“So, what, I couldn’t walk with you guys too?”

“You could … if you wanted. I didn’t figure you’d wanna walk with a bunch of guys.” He scuffs his toe along the gravelly street.

“So you figured I’d rather walk alone?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You sure it wasn’t ’cause you didn’t want me around?” My voice is very small, and now it’s me who’s staring at my feet.

“No … but, the guys, you know? They like it to be just us guys sometimes.”

“What about you?”

“Aw, you know I don’t mind you. It’s the guys …” His voice trails off. “You wanna ride our bikes over to the creek?”

“Yeah.”

We stay at the creek till dark. Just like old times, when we were little kids. And I want to stay here forever, just like this, because I know he won’t be picking me up tomorrow morning, or the morning after that.

Chapter 13

To my dismay, Jack is standing by my locker again the next morning. He’s leaning up against it like he owns it. Shoving him aside, I say, “Look, you can forget about our bet. I’m sick of seeing your face already.”

He scowls at me. “You’ve got a face like the Elephant Man, but you don’t hear me complaining. That’s because I’m a man of my word.”

“You? A man? Ha!” I open my locker and put my social studies books inside. “I’m releasing you from your word, okay?”

Jack shrugs. “Fine by me.”

As he walks away, I’m left thinking, Who’s the Elephant Man? What does this Elephant Man look like? And more important, how does Jack know who he is and how do I not know? Thoughts like those can drive a girl near crazy. Whoever the Elephant Man is, it doesn’t sound good.

In computer class I look up “Elephant Man” and right away, I wish I didn’t.

Chapter 14

Teachers have always loved me. I am most comfortable when I am the favorite, the pet. I’m good at it. It’s what I do. I have never had a teacher dislike me. Until now. Ms. Gillybush more than dislikes me. She hates me.

Ms. Gillybush sits at her desk, tall, straight, and imposing. Her hair is dark but graying, and her eyes are like lead. I could not tell you what color they are; I can only say that they are hard. I am not sure when she decided to hate me, but hate me she does. Her voice is clipped and harsh when she speaks to me, not warm and familiar the way she is with Kara Jane Simpson. (“Kara Jane, why don’t you pass out the workbooks, honey.”) Kara Jane Simpson and her shiny brown bob with her stupid red headband. It is clear that Kara Jane is Ms. Gillybush’s chosen one, and I, Annemarie Wilcox, am the one she has chosen to hate.

I can hardly bear it. At first I tried to be at my most Annemarie Wilcox, Star Student. I raised my hand for every question, laughed heartily at the few jokes she made, shushed the other kids when they were too loud. All for nothing. Every time I said a word, her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. I have no idea what I did to offend her, but I sure wish I could undo it.

In class today I raised my hand, and Ms. Gillybush said, “I think we’ve heard enough from Annemarie for one day. Don’t y’all think so, class? Let’s let someone else have a chance to answer, hmm, Annemarie?”

The class tittered. My face must have been bloodred. I wasn’t just embarrassed, I was mad. What gave her the right to treat me like that? What’d I ever do to her?

The whole rest of the day, it’s all I can think about. Even now, on the bus ride home, I seethe with anger. “I mean, what gives her the right, Elaine?”

“She’s a total cow. Don’t let her get to you,” Elaine advises. I’ve been talking about Ms. Gillybush since lunchtime, and Elaine is holding up pretty well. By this point, most people would have said just get over it already. Mark wouldn’t even have made it through a whole lunch period. Not Elaine, she nods sympathetically and says the sort of things a best friend should say. Things like, “what a witch” and “she’s completely insane.”

“I tell you, she has it in for me,” I gripe, staring out the window.

“Forget her. She’s not even worth it.”

“Easy for you to say, you’ve got Mr. Brandt for English. He’s cool.”

“Yeah, he is cool. Kinda cute, too.” She giggles.

“Elaine, that’s gross! He’s old!”

“He’s not old. He’s like twenty-eight. My cousin Eugene is twenty-six, and we’re totally on the same level. So age really doesn’t mean anything. Anyway, it’s not like I would do anything about it. I just think he’s kinda cute.”

“What about Hugh?”

“I think he might like me.”

“Duh. Do you like him?”

Elaine shrugs. “I don’t know. I’d go out with him, though.”

“Hadley Smith’ll wet her pants.”

The thought leaves a smile on my face the whole ride home.

When we get off the bus, Mark walks with Tommy Malone and they don’t wait for me. I walk extra slow so I can pretend that I’m taking my time on purpose, so it doesn’t look like I’m trailing after them. Which I am, but it’s not like I can help it, seeing as how we’re all walking in the same direction.

Chapter 15

I’m in my room doing math homework when I hear the car pull into the driveway. I keep working on problem number thirteen until I hear Mama call, “Girls, your daddy’s home.”

Daddy is the district manager of a sales company. There’s an office about thirty miles north of Clementon, but the main office is in Atlanta. He used to have to travel all over, but now that he’s district manager, on his way up to becoming regional manager, he’s mostly in Atlanta. But sometimes South Carolina, Alabama, Tennessee, and Florida, if he’s lucky. I don’t know what Daddy sells exactly, but he sells a whole lot of something lately because these days, he’s hardly ever home.

When we were little and Daddy came home, it felt like Christmas. He would stand at the foot of the stairwell and bellow, “Where are my girls?” And Celia and I would come running just as fast as we could. We ran so fast the house would shake. And he would take each of us under an arm and throw us around until we were dizzy. Mama would say, “Be careful, Billy!” and we’d just laugh and laugh. Then Daddy’d pretend he’d forgotten to bring us presents, and we’d have to rifle through his suitcase until we found what we were looking for. Perfume for Celia, maybe a yo-yo for me. Hotel soap and a shower cap, if he hadn’t had time to buy anything. It’s not like that anymore. He still brings presents, but it doesn’t really feel like Christmas.

When Daddy is home, we make more of an effort to be “a real family.” It’s like, Daddy’s home, let’s pretend like we are the family we should be. Let’s go to church on Sunday; let’s go to the diner for dessert; let’s go to the movies and buy popcorn with extra butter. When we’re all together nobody mentions how Daddy’s away more than he is home, or how the gaps in between are getting bigger and bigger. A lot of the time, the Wilcox family feels like make-believe.

Celia never wants to go anywhere with us anyhow. She’s too busy running around town with her way-cool friends. She’d rather be with them than us, not that I really blame her.

But I do miss her.

I head downstairs to say hello to Daddy, and Celia doesn’t even bother to come out of her room. Mama’s cooked a real supper—steak and cauliflower and bread pudding. She’s turning the steaks and Daddy’s already at the table. As soon as he sees me, Daddy stands up and I launch myself into his arms. My daddy is a handsome man, built strong and lean; his hair is dark blond and his eyes are chocolaty brown. He smells the way he always does, like tobacco and spearmint chewing gum.

“Hey, peanut. How much did you miss me?”

“Tons. What’d you bring me?” Getting excited about Daddy’s presents is just for show now. I’m too old to go bananas over a light-up yo-yo or a box of saltwater taffy. But I know he likes giving the presents more than I like receiving them, so I keep up the game.

Daddy laughs. “Wait till after dinner. Where’s your sister?”

My whole life that’s all my father ever says to me. Where’s your sister?

When dinner’s ready, Celia finally comes downstairs. She’s wearing her nubby yellow bathrobe, and half of her hair is curled. The other half is in a denim scrunchie. If only the football team could see her now.

The four of us sit at the kitchen table, and Daddy asks Celia and me how our first week of school was. Celia says fine. She barely even looks at him when she says it. The corners of Daddy’s mouth turn down, and for a moment no one says anything.

Then I say, “Junior high’s all right, but my English teacher hates me.”

Daddy raises his eyebrows. “You? Impossible. What’s her name, Shug?”

“Ms. Gillybush.”

He stops cutting his steak. “Anita Gillybush?”

“I guess so. Yeah, that’s her. Why? You know her?”

Daddy laughs. “Yeah, your mama and I went to high school with her. Imagine that. Did you know about this, Gracie?”

Mama shakes her head. “No. I don’t even remember her.”

“Oh, come on. She was the year below us.”

“I honestly don’t remember, Billy.”

“Actually, I’m not surprised.” Grinning, Daddy turns to Celia and me. “Girls, your mama was the most popular girl in school. She didn’t have time for the little people. Girls like Anita didn’t cut the mustard with your mama. Not cool enough, no sir. Heck, I’m lucky she ever looked at me.” We’ve heard him say this a million times over.

Swatting at Daddy with her napkin, Mama says, “Don’t believe a word your father says.”

She’s eating it up, every word. No wonder Ms. Gillybush doesn’t like me. Once upon a time, Mama must’ve been snotty to her. Way to go, Mama. Talk about the sins of the father.

Then Daddy asks Celia which boy is in love with her this week. He doesn’t ask me of course.

Buttering a biscuit, I say, “Daddy, Celia’s a lesbian now. Didn’t you know?”

Daddy chokes on his iced tea. “My baby girl a lesbian?”

“Billy, she’s pullin’ your chain. Celia’s no lesbian.” Mama shakes her head and laughs.

“Mama’s right. I’m not a lesbian. I’m just bi.” With that, Celia gets up and puts her plate of half-eaten food in the sink. “Thanks for dinner, Mama. I’m goin’ over to Margaret’s.”

Mama raises her eyebrows. “Your daddy’s just come home. Don’t you think you should spend some time with the family? We could all go see a movie. Or we could go to the diner for ice cream.”

“I have a life, Mama. Daddy doesn’t expect me to change my whole life around just ’cause he’s in town. Right, Daddy?” Celia smiles her angel smile.

Daddy falls for it every time. “Of course not, princess. You go have fun at Miss Margaret’s. Tell her your old man says hey.” He winks at her.

Celia gives him a kiss on the cheek and runs off, her one ponytail bouncing.

As soon as she’s gone, Daddy turns to Mama and me. “Now what’s this about being bi? What’s this bi talk?” His forehead creases like a walnut. “Is Margaret her—her girlfriend?”

Mama and I look at each other and laugh our heads off.

Daddy used to tuck me in at night. He’d get the covers nice and tight and say, “Snug as a bug in a rug?” and then he’d hug me, kiss me on each cheek. It was nice. Now he doesn’t come too close.

I’m reading a book in bed, and he stands in the doorway. “Is that your homework, Shug?”

“Nah, it’s just for fun.” I put the book down, hoping he’ll come in and ask me what it’s all about, the way he used to. “What’s this one all about,” he’d say, thumbing through the pages. I’d screech, “Give it back, you’ll lose my page!” But I didn’t really mind. I liked telling him about my books. My daddy’s not much of a reader.

Daddy just nods. “Don’t stay up too late,” he says, closing the door.

I never felt as safe as I did when he would tuck me in at night.

Chapter 16

The first night is always good. There’s good food and good talk; they make each other laugh. They smile at each other, secret little smiles over the dinner table. They’ve forgotten grievances for the time being; they’re just enjoying each other’s company. On the first night, I can relax. Daddy’s remembering all over again how pretty Mama is, how clever. And the only time Mama really seems alive is when he’s looking at her. She tells fantastical stories about whatever happened at the nursing home while Daddy was gone. My mama knows how to tell a good story. Old Mr. Schuman and his trumpet or Mrs. Kirkpatrick and her sparkly red dress. I’ve heard all her stories before, but I still lean forward and listen like it’s the first time. When I go to bed, I’m full on steak and stories.

And the second night’s okay. I can count on the second night being okay.

It’s the third night that’s the problem.

They sit at opposite sides of the den—Mama on the far end of the couch, reading a book with a glass of red wine, Daddy in his easy chair watching TV with a beer. Each pretending the other doesn’t exist. Maybe not even so much pretending. So what’s the point of sitting in the same room? It’s not to be near each other, I know that much. At no point does Mama look up from her book and wiggle her nose at Daddy, and he certainly doesn’t take his eyes off the TV screen to wink at Mama.