not lying, is any of that enough?
The numbers on the clock transform to 11:00, and an obnoxious beeping blares out of it.
“My alarm,” Stephen says sheepishly as he strides over to it, “to get up and make sure you were back.” He smacks the button on top, silencing it. I tug at one of my curls, then catch myself and stop. He said I had to be back by eleven, but I didn’t think it actually mattered to him. I didn’t think he cared. He turns back to me. “You are inspiring,” he says once he reaches me. “You are witty and adventurous and brilliant, and you make every minute of life interesting. But I need you to understand something.” He takes me by the shoulders again, stares straight into my eyes. “Even if you weren’t—if you were obnoxious and conceited and the most boring blob of nothingness to sit on the face of this earth—I would still love you as my daughter.”
“Shut up,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure whether I actually want him to. He’s giving me the words I need to hear, and they feel like a gift—though I’m not sure yet whether they’re more like the tablet or the skateboard or the polar bear or something else entirely.
“Meg, the fact that I’ve missed out on almost two years of your life is the saddest thing in mine,” he says, then wraps me in another hug.
I still don’t hug him back; I’m still not sure how I feel. But this time, when the tears come, I let them.