His car wasn’t in the driveway, so I know he’s not here. It’s a miracle that no one else is home, and I don’t need anyone walking inright this second. I have no idea how I would explain.
“Still at work,” I tell her, still trying to figure out how to end this as quickly as possible. “Sometimes they need him to stay a bit later.”
She nods. It’s hard to read her expression, but she doesn’t seem troubled. “I have confirmed that your father is continuing his AA meetings.”
This doesn’t surprise me, especially since he’d told me he was in touch with Michael. He really is committing to his sobriety.
“And counseling,” I add, hoping she can’t sense the anxiety in my voice.
“Good, good.” She takes another look around as Wallis sniffs at her ankles. “I was hoping to check on him, but seeing you was really the goal. Let me ask you this, though. Have you picked up on anything that could be considered out of the ordinary for him? Any unusual behaviors?”
The truth gathers on the tip of my tongue. What if I told her, admitted everything about the recoverees living here? She might be able to use her power to kick everyone else outwithoutsending me back to Aunt June. It’s a tempting thought, but one I’m not willing to risk.
I shake my head.
“We’ve been good, really. But I have your number and, honestly, I appreciate you being here for me.”
It’s blatant sweet talk, but not necessarily untrue. Still, Margaret looks pleased. “Of course, of course. I’ll get out of your way.” She gives Wallis a reluctant pat on the head, and the touch of affection causes him to happily roll over onto his back.
As we’re walking out to her car, I spot a familiar figure walking down the sidewalk in the distance. No, no,no. It’s Saylor. My heart pounds as Margaret digs through her purse for her keys. If she sees him come inside, then it’s over. Done. She’ll find out I lied and will call my dad and—
A short beep sounds as Margaret unlocks her car, then slides inside. I look back down the sidewalk to see Saylor’s an uncomfortably close distance away.
“Again, call me anytime you need me,” Margaret says.
“Sure. Will do.” I hope I don’t sound as distracted as I feel.
With a small wave, she shuts her door and starts the engine. Saylor’s only a few feet away when she shifts into gear and drives down the street. I hold my breath, waiting for her to circle around, but she doesn’t. After a few more seconds, the car disappears from sight.
I let out my breath.
“Hey,” Saylor says. “Who was that?”
“No one. Don’t you have to work?” It comes out more accusatory than I want it to, but I’m still stressing from that uncomfortably close call.
If Saylor notices, he doesn’t show it. “I mixed up the schedule. I don’t work again until tomorrow.”
He opens the door. I’m about to pull a disappearing act to my room when he says, “You know, I’m pretty good at algebra.”
Heat boils inside my chest. Peach must have told him about my D in algebra. I can’t have any sort of privacy around here.
“I’m working on it,” I say, avoiding his gaze.
Saylor just shrugs. “All right, then.”
I head to my room and change out of my dance clothes. It’s annoying that Saylor’s forcing himself into my business. He should really be focusing on saving up the money for his yoga profession or whatever.
I plop myself down at my desk, determined to finish all my algebra homework. We’ve only started learning about quadratic functions, but of course Mrs. Donaldson assigned the hardest problems in the textbooks (all even numbered so we couldn’t cheat and get the odd answers from the back index). Lin and Raegan are in pre-calc, so we don’t even have the same textbook. And I definitely don’t want to text Alex for help, because then he’d ask why I haven’t gone to see Ana. It’s not that I don’t want to—Ana is great—but Wavettes practice this week has been even more demanding with the homecoming game on Friday.
I sigh, slamming my book closed. Frustrated with my own incompetence, I walk over to my window. Saylor is lying in the hammock reading a book, the hood of his sweatshirt covering his long ponytail. Before I can change my mind, I begrudgingly grab my textbook and go downstairs.
“You know anything about quadratic equations?” I yell from the porch.
Saylor looks up from his book. The tree leaves above him rustle. “I know a good amount, yeah.”
He gets out of the hammock, and I feel a tiny surge of relief as he follows me back inside. I lay out my textbook on the kitchen table and point to the cluster of problems.
“Give me a sec,” Saylor says, scanning through the previous lesson. “It’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”
