Escape Velocity by Robin Stevenson Page A

strain.
    â€œMom?”
    â€œI’m having a bath,” she calls out.
    I head to the kitchen, pop a slice of bread in the toaster, and think about that blue file folder. There’s an open bottle of wine on the counter, and I can hear soft piano music playing in the bathroom, so I’m guessing Zoe will be in there for a little while—but I’m nervous. Not about her catching me snooping but about what I might find. What if she’s written something about how unlikable I am? I can’t help remembering the last time I snooped and overheard that phone call. And it’s pretty obvious that nothing has changed. She still doesn’t want me around.
    Moving quickly because I don’t know how much time I have, I unlock the filing cabinet and slide out the file folder with my name on it. I lay it on her desk and open it. A photocopy of my birth certificate. And nothing else.
    I guess I should have expected that.
    I return the folder to the drawer and am about to close it when something else catches my eye. Right at the back of the drawer, out of alphabetical order and out of the blue/ gray color scheme, is a slim beige folder labeled Personal .
    Jackpot.
    I am too nervous to look at it right now. Zoe could walk out of the bathroom and into the living room at any minute. But if I put the file away, I don’t know when I’ll next have a chance to look. What if Zoe moves the key? She looked suspicious when she saw me at her desk earlier. I can’t risk it. Not when I am so close to finding some answers.
    I grab the file, close the drawer silently, lock it, replace the key and head to my bedroom, clutching the file to my chest. I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My breath comes out in a long whoosh .
    I open the folder and quickly flip through the pages inside it. It’s a crazy mish-mash of stuff. Handwritten letters that will take ages to decipher, some photographs, newspaper clippings…nothing obvious, but I feel sure there are some answers hidden in here. I hear the water start to drain from the bathtub, so I hide the file safely under my mattress.
    I’ll look at it tonight, after Zoe thinks I’m asleep.

    I’m sitting on the couch reading a magazine by the time Zoe emerges in a fleecy white bathrobe, her hair wet and freshly combed. She smells like roses.
    â€œDid you get something to eat?” she asks, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
    â€œJust making some toast,” I say.
    She follows me into the kitchen, and I take the now-cold toast out of the toaster. “You have peanut butter?”
    She hands me a jar from the cupboard. “Lou. Why didn’t you tell me that your father was having surgery today? I think I have a right to know what is going on.”
    Because it was none of your business. Because you don’t tell me anything . I twist the lid of the jar open and look around for a knife. Where does she keep the cutlery? I open the wrong drawer and stare down at piles of neatly folded matching placemats and napkins. The anger inside me is a cold hard knot, slowly tightening. “You know, Dad and I don’t even own placemats.” I glance up at her and for a minute, I think I hate her. “But you don’t really know anything about us, do you?”
    â€œLou. That isn’t fair.”
    I stare at her. “Not fair ? Are you serious?”
    â€œOpen-heart surgery is a little more significant than whether or not your father uses placemats.”
    â€œI was just trying to make a point.”
    â€œAnd what was your point exactly?”
    â€œThat you have never been particularly interested in us.” I wish I hadn’t started this conversation.
    â€œFine. Be like that if you want to. But for future reference, if your father is having major surgery, I do expect to be told.”
    I want to ask if she’s worried she’ll be stuck with me if Dad dies, but the words