“No,” I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “His dad is a scientist who used to work for the government. In Maryland.”
Mom drained her glass and stood up. “I have a headache,” she said, almost a whisper. “I’m going to bed.”
“Another headache,” Dad mused, annoyance coloring his voice. “Seems to be an epidemic lately.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Grayson,” she muttered tiredly, smoothing a lock of silvery blond hair. “Tomorrow is another day.”
“Whatever that means. Goodnight, then.”
Mom slipped away to her bedroom—separate from Dad’s; they hadn’t shared a room in seven years. She walked carefully, stiffly, as if she were delicate and the slightest bump could break her apart.
“Well, I’m impressed to see you taking initiative, Emery.” Dad pointed his butter knife at Jack. “You would do well to emulate your sister on that front.”
I cringed and averted my gaze from my brother’s cold stare, ashamed to admit that I gobbled up the tiny bit of praise like a starving dog who’d been tossed a scrap at the dinner table.
“Can I be excused?” Jack asked. “Ialsohave a headache.”
“Go,” Dad said, waving him away as if he were a fly.
My brother tore out of his chair and stormed up to his room.
Just another Thursday night in the Wallace household.
I wanted to escape to my room too. Every molecule in my body recoiled at the idea of asking my father about Xander’s letters. He didn’t seem to recognize the name and now he was irritated. Best to leave it alone. But Xander’s words came back to me.
I didn’t break my promise.
His beautiful, mismatched eyes had been as heavy as his voice. I thought he’d forgotten about me, and that hurt. But he thought I’dforgotten him too, and somehow, that hurt even more. For both our sake, I had to know.
“Daddy?” My voice was a croak. I cleared it and tried again. “I was wondering, do you remember a few summers back when I asked you if I’d gotten any letters?”
“I recall you pestering me about this a long time ago,” he said. “My answer is the same now as it was then: No, I don’t recall. Why? Who was allegedly writing to you?”
His pale blue eyes felt like X-rays straight to my heart.
“No one,” I said quickly. “We’re studying Sylvia Plath in English class. She wrote a lot of letters. It made me think of that, is all.”
It was a terrible explanation that didn’t even make sense, but confronting my father always did that to me—turned my thoughts to mush so that I never said what I’d planned to say.
Dad’s lips turned down. “Can’t say I approve of your teacher using Plath in her curriculum.”
“Why? Sylvia was an amazing poet. She—”
“She was a weak-willed basket case. Life comes with pressure. Glorifying someone for caving into that pressure is not a proper use of school material. I’ll be having a word with your teacher.”
“Daddy, please don’t—”
He slammed his fork down. “Maybe you’d like to stay home from this weekend’s activities, too?”
“No,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at me a moment longer, pinning me down with his eyes. Then he tossed his napkin on his empty bowl and stood up. “I’ll put the money into your account for this tutor, but I’d better see results.”
He walked out, leaving me alone in the dining room. Marooned, like a survivor after a shipwreck. With Dad’s tyranny and Mom’s remoteness, we’d already been a dysfunctional family, but Grant’s death had smashed us to bits, and I don’t know why I still hoped we could be put back together.
Belinda came in to clear the plates, smiling at me pityingly. I wondered, too, why she stayed. How she could stand it.
“Goodnight, Belinda,” I said, and got up from the table.
