He pauses in the act of getting a pitcher of water from the refrigerator. Then he pours a glass, drinks it, and sets it down empty on the counter. “Did she?”
“We talked about Arlo,” I tell him. “She wants his blanket with her when she dies.”
Felix flinches when I say the worddies.
“Do you know where it is?”
“In the attic,” Felix says, waving his hand toward the ceiling. “Somewhere. All his stuff is there. At first Win made me promise not to change anything in his room, and then I came home one day and found her tearing apart the sheets and ripping his clothes up and smashing his computer—” His voice falls from a cliff. “I boxed everything up. Just in case she needed it one day.”
I meet his gaze. “I know this is hard—losing Win, when you lost your son not so long ago.”
Felix blinks. “Arlo wasn’t my son,” he says. Then, chagrined, he ducks his head. “I mean, he was, in the way I loved him. But he was already six when I met Win.”
I think about the portrait of her in ecstasy. “She didn’t mention that,” I reply.
—
WHENIGEThome, Brian is pacing in the kitchen. “You’re here. Thank Albert.”
He doesn’t believe in God, but he does believe in Einstein.
For a moment I panic, wondering what appointment I almost missed. And then I remember: Meret is going to a dance at camp, and we are having dinner at the home of the dean of the faculty.
Normally it’s hard to make social commitments, due to the nature of my work, but this means a lot to Brian. A promotion to chair might be riding on it. I promised him I would be there. He promised me that Gita would not.
“I just need to throw on a dress,” I tell him. “Is Meret ready to go?”
“She’s changed her mind.”
I stop on the stairwell. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Brian looks at his watch. “She’s old enough to stay by herself. And we can’t be late.”
She may be capable of staying home, but that doesn’t mean sheshould. If Meret gives in to her social anxiety, it only feeds the beast. Her friends will have fun without her, will not call, will not text. She will sit here all night and think:See, I was right not to go. No one missed me anyway.
I run up the stairs and rap on Meret’s door. There is music pulsing; it sounds like the inside of a headache. When she doesn’t answer, I turn the knob and find her lying on her bed reading in sweatpants and a T-shirt, oblivious to the noise. The bass thumps so strong my pulse adjusts, a new moon and its tide. “Hey,” I say, deciding to play dumb. “What time are Sarah’s moms picking you up?”
“I’m not going,” she snaps.
“To the dance?” I cross to her laptop and hit the volume key, bringing down the decibel level. There’s no melody, just a beat and freestyling. I wonder if every generation is destined to find a style of music that is completely incomprehensible to the previous one.
Meret doesn’t answer. She lifts the spine of her book so that she breaks our line of sight.
“I don’t understand. You were looking forward to this.”
She was, a few days ago. Sarah had come home from STEM camp with her and there were whispers and hidden notes and at least once I caught a name: Todd. I wonder who he is. If he said something, did something, to hurt her.
Primally, I want to hurt him back.
“It’s not even a dance. It’s a bunch of kids grinding against each other.”
“Well,” I say lightly. “FrictionisSTEM.”
She puts down the book. “You didnotjust say that.”
I squeeze her arm. “Maybe it will be better than you think. Besides, what’s the alternative? Dad and I have a work thing.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
