Three hours later, I stand in my lavender kitchen, making dinner. Lancashire hotpot—Reagan’s favorite. She has an evening seminar that should end about now. She has texted me twice to ask how things went but I didn’t want to text her back. What could I possibly say in a text? I stuff the marinated lamb in the braiser and start chopping vegetables. I keep my eyes only on my working hands, unable to look at any other surface that makes this lilac-and-cream apartment my home. Tears threaten again, and I let them fall. What’s the point of stopping them now?
Reagan bursts through the door twenty minutes later. I hear it slam.
“Isa?” She whips around the corner, her vivid red curls flying everywhere. The moment she sees me, her green eyes widen and her lips start to tremble.
“Oh, sweetie, no. No! No! I can’t believe this. They denied it? How? Your GPA, your supplement, you don’t have so much as a parking ticket!” Reagan can’t rush through her words fast enough, as if I am the one who made the decision.
“I know, Reg. But please, let’s talk about something else. None of it matters,” I mumble.
“That’s because they’re all bloody wankers!” she screams, and I can’t help but laugh. She loves all things British and has never ceased to be disappointed with my King’s English as she calls it. I tried to explain that I was raised by Oxford professors who believed slang is to English like sulfur is to natural gas: harmless in small doses but still smelly. But that has never stopped her from hoping that one day, I’ll start speaking like Bridget Jones. What I have never told her is that my very dialect reminds me of my parents and from the minute I boarded that plane to Portland, I have tried to Americanize my speech as much as possible.
Still, to make her smile, I do my best Bridget impersonation. “You’re right. Pervy tossers, they all are!” My voice lacks conviction.
Reagan looks at me with a mixture of worry and pity. I avoid her teary green eyes.
“We’ll find a way.” She stomps her Hunter boot on the floor. “There’s gotta be a way. I’m calling my dad, he’ll figure it out. My family loves you.”
Lucky Reagan, to have a father who can always make things right. Unfortunately, even the kind Mr. Starr cannot battle the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. But I allow her to indulge her fantasy. No reason for both of us to be miserable. She is on her cell phone now, talking at top speed. I try to tune out as much of it as I can. I know my options like I know the periodic table. But try as I might, some words still slip through my shield.
“Yes, unbelievable I know… No, she doesn’t have anyone like that… I don’t know… Yeah, look around, Dad… Just a second, I’ll ask.”
She calls over her shoulder at me. “Isa, do you think you can sell the formula for your supplement for one million?”
Oh yeah, I know this rule too. If I have one million to spare and invest in the American economy, they’ll let me stay. I snort. A way for the rich to buy anything they want.
“No, Reagan, I can’t.” I try to keep dejection from my voice. She is only trying to help and can’t take no for an answer.
Truth be told, I looked into it. If I had another six months to finish the last stage of testing, maybe I could sell it. Fast-digesting proteins with continuous energy release are a good idea, especially for humanitarian aid or the military. But no one will touch it before the testing is finished. Not to mention that this supplement was my father’s dream, and selling it will feel like burying him again, this time alive.
Reagan hangs up, the look of obstinacy still on her face. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”
I simply nod. “Thanks, Reg. And thank your dad too. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”
She darts across our small kitchen and gives me a hug that squeezes the last air from my lungs. I will miss her like Portland misses sunshine. She is right there with Javier in my small family. The sister I never had. I feel a lump in my throat and retreat quickly before I fall to pieces again.
*
After dinner, I huddle in bed in my flannel pajamas. My parents’ photo is on the nightstand. Peter and Clare. It took one year to be able to say their names out loud. If you name something, does it exist? I turn off the light and start reciting the periodic table. Hydrogen, 1.008… Abruptly—with one of his precise moves—Mr. Hale appears in the darkness. I devour his sculpted lips, dark hair, broad shoulders. I pretend he knows the girl in the painting exists. I pretend he can write laws that don’t make it illegal for her to be me. And I pretend that he can stop time. The last image I see is his sapphire eyes. Then the night changes to a shade of turquoise and I am lost.
Chapter Five
Tick Tock
“What did you say?” Professor Denton is staring at me as though I grew horns overnight.
“Yes, they denied the application. There’s really nothing I can do.” My throat constricts. “I’m so sorry, Professor. You’ll have to find a replacement for the summer, but I can help train them as much as you need me to,” I mumble, as if that’s the real problem.