Far From You

23

NOW (JUNE)

The second I get home, I tear open the envelope I’d found hidden in Mina’s room. It’s lumpy in one corner, and I shake out a thumb drive just as Mom walks down the hall. One hand snaps over the drive—it’s shaped like a tiny ­purple Hello Kitty—and the other shoves the envelope into my back pocket.

Mom frowns. “What are you doing standing here in the hall?” she asks.

“Just putting my keys back.” I dig in my purse, dropping the thumb drive in it before coming up with my key chain. I smile at her while I hang it on the wall hook. “Something smells good.”

“I made roast chicken. Come sit down and eat.”

I follow her into the dining room, where Dad’s already waiting. Mom’s used the good china.

The envelope in my pocket crinkles as I walk up to the table. I want to get up to my room, barricade the door, and plug that drive into my laptop.

I have to choke back a sigh as my mother sits down. Why did they have to choose tonight for family togetherness?

I take my place on the left, my mother at one end, my father on the other.

“How did your appointment go?” Mom asks.

“Fine,” I say.

“Do you like Dr. Hughes?” Dad asks. I wonder if they’ve made some prearranged agreement to go back and forth with their questions.

“He’s okay.”

“I realize you’ve never had a male therapist,” Mom says. “If that’s a problem…”

“No,” I reply. “Dr. Hughes is fine. I like him. Really.” I take a bite of roast chicken, chewing it for an unnecessarily long time.

“We should talk about college soon,” Dad says. “Make a list of universities you’re interested in.”

I put my fork down, my appetite lost. I’d hoped to have a few more weeks before we got into this. After all, school doesn’t even start for two more months.

“You’re on track to start senior year in August,” Mom assures me, mistaking the look on my face.

I push my peas across my plate, afraid to swallow anything. There’s a lump in my throat the size of Texas. I don’t have time to think about this. I have to concentrate on finding Mina’s killer.

What’s on that thumb drive?

“And the independent study you completed at Seaside was all very good work; your teachers were impressed,” Mom continues, a rare smile on her face.

“I’m not worried about that,” I begin.

“Is it the applications? We can find some way to explain those months you spent away. And if you center your personal essay around the accident, and overcoming all that you had to just to walk again, I’m sure—”

“You want me to play the gimp card?” I cut in, and she flinches like I’ve slapped her.

“Don’t call yourself that!” she snaps.

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Mom is the one who took the accident the hardest. Dad had driven me to physical therapy and done all the research on my surgeries. He’d carried me up and down the stairs that first month, and when I was still in the hospital, he’d read me a story every night, like I was still in second grade. He got to take care of me all over again just when I was supposed to be taking care of myself. And Dad is good at taking care of people.

Mom is good at fixing things, but she can’t fix me, and she can’t handle that.

“It’s the truth.” The words are harsh, aimed to shatter her ice-queen armor. Make her finally stop longing for the girl I was to return. “I am a gimp. And a junkie. And you think it’s partly my fault Mina got shot, so I guess we should add accidental killer to that list, too. Hey, maybe I can write my personal essay on that.”

She goes red, then white, and then almost purple. I’m fascinated, arrested by her anger as the expression in her eyes melts from concerned to enraged. Even my father puts down his fork and rests his hand on her arm, like he’s wondering if he’s going to need to stop her from lunging at me across the table.

“Sophie Grace, you will show respect in this house,” she finally spits out. “To me, to your father and, most importantly, to yourself.”

I toss my napkin onto my plate. “I’m done.” I push myself up, but my leg shakes and I have to hold on to the table for longer than I’d like. Limping, I make my way out of the dining room. I can feel her watching me, the way her gaze absorbs each uneven step, each moment of clumsiness.

When I get upstairs, I almost drop my bag, I’m in such a hurry to get at the thumb drive. I grab it, flip open my laptop, and plug the drive into the port, tapping my fingers against my desk.

The folder appears on my desktop, and I double-click it, my heart thumping in my ears.

The alert Enter Password flashes on-screen. I type in her birthday first. Next I try Trev’s, then mine, then her dad’s, but no use. I try names of old pets, even the turtle she got when we were in third grade that died the week she brought it home, but nothing works. For over an hour, I type in every word I can think of, but none of them will open the drive.

Frustrated, I get up, passing by my dresser, where I’ve set Mina’s ring next to mine. I pick it up, tilting it, the word winking at me in the lamplight.

I whirl back around, suddenly hopeful, type forever into the dialog box, and press Enter.

Incorrect Password.

Bottled-up anger, twined with the lingering hurt of my mother’s words, floods through me. “Goddammit, Mina,” I mutter. I throw the ring, hard. It bounces off the wall and onto the carpet near my bed.

Almost as soon as it falls, I’m on my knees, wincing at the pain, but scrambling to scoop it up. My hands shake as I slip it on.

They don’t stop until I go over to my dresser and the second ring—mine—joins hers on my thumb.