Little Lies

“We made some big mistakes as parents. We wanted to protect you from all the things that could hurt you, and sometimes we took that to the extreme because we’d failed you in the past. You’ve overcome a lot, kiddo, and your dad and I are super proud of you. As far as Kody goes, I don’t think he hates you at all.”

“I’ll respectfully disagree.”

“Do you remember that pencil case you made him for his birthday when you were ten?”

I look away, embarrassed. How could I forget? I’d been so excited. I’d filled it with all kinds of hockey- and science-themed school supplies because those were Kodiak’s two favorite things. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“He still has it.”

I say nothing, aware the pause is for dramatic effect.

“He always has it with him. The last time he came home to visit his parents, he almost missed a practice because he was having a coronary over the fact that he couldn’t find it and wouldn’t leave without it.”

I don’t have the slightest idea how to process any of this. It’s such a contradiction to the way he’s been with me from the first moment I saw him this year. “So, what are you saying? I shouldn’t move into the dorms? I should confront him?”

“If you want to move into the dorms, I think that’s exactly what you should do. Kody needs to figure this out on his own, and you showing your independence by moving out might be the kick in the ass he needs.”

“So you’re okay with me doing this?” I expected more of a fight.

“Yup.”

“What do you think Dad is going to say?” Just the thought of his reaction makes me anxious.

“I don’t think he thought it through when he pushed for you to move in with your brothers.”

“How do you mean?”

“All the parties and such. He assumed having River and Maverick around would create a nice, safe bubble for you, but he failed to consider that while those boys are protective, they’re also hormonal.”

“I don’t want to date their jock friends anyway,” I mutter.

My mom makes a sound that isn’t a word. “I didn’t fight River or your dad on you living with the boys because I thought it would be a good, safe transition. I also thought it might give you and Kody a chance to reconnect, but that obviously hasn’t been as seamless as I’d hoped. I’ll take care of your dad.”

“You’re sure?” I have no real intention of dealing with him, but I figure I should at least throw it out there.

“Oh yeah. There’s no point in you managing your dad’s drama when you already have enough going on there as it is.”

She really is my number-one cheerleader and supporter. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anything for you, honey.”

I tell her I love her and end the call with a promise to let her know how the move goes.Chapter TwentyTime and Wounds

Lavender

Age 14

TIME IS SUPPOSED to heal all wounds. That’s how the saying goes, but I don’t know if I believe that. What I do believe is that with enough time, it’s possible to reframe every memory into a fairy tale or depressing drama.

Kodiak’s family moved to a different state the summer before he started high school, and life moved on without him.

And I’ve done better. I’ve learned how to manage the panic attacks. I’ve realized they’re attached to memories I’ve suppressed. Those have surfaced slowly, and they always seem like they’re more dream than reality. I hate clowns and small spaces. But I’ve learned how to deal with the monsters that live in my head.

I’ve also found a group of friends who like my weird and my quiet. I take sewing classes in my spare time. I see Queenie regularly. I volunteer at the art center and work with other kids who have anxiety and PTSD. I pour my energy into being productive. I try not to think about Kodiak.

But like a true addict, sometimes I relapse.

I don’t text or message. I’m smart enough to know better. But sometimes I creep his social media with the fake account I created. Tonight, I’m restless, missing my old life and the people who used to make me feel safe.

I pull up his profile, and my heart skips a beat. Kodiak is a junior this year, and I’m a freshman. We’d be at the same school again if they hadn’t moved. He’s filled out in the past two years. He’s tall and broad and growing into his body.

Kodiak’s nearly jet-black hair sweeps across his forehead, and his northern-light eyes stare back at me. He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks more annoyed than anything about his picture being taken. He’s sweaty, and the background tells me it’s post-practice of some kind. The caption reads: Missing my boy Mav, and my brother is tagged.