pass on eating anything at all.
How am I going to deal with this? What single thing can I think about that doesn’t have some Garrett-related story attached? In the end, I fold myself into lotus position on the back porch and try to just think about nothing at all. Meditation. Clearing my mind. Focusing on calm breathing and the delicate slant of light through the railings rather than other, less important things. Like, say, the message I left unread upstairs, and whether my Internet service has it saved in an emergency file somewhere… .
“Do you want some pancakes, honey?” Mom calls from inside.
“No, I’m fine!” I yell back.
Think calming thoughts, Sadie. Calming, non-Garrett thoughts …
“Are you sure?” She comes outside, lingering in the doorway. “Have you eaten anything yet? Because coffee has zero nutritional value, and you know that breakfast is —”
“The most important meal of the day,” I finish, sighing. So much for an uninterrupted calm. “Yes, I know.”
“Maybe something else then,” she tries again, giving me that head-to-toe look that I just know means she’s assessing my height-to-weight ratio and comparing it with whatever charts she has pinned up in the Sadie’s Developmental Progress corner. “I could do some French toast. You always like —”
“I told you, I’m not hungry!” I snap.
She blinks.
I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I add, “I’m just … cranky this morning.”
“Clearly.”
“It’s nothing.” I wave away her concern. “And yes, I’ll have some pancakes. Thank you.”
“OK, batter’s in the fridge. I’ll be at the conference until five, but you can use the car. Oh, and your father called.” She tries to keep her voice even, but I can hear the usual disapproving tone slip through the moment she mentions Dad.
“What about?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, nothing urgent. He said you weren’t picking up your cell.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m keeping it on silent at the moment. Too much distraction,” I quickly explain. “I read an article about teens and ADD.”
“Is that what you were talking about last night?” She looks impressed. “Technology detox. What an excellent thought. I might add that to my course.” She kisses me on the forehead, then goes back inside, already whipping out her cell phone to record a note to herself, completely unaware of the irony.
I wait until she’s inside before retrieving my own phone. I’ve kept it on silent as a defense against Garrett, but I guess I need a tactic that doesn’t cut off everyone else from my life, too.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Pumpkin!”
Yes, I’m seventeen years old. No, he won’t stop calling me that.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Everything OK?”
“Hold on a sec, will you?”
I wait. There’s music in the background, the familiar jagged edges of a jam session, but it recedes as Dad leaves the room. There’s a click, and then he comes on again, clearer this time.
“So how are you doing? How’s summer shaping up? You written that magnum opus yet?”
“Not yet.” I laugh. “Summer’s … OK, I guess. I got a job at the café, which is fun.”
“I used to make a mean cup of joe myself, back in the day.”
Dad lives in D.C. — when he’s in one place for long, that is. He plays the saxophone — not just for kicks or like those guys playing for money on the subway but as an actual career. He does session music for singers, his band gets booked all over, and they even have a CD that was nominated for a Grammy way back when. Sure, it was for Best Zydeco/Cajun Album, and they didn’t get invited to the big main ceremony with Beyoncé and everybody, but it still counts.
“Did you get my e-mail?” he asks. “I sent you this great link to a dog playing piano.”
“No, I’m just … trying to stay off-line.” I sigh. “Not so much e-mail and Internet, that kind of thing. But it’s hard. I keep wanting to check my phone, it’s like a compulsion or
How am I going to deal with this? What single thing can I think about that doesn’t have some Garrett-related story attached? In the end, I fold myself into lotus position on the back porch and try to just think about nothing at all. Meditation. Clearing my mind. Focusing on calm breathing and the delicate slant of light through the railings rather than other, less important things. Like, say, the message I left unread upstairs, and whether my Internet service has it saved in an emergency file somewhere… .
“Do you want some pancakes, honey?” Mom calls from inside.
“No, I’m fine!” I yell back.
Think calming thoughts, Sadie. Calming, non-Garrett thoughts …
“Are you sure?” She comes outside, lingering in the doorway. “Have you eaten anything yet? Because coffee has zero nutritional value, and you know that breakfast is —”
“The most important meal of the day,” I finish, sighing. So much for an uninterrupted calm. “Yes, I know.”
“Maybe something else then,” she tries again, giving me that head-to-toe look that I just know means she’s assessing my height-to-weight ratio and comparing it with whatever charts she has pinned up in the Sadie’s Developmental Progress corner. “I could do some French toast. You always like —”
“I told you, I’m not hungry!” I snap.
She blinks.
I catch my breath. “Sorry,” I add, “I’m just … cranky this morning.”
“Clearly.”
“It’s nothing.” I wave away her concern. “And yes, I’ll have some pancakes. Thank you.”
“OK, batter’s in the fridge. I’ll be at the conference until five, but you can use the car. Oh, and your father called.” She tries to keep her voice even, but I can hear the usual disapproving tone slip through the moment she mentions Dad.
“What about?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, nothing urgent. He said you weren’t picking up your cell.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m keeping it on silent at the moment. Too much distraction,” I quickly explain. “I read an article about teens and ADD.”
“Is that what you were talking about last night?” She looks impressed. “Technology detox. What an excellent thought. I might add that to my course.” She kisses me on the forehead, then goes back inside, already whipping out her cell phone to record a note to herself, completely unaware of the irony.
I wait until she’s inside before retrieving my own phone. I’ve kept it on silent as a defense against Garrett, but I guess I need a tactic that doesn’t cut off everyone else from my life, too.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Pumpkin!”
Yes, I’m seventeen years old. No, he won’t stop calling me that.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Everything OK?”
“Hold on a sec, will you?”
I wait. There’s music in the background, the familiar jagged edges of a jam session, but it recedes as Dad leaves the room. There’s a click, and then he comes on again, clearer this time.
“So how are you doing? How’s summer shaping up? You written that magnum opus yet?”
“Not yet.” I laugh. “Summer’s … OK, I guess. I got a job at the café, which is fun.”
“I used to make a mean cup of joe myself, back in the day.”
Dad lives in D.C. — when he’s in one place for long, that is. He plays the saxophone — not just for kicks or like those guys playing for money on the subway but as an actual career. He does session music for singers, his band gets booked all over, and they even have a CD that was nominated for a Grammy way back when. Sure, it was for Best Zydeco/Cajun Album, and they didn’t get invited to the big main ceremony with Beyoncé and everybody, but it still counts.
“Did you get my e-mail?” he asks. “I sent you this great link to a dog playing piano.”
“No, I’m just … trying to stay off-line.” I sigh. “Not so much e-mail and Internet, that kind of thing. But it’s hard. I keep wanting to check my phone, it’s like a compulsion or
Similar Books
