Chapter Eight
May breezes in quietly. The first wave of summer tourists floats in, buoyed by the ocean wind. Meanwhile, Olive posts photos of her and Drew at prom. He’s in a rented tuxedo.
For Advanced Placement exams, thirty of us get bussed to a different school forty minutes away.
Psych and English Lang are fine. Chemistry is a dumpster fire, which is entirely expected.
Our original teacher got fired last December for cooking drugs, which, in my opinion, was at least proof that he was good at his subject.
Since then, it’s been a string of substitutes who reply gesundheit whenever somebody utters the word “stoichiometry.”
I want to get in extra Lola time before she ships off, but that’s pretty much impossible between her mom’s doctor’s appointments and her online classes.
So instead I prep for camp. I teach myself mobile development on Swift, the programming language for iOS.
I google all the instructors and study their lives—their professional accomplishments, their academic achievements.
I even revisit College Confidential for tips on how to win hackathons and avoid the posts from kids jerking off to their own SAT scores.
Meanwhile, I don’t mention Alpha Fellows to Mom. I know, I’m the freaking worst. I’m her only daughter. We’re supposed to be at the Lucky Panda together this summer. I’m about to dip for eight weeks. I could give her a heads-up.
But what if she says no? Worse, what if she rats me out to Michael? Let’s be real. After that mess with the money, I don’t really trust her anymore.
Every day, I think, Maybe I’ll tell her. And every single day, I say nothing.
Then suddenly, June catches me by surprise, and it’s too late.
Saturday. When my alarm vibrates, dawn is seeping through the window blinds. So this is it. It’s five a.m., and I’m jetting off to Boston today. It still doesn’t quite feel real.
Across the room, Olive is knocked out cold. Probably hammered from one of those end-of-year ragers that seniors throw. And Michael is off doing his usual casino nonsense, so he won’t be back until Sunday night or until his paycheck is gone. Whichever hits first.
So that means the only person I have to be careful about is Mom.
Maybe I should wake her up. Tell her that I’m dipping so we can do a proper goodbye moment. She’ll be happy for me. I think. Or mega pissed, which is valid. I think I forged her signature on the Alpha Fellows forms.
My phone flashes with a text from Lola. It says one word: Here!
Okay, so no time for Mom. Maybe a good thing, honestly. Even if she didn’t kill me for, you know, committing identity theft, it would’ve been a super-awkward conversation.
I crack open the bedroom door and then freeze.
On the floor, there’s a yellow rhombus cast by the refrigerator light. Somebody is in the kitchen. From the heavy movements and grunts, I’m guessing it’s Michael, or maybe a walrus.
Probably he lost big. That’s the only reason he ever comes back this early.
If he blew through all his money, he’s going to be in the worst mood.
The last time this happened, he put his fist through our living room wall.
I wanted to hang a picture frame around the hole, like it was modern art.
Untitled, Michael Saunders. Materials: Drywall and toxic masculinity. Mom didn’t find the idea funny.
Anyway. Maybe I could wait in my room until he passes out. But who the hell knows when that’ll be? The plane might be above Montana by then.
So I have to risk it. I lift my suitcase up so the wheels avoid the ground. It’ll be quieter like this. Carefully, I pick my way down the stairs and tiptoe past the living room. Now all I have to do is—
“Where you goin’?”
Fuuuuck.
Slowly, I turn around. “Nowhere.” Which is the stupidest lie ever. I’m literally dragging a suitcase.
“You think this is a hotel? You come and go however you want?” Michael throws the living room’s light switch. I blink rapidly, my eyes stinging at the sudden brightness.
He squints. “What’s in the suitcase?”
“A dead body.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“I know where she’s going.” It’s Olive. She pops out onto the second floor, looking totally sober and awake.
God, why isn’t she drunk off her ass? What’s even the point of dating a senior guy if you’re not getting absolutely wasted at graduation parties?
“I saw the pamphlet in our room. It’s that summer program.
Alpha Fellowship. It’s funded by some billionaire. ”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Michael asks. Wait, actually, that’s a legit question. I’ve been side-eyeing my stepsister for being a snitch. But she didn’t snitch on me.
Olive is silent for a beat, then says, “I didn’t think she’d actually get in.” Which. Okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.
“Char?” It’s my mother in her nightgown, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Fucking awesome, now it’s a full-blown family reunion. Maybe we should invite my dad and his mistress too. “Why do you have a suitcase?”
“She’s going to some fancy summer camp,” Michael sneers. “For rich kids.”
This conversation is destroying what few remaining brain cells I have, and Lola is waiting outside. “It’s not for rich kids. It’s for smart kids.”
I turn to leave, but Michael’s hand clamps down on my left forearm. “Hang on, missy, where do you think you’re going?”
“I have a flight to catch.” I try to shake him off, but he’s too strong.
His voice is poisonous and low. “What, you think you can just up and leave? Without telling anyone? You think you’re too good for us?”
“Let go of me.” I squirm, trying to twist out of his grasp, but his nails dig in deep, like knives. “Let go, dude! You’re hurting me.”
“If you leave, you can’t come back. Got that?” His grip tightens, and I bite back a cry of pain.
My eyes land on my mother. She’s hunched near the wall. Her shoulders are trembling. She’s doing nothing to help me. She sees exactly what’s going down right now, and she’s doing nothing. And somehow my mother’s mousy inaction is more infuriating than anything Michael could do.
With a supernova of rage, I knee my stepfather in the groin and wrench my arm out of his clutches as he doubles over in pain.
“Have a nice life,” I spit out. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to only Michael or to all of them.
I grab my suitcase and bolt for the door. Without looking back, I pound down the steps and jump into Lola’s waiting car, shoving my suitcase in next to my knees.
“Drive, drive,” I yell.
My best friend frowns, glancing over my shoulder. “Hey, what—”
“Just drive!”
“Okay, okay.” She slams her foot down on the gas and we tear off into the ink-blue dawn.
As we drive, I take in deep gulps of air. My entire body is on red alert, as if it doesn’t know that it’s safe now. It’s like I’m on the verge of a panic attack.
But once a few more minutes pass and nobody tries to kill me again, my heart stops trying to launch itself into orbit.
Once we’re cruising down US 26, Lola finally clears her throat. “Soo… How did your family take the news?”
“My stepdad was a flaming bag of dicks. My mom was a coward. Olive was that Michael-Jackson-eating-popcorn GIF. Exactly what I expected.”
Lola’s gaze falls onto my forearm, red and puffy from Michael’s grip. It’s going to bruise, I can just tell. Even though it’s a balmy June morning, I fish my Pikachu sweater out of my backpack and shrug into it. Best to hide the damage.
To Lola’s credit, she doesn’t comment on the injury. Instead, all she says is, “It’s pronounced jif. Like the peanut butter.”
“Sorry?”
“You said gif. It’s jif.”
I frown. “But GIF is short for Graphics Interchange Format…” Before I can begin reciting all the Wikipedia facts I know about this topic, Lola shushes me.
“It’s okay, darlin’. Just accept that you’re wrong. Nobody is perfect.” She pauses. “Like, remember that time you wanted to make our yearbook into an NFT?”
“Okay, I still think that would’ve been a more effective fundraiser than the cheerleaders’ bake sale.”
Lola shakes her head. “That bake sale had so much wasted potential. All they had to do was lace the brownies with pot…”
We spend the rest of the drive yapping and laughing about our time in high school. We don’t even bother with Spotify.
But even though I’m hyped for the upcoming summer, when the highway sign indicates that PDX is the next exit, this cold dread washes over me.
I’m not ready to say goodbye to my best friend.
She pulls up to Departures. “I guess this is it.”
This is it.
There’s this lump in my throat. She’s shipping off to the army before I get back to Chinook Shore. I won’t see her again, at least for a long while.
“Yeah. Thank you so much for driving me.” The words feel so boring. They don’t come close to expressing what she means to me. She’s in, like, every single good memory I have of Chinook Shore. I don’t even know where to begin.
Computers are so much easier to talk to. That one movie about a guy falling in love with Siri… I sort of get it.
I cough. “Um, let me know how much I owe you for gas money—”
“Char, shut up.” Suddenly she’s swallowed me in a bear hug. “Kick those boys’ asses, okay?”