What's Left of Me by Kat Zhang Page B

button-down man said.
    Addie managed to nod. Our eyes kept shifting from Mr. Conivent to Dad, Dad to Mr. Conivent. Both men towered over our chair. Stand , I thought, but I couldn’t manage to say it.
    Dad shifted. “He says—he says you’ve been hanging out with Hally Mullan a lot.”
    “Not . . . not a lot,” Addie said.
    “I’m sure this Hally talked with plenty of girls,” Dad said, his voice tight. “Are you going to each of them one by one?”
    His anger comforted and frightened us all at once. Did it mean he would fight for us? Keep that man from taking us away? Or was he angry because he already knew he had no choice?
    Mr. Conivent ignored Dad’s question. His eyes stayed intent on ours, a smooth, slick smile on his lips. “What exactly have you been doing at Hally’s house, Addie?”
    Addie tried to swallow and couldn’t. Our mouth opened, but our voice had gone, as if someone had reached down our throat and tangled our vocal cords.
    “Addie?” Mr. Conivent said.
     I said. It was the only thing I could think of. It was what we’d been telling our parents.
    “Homework,” Addie said.
    Mr. Conivent laughed. He was all sleek confidence and aplomb, a summer day compared to the oncoming thunderstorm that was our father next to him.
    “I won’t drag things on,” he said, and held up a manila folder. I hadn’t even noticed it in his hand. “These are Addie’s medical and school files. Your daughter had . . . problems settling as a child, am I right?”
    Mom stepped forward, her knuckles shining white against her black slacks. “How—you can’t have access to those.”
    “In cases like this, we do get a little special authority,” Mr. Conivent said.
    He opened the file. The top sheet was a black-and-white copy of what looked like our elementary school report card. He shuffled that aside, flipping through the pages until he found a sheet full of charts and figures. “She didn’t fully settle until she was twelve. That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?” His eyes passed from Mom to Dad. “Very unusual, I’d say. Only three years ago.”
    Again, silence.
    Mom’s voice broke the stillness. “What do you want?” Her voice made me hurt, made me want to reach out and grab her hand—squeeze until we were both numb.
    “Just to do some tests.”
    “Tests for what?” Dad said.
    Mr. Conivent’s stare kept us fixed in our seat; his smile kept us dumb and disbelieving. “To see if Eva’s still there.”
    My name slammed into the room like a hurricane, rocking the chairs, rattling the silverware. Or maybe it just felt that way to me. I’d gotten used to Hally and Lissa saying it. Ryan and Devon saying it. But this—this was a strange man. And our parents . . .
    “Eva?” Mom said. The word crawled from her lips, frightened and blinking at the harsh light.
    Yes. Eva, I thought. The name you gave me, Mom. The name you never, ever say anymore.
    Dad’s hand crushed the back of our chair. “Addie’s settled. She settled a little late, but she’s settled.” Neither of our parents looked at us.
    But Mr. Conivent did. “That’s what we’d like to verify,” he said. “We fear the process never quite finished—that there might have been an oversight when she was younger. There have been great improvements in technology over the past three years. Astounding, really. And I truly believe everyone would benefit from a few more tests.” He looked at Dad, then Mom. He smiled and said pleasantly, “I’m afraid, you see, that your daughter might have been lying to you all this time.”
    
    “That’s not true,” Addie said, the words tumbling from our lips. “That’s not—that’s not true.”
    Mr. Conivent spoke over us without even raising his voice. “Your daughter might be a very sick child, Mr. Tamsyn—Mrs. Tamsyn. You have to understand the consequences inaction now could have on her life. On all your lives.” Neither of our parents said