Bounce by Natasha Friend

bowl.
    â€œEv…”
    Big cloud of quiet.
    He doesn’t know what to say to me. Birdie—my own dad. Never in my life has Birdie not known what to say to me. We have always been able to talk. Even about embarrassing stuff. Bras. Periods. When I got my period for the first time, Birdie was the one who bought me pads. Birdie was the one who tookme out for ice cream to celebrate. My friends couldn’t believe it. “ Your dad took you? You went with your dad? You talk to your dad about periods?” And I remember feeling proud about it. “I can talk to my dad about anything.”
    Now there’s only silence between us. Silence and chicken cordon bleu.
    After a while, Birdie looks at me. “This isn’t about the food,” he says quietly, “is it?”
    I don’t know what to say to that. He’s right. This isn’t about the food.
    I want to say it. I want to say it all out loud, but how can I? Ever since he told us we were moving, he’s been happier than I’ve ever seen him. How do I tell him that I can’t stand the woman he married? That I never asked to be anyone’s stepsister? That what I want more than anything is to go back to Maine, to my old house and my old friends and my old school, where I didn’t have to work so hard to fit in?
    I want to say it, but I don’t want to hurt him. And anyway, what would be the point? It wouldn’t change a thing.
    So I take a bite of pie instead.
    And it’s good. It’s so good I have to spit it back on the plate.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Okay, it’s official. I have been traumatized for life.
    Why, on a Tuesday afternoon, was Eleni home at all? Why—today of all days—did I decide to use the peachy bathroom instead of the one downstairs? Huh? Isn’t my life messed up enough already, without me having to experience what I have just experienced?
    Let us recap.
    I come home from school, needing to pee.
    I toss my backpack on the kitchen table, grab a fistful of grapes from a bowl (starving, after yet another lunch period spent in the bathroom), and sprint up the stairs.
    I throw open the door to the bathroom and…
    Ahhhhggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!
    Flesh.
    â€œOh! Evyn, honey. We didn’t know you were—”
    Wet, steaming pink flesh.
    â€œâ€”home…”
    And hair. Oh, the hair.
    Achhhhhhh. A grape lodges itself in my throat, from the horror of it all.
    â€œEv?” His voice.
    â€œHoney? Are you okay? Are you choking?” Her voice.
    Achhhhhhh!
    And then.
    Are you ready for this?
    It’s not Birdie who leaves the shower and comes to my rescue, it’s her. She leaps out of the shower. Leaps, like a superhero. “I know the Heimlich!”
    And does she have the decency to throw on a towel? No.
    Warm, moist arms grabbing me from behind.
    â€œDon’t worry, honey!”
    Boobs, mushing into my shoulder blades. Fists, jamming into my rib cage.
    â€œI’ve done this before!”
    Jam! Jam! Jam!
    Out flies the grape. It hits the edge of the sink and ricochets onto the floor, right next to my foot.
    â€œOh, thank God.”
    She hugs me. Full frontal, my stepmother hugs me.
    â€œThank God you’re all right.”
    I. Am not. All right.
    Jules can’t stop laughing.
    â€œThank you,” I tell her. “Thank you so much for finding my life hilarious.”
    â€œI’m (hahahaha) sorry. It’s just (hahahahaha). Oh my God! HAHAHAHAHA! Your stepmother…gave you the nude…”
    â€œYes. We’ve established that.”
    I don’t know why I called Jules. Well, yes I do. Jules is mybest friend. When a person is having a tough time, and her only legitimate parent has taken on an entirely new personality, who does she turn to? Her best friend. Only lately, it’s been harder and harder to find Jules when I need her. Today, when I called her house, her mom said she wasn’t home. She was at Jessie Kapler’s