handle a situation: she hid. She stayed out of the living room, my fortress, and only ventured into the kitchen when she knew I wasn’t there. I hardly saw her at all those first two weeks, but after I had a particularly bad time with the Gravedigger, Charlie stood on the other side of the doorway,out of sight, and played me songs on her violin. Usually the 1812 Overture .
The third week turned out to be the best of the three. That Sunday, Dad came home.
Rain thundered against the windows. I sat barricaded in my pillow fort, leaning against the couch, wondering about the contents of those eighteen-and-a-half lost minutes of the Nixon White House tapes, when rain-rippled headlights roamed across the far wall and gravel crunched as a car pulled into the driveway. Maybe my mother had left without me knowing and was just getting back. But she wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. She wouldn’t.
A car door shut. Someone pulled open the screen door.
“DADDY’S HOME!” Charlie screamed from the kitchen.
I peeked out of my fort. My mother stood right in the doorway, Charlie’s fringe of red hair visible behind her.
And then a completely soaked, suntanned someone leaned around the doorframe. He grinned when he saw me, his warm dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Hey, Lexi.”
I almost cracked my head open on the coffee table in my rush to get out of the fort. With my blanket still wrapped around me like a cloak, I threw my arms around his neck and hid my face in his collar.
“Hi, Dad,” I mumbled.
He laughed and hugged me back. “Lex, I’m all wet.”
“I don’t care.” It sounded more like mfffmmph .
“I came back as soon as I could,” he said when I let him go. “Did you know? South Africa is really far away.”
Chapter Eighteen
I dismantled the pillow fort enough to make the couch sit-able again. Dad and I watched the History Channel and played chess all day, and in the evening, my mother and Charlie joined us. Charlie played behind the life-size George Washington statue in the corner, reenacting the crossing of the Delaware.
When it was just me and Dad, he’d ask about school and what I’d been doing while he’d been gone. He carefully maneuvered around the word “friends,” something I thanked him for. But I did reassure him.
“They’re my friends. I mean, really, they are. Or were . . . I hope they’re still my friends, if they know . . .”
“If they’re really your friends, they won’t care about your condition, Lexi.” Dad hugged me closer to his side. Hesmelled like rain. “Tell me about them.”
So I told him about the club. About the triplets. About Art and the fact that even though he could kill a small man with a poke to the chest, he still acted like a complete teddy bear. About Jetta and her French heritage. About Tucker and his conspiracies. I smiled more than I had for the past two weeks.
“Who’s the kid who brought you home?” Dad asked suddenly, throwing me off kilter. “The one you punched?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Mom told me,” he said, smiling. “Punching? Is that how you wrangle boys these days?” He nudged me in the side. I swatted his elbow away and pulled my blanket tighter, trying to hide the blush in my cheeks. “Wrangling” boys hadn’t been on my agenda lately.
“It’s just Miles.”
“ Just Miles?”
I ignored him. “He runs the club.”
“What, that’s it? Nothing else?”
“Uh, what do you want to know? He’s the valedictorian. He’s really tall.”
Dad made an approving sound at the word valedictorian .
“He knew who Acamapichtli was,” I added after a second. “Along with most of the other Aztec emperors. And the Tlatocan.”
Dad’s approving noise rose an octave.
“And I’m pretty sure he can speak German.”
Dad smiled. “That all?”
My face heated up again at the look he gave me. As if I liked Miles. As if I wanted to think about him.
Just thinking about his stupid face and his stupidly
The third week turned out to be the best of the three. That Sunday, Dad came home.
Rain thundered against the windows. I sat barricaded in my pillow fort, leaning against the couch, wondering about the contents of those eighteen-and-a-half lost minutes of the Nixon White House tapes, when rain-rippled headlights roamed across the far wall and gravel crunched as a car pulled into the driveway. Maybe my mother had left without me knowing and was just getting back. But she wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. She wouldn’t.
A car door shut. Someone pulled open the screen door.
“DADDY’S HOME!” Charlie screamed from the kitchen.
I peeked out of my fort. My mother stood right in the doorway, Charlie’s fringe of red hair visible behind her.
And then a completely soaked, suntanned someone leaned around the doorframe. He grinned when he saw me, his warm dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Hey, Lexi.”
I almost cracked my head open on the coffee table in my rush to get out of the fort. With my blanket still wrapped around me like a cloak, I threw my arms around his neck and hid my face in his collar.
“Hi, Dad,” I mumbled.
He laughed and hugged me back. “Lex, I’m all wet.”
“I don’t care.” It sounded more like mfffmmph .
“I came back as soon as I could,” he said when I let him go. “Did you know? South Africa is really far away.”
Chapter Eighteen
I dismantled the pillow fort enough to make the couch sit-able again. Dad and I watched the History Channel and played chess all day, and in the evening, my mother and Charlie joined us. Charlie played behind the life-size George Washington statue in the corner, reenacting the crossing of the Delaware.
When it was just me and Dad, he’d ask about school and what I’d been doing while he’d been gone. He carefully maneuvered around the word “friends,” something I thanked him for. But I did reassure him.
“They’re my friends. I mean, really, they are. Or were . . . I hope they’re still my friends, if they know . . .”
“If they’re really your friends, they won’t care about your condition, Lexi.” Dad hugged me closer to his side. Hesmelled like rain. “Tell me about them.”
So I told him about the club. About the triplets. About Art and the fact that even though he could kill a small man with a poke to the chest, he still acted like a complete teddy bear. About Jetta and her French heritage. About Tucker and his conspiracies. I smiled more than I had for the past two weeks.
“Who’s the kid who brought you home?” Dad asked suddenly, throwing me off kilter. “The one you punched?”
“How’d you know about that?”
“Mom told me,” he said, smiling. “Punching? Is that how you wrangle boys these days?” He nudged me in the side. I swatted his elbow away and pulled my blanket tighter, trying to hide the blush in my cheeks. “Wrangling” boys hadn’t been on my agenda lately.
“It’s just Miles.”
“ Just Miles?”
I ignored him. “He runs the club.”
“What, that’s it? Nothing else?”
“Uh, what do you want to know? He’s the valedictorian. He’s really tall.”
Dad made an approving sound at the word valedictorian .
“He knew who Acamapichtli was,” I added after a second. “Along with most of the other Aztec emperors. And the Tlatocan.”
Dad’s approving noise rose an octave.
“And I’m pretty sure he can speak German.”
Dad smiled. “That all?”
My face heated up again at the look he gave me. As if I liked Miles. As if I wanted to think about him.
Just thinking about his stupid face and his stupidly
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