Then Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out a huge, bulky skeleton key.
Oh.
Well, duh.
I almost facepalm, but then I realize I'm standing in a hall full of students who already think I'm a weirdo and dislike me immensely.
Right.
“See you at seven, Chuck,” Dad says, and then disappears into the room.
Well, then.
I guess I have an alternate plan, don't I?Dad calls me down for dinner that night, and I find myself greeted with a spread worthy of Thanksgiving. We don't eat this nice on my birthday. My brows raise in suspicion, but I take a seat at the table, wondering what the announcement's going to be this time.
The time before last that Dad surprised me with a dinner of all my favorite foods, he told me that he and Mom were getting a divorce. The next time, it was to tell me that Mom was going into rehab.
This time … I can't even imagine.
“What's going on?” I ask as he sits down, his face and mannerisms somber. Archibald Carson unfolds a cloth napkin on his lap (who the hell uses cloth napkins in their own home anyway?), and then pushes his glasses up the long, wide bridge of his nose.
“I've been thinking hard on some things lately.” He sighs dramatically and lifts his blue eyes from his plate to my face. “Namely, that what's best for you is not necessarily what's best for me.”
“O…kay,” I start, narrowing my eyes as I serve myself a piece of tri-tip. Seriously my favorite cut of meat; apparently it used to be called the Santa Maria steak as it was so popular in central California. Guess I’m a California girl through and through, huh? “What the hell does that mean?”
“I want you to understand that none of this your fault,” Dad continues, and I sigh, setting my fork down. This is almost word for word what he said to me the day he told me Mom was leaving. “But I don't feel it's safe for you here.”
“Why?” I ask dryly, leaning back in my chair. “Because of the 'suicide'?” I make little quotes with my fingers as Dad stares me down, slipping from dad-mode to headmaster-mode, just like that.
“Among other things. I've decided to send you back to California.”
My jaw drops open, and my heart cracks in half.
Okay, so maybe I’m not quite as attached to the state as I thought.
“No!” The words explodes from me as I stand up, knocking my fork to the floor, bits of food scattering everywhere. “Why? I already told you that I don't want to go back there. Didn't you hear what I said about Monica and Cody—”
“Please, Charlotte, stop for a moment and listen to me.”
“I don't want to listen. I told you that I want to stay here. Are you doing this on purpose to torture me?” The thought of going back to California now, after getting Spencer back. After … you know, with Spencer. It's too much. And then there are the keys, and Mr. Murphy’s pen, and Eugene, and the mystery Adam sending me notes …
“I'm doing this because I love you,” Dad says, and my cheeks flame. We're not very open with each other, and we rarely hug or use the L-word. I think I'm developing serious intimacy issues. “But, believe it or not, I do also understand what it's like to be a teenager, and I don't want to pressure you into a situation where you'll be miserable.”
“No matter what options you give me, if it involves me leaving Adamson, I will be miserable.” My hands curl into fists on the surface of the table as I stare Dad down. Now it all makes sense, him being nice all week. Figures.
“Your mother is out of rehab and doing well. She even managed to get a job, and an apartment.”
“She's out, and she didn't call me?” I ask, frowning hard. A shard of ice stabs through my heart, but I push the feeling aside. Why should I be surprised about that? My mom and I haven't been close in … well, ever.
“She's been working on getting a life together, so she had something to call you about,” Dad continues, always taking her side. It's beyond frustrating, but at this point, I'm used to it. “I've already spoken with her, and she wants you to move in. You can tour a few schools we’ve picked out, and select the one that seems the best fit.”
My mouth is pursed so tight it hurts, and I'm shaking.
“Or?” I ask, because I can see that I'm being given 'options' here.
“You can move in with your Aunt Elisa, and go back to Santa Cruz High.”
“Great.” I slump back into my chair, closing my eyes against the overwhelming fury and frustration. How ironic is this, getting what I asked for all along, but only when I no longer want it? Life’s a bitch. “Los Angeles with a Mom that doesn't care enough to call, or Santa Cruz with my cheating ex, and the best friend that was sleeping with him. Wonderful options.”
