By the time I get back to the office, my dad is waiting for me, grim-faced. He’s silent on the way to the car, and my unease grows until it feels like I’m choking. I climb into the passenger seat, but all I want to do is run, to shut my brain off and stop it from racing. My mouth is dry, and my palms are sweaty.
My dad holds out his hand, palm up. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know what he wants. I slip my phone out of my pocket and set it in his palm. I was smart enough to change Lavender’s contact back to her name while I was in the bathroom. I even put a picture of purple flowers on it.
He stares at the empty message screen for a few seconds before he holds it up for me to see. “Erasing your conversation with Lavender tells me you have something to hide, Kodiak.”
I plant my palms firmly on my thighs, to keep them still and avoid fidgeting. “I didn’t want to get her in trouble.”
I can feel his eyes on me. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and keep my head down.
“Well, that’s part of the problem, then, isn’t it?”
I look over at him, confused.
“If the content of your messages with Lavender could get her into trouble, that’s an issue in itself, not to mention that you lied to me outright about leaving your math book at school. I don’t even understand what your plan was. You had to know I was going to find out.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You wouldn’t have stopped at the school if I’d told you why!”
“You’re absolutely right. I would’ve called the school and had an adult—namely her guidance counselor—find her so they could deal with the situation at a school level. I also would’ve called Violet or Alex to let them know there was an issue. You are thirteen years old. You cannot make yourself her savior.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like! I make it better for her! I can help when no one else can.”
“You lied to me, knowing full well I was going to find out. This is a real problem.”
“But I was right. Courtney was bullying her! You didn’t hear what she said to Lavender.”
“A teacher would have intervened,” he says.
I scoff. “Yeah, right. You know what happens when Lavender panics. She can’t even talk, so how was anyone going to help her?”
My dad is quiet for so long that I sneak a peek at him. He’s rubbing his forehead, head bowed in something that looks a lot like defeat. “What happens when you’re in high school next year, and she’s still in middle school?”
I don’t want to talk about next year. “River will be there.”
It’s weird. They’re twins, but he can’t help her when she’s in that state. She says it’s because she feels his frustration at not understanding.
“He wasn’t there today, and it wasn’t him she messaged, was it?” my dad asks.
“Maybe she messaged him before me, but I answered first.”
“Maybe, but I have a feeling that’s not what’s been happening. This is getting worse, not better, and it has been for some time now.”
I bite the inside of my cheek again, not wanting to acknowledge the truth.
“What happens if she messages you next year, looking for your help? What are you going to do when your high school is miles away from here?”
My legs start bouncing, even though I try to push them down and keep my feet flat on the floor. My head is spinning, my thoughts out of control. All I can see is Lavender curled up in a ball somewhere I can’t get to her—a black void I can’t reach into and pull her out of.
Suddenly it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the car. I clench and release my fists, aware there are things I can do to stop this, but I’m unable to find the will to use any of them. Instead, I let the panic take over, washing through me like a toxin.
“Shit,” my dad mutters.
He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shake him off and yell, “Don’t!”
By the time we pull into the driveway, I’m itching to get out of my skin. My dad barely has the SUV in park, and I’m already running through the garage. I want to be alone with my thoughts so I can spiral in peace.
But my mom is right there, blocking the way up the stairs. Her expression makes the guilt almost unmanageable. So much disappointment.
And fear.
I don’t know what the fear is about. Is she scared of me, for me?
I press my palms against my temples—the headache already starting—screw my eyes closed so I can’t see her face, and grip my hair. Anything to distract me from the jumble of thoughts slicing through my brain.