JULY 15
Nick
“Skinny-dipping, Nicole?”
There are many words in the English language that you never want to hear your father say. Enema. Orgasm. Disappointed.
Skinny-dipping ranks high on the list, especially when you’ve just been dragged out of the police station at three in the morning wearing police-issue pants and a sweatshirt that likely belonged to some homeless person or suspected serial killer, because your clothing, bag, ID, and cash were stolen from the side of a public pool.
“It was a joke,” I say, which is stupid; there’s nothing funny about getting arrested, almost ass-naked, in the middle of the night when you’re supposed to be asleep.
The headlights divide the highway into patches of light and dark. I’m glad, at least, that I can’t see my dad’s face.
“What were you thinking? I would never have expected this. Not from you. And that boy, Mike—”
“Mark.”
“Whatever his name was. How old is he?”
I stay quiet on that. Twenty is the answer, but I know better than to say it. Dad’s just looking for someone to blame. Let him think that I was forced into it, that some bad-influence guy made me hop the fence at Carren Park and strip down to my underwear, made me take a big belly flop into a deep end so cold it shocked the breath right out of my body so I came up laughing, gulping air, thinking of Dara, thinking she should have been with me, that she would understand.
I imagine a huge boulder rising up out of the dark, an accordion-wall of solid stone, and have to shut my eyes and reopen them. Nothing but highway, long and smooth, and the twin funnels of the headlights.
“Listen, Nick,” Dad says. “Your mom and I are worried about you.”
“I didn’t think you and Mom were talking,” I say, rolling down the window a few inches, both because the air-conditioning is barely sputtering out cold air and because the rush of the wind helps drown out Dad’s voice.
He ignores that. “I’m serious. Ever since the accident—”
“Please,” I say quickly, before he can finish. “Don’t.”
Dad sighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses. He smells a little bit like the menthol strips he puts on his nose at night to keep him from snoring, and he’s still wearing the baggy pajama pants he’s had forever, the ones with reindeers on them. And just for a second, I feel really, truly terrible.
Then I remember Dad’s new girlfriend and Mom’s silent, taut look, like a dummy with her strings pulled way too tight.
“You’re going to have to talk about it, Nick,” Dad says. This time his voice is quiet, concerned. “If not with me, then with Dr. Lichme. Or Aunt Jackie. Or someone.”
“No,” I say, unrolling the window all the way, so the wind is thunderous and whips away the sound of my voice. “I don’t.”
JANUARY 7
Dara’s Diary Entry
Dr. Lick Me—I’m sorry, Lichme—says I should spend five minutes a day writing about my feelings.
So here I go:
I hate Parker.
I hate Parker.
I hate Parker.
I hate Parker.
I hate Parker.
I feel better already!
It’s been five days since THE KISS and today in school he didn’t even breathe in my direction. Like he was worried I would contaminate his oxygen circle or something.
Mom and Dad are on the shit list this week, too. Dad because he’s acting all serious and somber about the divorce, when inside you know he’s just turning backflips and cartwheels. I mean, if he doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t have to, right? And Mom because she doesn’t even stand up for herself, and didn’t cry once about Paw-Paw, either, not even at the funeral. She just keeps going through the motions and heading to SoulCycle and researching goddamn quinoa recipes as if she can keep the whole world together just by getting enough fiber. Like she’s some weird animatronic robot wearing yoga pants and a Vassar sweatshirt.
Nick is like that too. It drives me crazy. She didn’t used to be, I don’t think. Maybe I just don’t remember. But ever since she started high school, she’s always doling out advice like she’s forty-five and not exactly eleven months and three days older than I am.
I remember last month, when Mom and Dad sat down to tell us about the divorce, she didn’t even blink. “Okay,” she said.
Oh-fucking-kay. Really?
Paw-Paw’s dead and Mom and Dad hate each other and Nick looks at me like I’m an alien half the time.
Listen, Dr. Lick Me, here’s all I have to say: It’s not okay.
Nothing is.