It hits me then that Jeff Dylan must be a huge country star or something, that his name and job are just covers. Unless he’s not into music at all. Maybe he’s part of the Mafia or a runaway dignitary from another country.
Is your dad really a lawyer?I write.
Ten’s eyebrows pinch together. He reaches over and writes:He is.
Would he tell me the truth?
Ten goes back to listening to the lecture until the end of class. As I walk to my next class, I google Jeff Dylan. I get two hits. One is a thin-faced actor in his early twenties—obviously not Ten’s father—and the other is a man who survived a faulty parachute even though most of his bones didn’t. Neither man is a lawyer. I addlawyerafter Jeff Dylan’s name, but find nothing about a lawyer named Jeff Dylan.
Is he such a private person that he isn’t even listed on the internet, or did Tenandmy mother lie to me?
16
The Chicken with the Bad Timing
Because I can’t leave well enough alone, I drop my tray down on Ten’s table at lunch. “He’s not a lawyer, is he?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your dad. I looked him up. I didn’t get a single hit for a lawyer named Jeff Dylan.”
His features shift, composing and recomposing into several different expressions. Finally, he shakes his head. “You googled my dad?” His tone is all at once aggressive and defensive. “Heisa lawyer, Angie.”
Why is he still lying to me?
“You’d find him if I gave you our real last name.”
I freeze.
“But we don’t give it out because it’s brought a lot of creeps into our lives. So there, satisfied?”
His confession both fans and douses the fire burning within me. It explains a hell of a lot but also fills me with questions.
Who are the Dylans?
I swallow, but my throat feels as tight as the straw poking from my apple juice.
Ten’s gaze slides around the cafeteria. “If you could keep this conversation between us, I’d really appreciate it.”
I nod, then leave, but double back for my tray. I set it down at myusual table, which is empty today, because Rae and Laney are helping out with homecoming decorations and Mel’s sitting with the jocks.
I pick at my food but don’t eat. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ten gather up his tray and shove it onto one of the racks. And then he leaves the cafeteria. I’m tempted to leave too, but I don’t want people to think I’m following him, so I stay seated. Sticking my earbuds in, I listen to music and do a bunch of homework.
The day slides by so slowly it feels like it’s going backward. When I get home, I sit at the piano and play until my fingers ache and the sun has set.
“A new song you wrote?” Mom asks, startling me.
I was so concentrated on the music I didn’t even hear the front door.
I lift my fingers off the keys and curl them in my lap. “It’s one of Dad’s. I’ve just slowed the tempo.” I swivel on the bench. “I know you’re not allowed to talk about the Dylans, but are they good or bad people?”
She jerks her head, and the sunglasses resting on top of her hair topple onto the rug. “What?”
“Ten told me his family changed their last name.”
She crouches to pick up her glasses. “Baby, I can’t talk about them.”
“I’m not asking you to tell mewhothey are. All I’m asking is, are they criminals or not?”
