“Sure. Lattimer will send in Cleavers now?” I asked, trying to match her enthusiasm. The whole world sounded better; the Simon we’d seen had been stable. Cleaving him seemed unfair. Cruel. And I’d played a part in it.
“Don’t worry,” she said, mistaking the source of my unhappiness. “You’ll be cleaving soon enough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Choices requiring significant effort on the part of the subject create stronger Echoes than those maintaining the status quo.
—Chapter One, “Structure and Formation,”
Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five
IT MUST BE a universal law that no matter how absentee your parents have been, the one time you would like them to stay away is the exact time they’ll decide to take an interest in your life.
“Del?” my mom said, coming out of her office, coffee cup clutched in one hand, a stack of maps in the other. She folded them in half, hiding their contents. “Who’s this?”
“Mom, Simon Lane. Simon, this is my mom.”
He stood and shook hands. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you as well. I wish I’d known we were having company.” She gave me a look implying I had fallen down on the job.
Simon covered his heart with his hand, miming hurt. “Trying to keep me under wraps?”
He had no idea how many secrets I was keeping about him. I waved toward the staff paper on the piano bench. “We’re working on a project for music. Counterpoint.”
“Del’s specialty,” my mom said. “Are you two hungry? I made zucchini bread.”
“I love zucchini bread,” Simon said, but I put my hands up.
“We’re fine, Mom. And we’ve got a lot to do, so . . .”
Her eyebrows arched. “I’ll let you get back to work. Dad should be home soon, by the way. I’m sure he’ll love meeting your . . . friend.”
If there’d been a pivot handy, I would have Walked through and stayed until I was fifty, because it would take that long for me to get over my embarrassment. Simon seemed fascinated by the pattern of the rug, and neither of us moved until we heard the door of her office shut.
“So that’s your mom,” he said finally. “Where’s the rest of the family?”
“My dad’s working. My grandfather’s upstairs, which is kind of weird. He’s usually pretty social.” I wasn’t complaining. My mom’s ability to mortify me paled in comparison to Monty’s skill set. “My sister’s working in her room.” Writing up the report on our Walk. I wondered what she would say about Monty refusing to join us.
“Nice,” he said softly. “Having so much family.”
“Your dad . . .”
“Took off right after I was born.” He swiveled away so I couldn’t read his face.
“Ah.” Unsure of how much to push, I said, “That sucks.”
He picked up my violin, plinked one of the strings. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t.”
“No?”
“Nope. More important things on the radar,” he said, and turned back to me.
The most powerful choices are the ones that disrupt the status quo—that break free of momentum and push into the unknown.
They’re also the most terrifying.
I could let Simon’s remark slide and continue on with our project. Or I could ask the question, knowing it would change us regardless of his answer.
“Things like your mom?”
He set the violin down. I waited, hoping he’d fill the silence between us with the truth.
“Who told you?”
“Nobody. I had a feeling.”
He sat next to me and struck a single note on the piano, an E flat, over and over. “The cancer came back. We found out a couple of months ago.”
I’d never wanted to be wrong so badly. “I’m sorry. Is it . . .”
His expression turned haggard. “Yeah. They don’t know how much longer she has. A year. Eighteen months, if we’re lucky.”
Strange to call it luck. In less than two years he’d be an orphan.
“What are you going to do?” I picked out a minor melody, pianissimo.
“Take care of her,” he said, jaw set. “Right now she’s tired more than anything. Later . . . there are people who can come in and help. That’s what the doctors said, anyway.”
The circles under his eyes made sense to me now; his insistence on getting good grades for his mom’s sake. His wish for siblings. The charm he displayed every day had vanished, replaced by brittle composure. The transformation made my heart ache.
I tried to imagine what it would be like to have no one left in my family—not even Addie. How quiet the house would be. I envisioned myself in those empty, echoing rooms, and my eyelids prickled.
“Why haven’t you told anyone?”
“I told Coach. A couple of guys on the team. A few teachers.”
“That’s it? What about the rest of your friends?”
“Not yet.” I must have looked startled, because he said, “It changes how people look at you. How they treat you.”
“Maybe not.”
“It happened before,” he replied, and I remembered the year of casseroles and phone trees and bake sales. Of course he knew how everyone would react. “Once they find out, I’m not me anymore—I’m the kid with the mom who’s dying.”
I’d watched Simon for years, charming and flirting and joking, winning people over at every turn. I’d never stopped to consider what hard work it must have been, convincing everyone to love him instead of pity him. That veneer had never slipped until now, never cracked. The Simon sitting next to me, simultaneously vulnerable and guarded, was as foreign as an Echo, but more real than he’d ever been.
“You told me,” I pointed out.
His brow furrowed. “You asked.”
“Didn’t mean you had to answer.”
He looked straight at me, the intensity of his gaze making me forget which world we were in, which Simon I was dealing with.
“I had a feeling too,” he said, the words so low they resonated in my chest, and his hand slid to cover mine on the keys.
“I’m glad,” I whispered.
“Simon?” called my mom, and he drew away. My pulse beat in a wild, unsteady rhythm. Mom poked her head around the corner. “Would you like to stay for dinner? It’s chicken parmesan tonight. You’re welcome to join us.”
I rolled my eyes. We’d had pizza or sandwiches every night this week. Simon’s presence was the only explanation for a return to real food.
“It sounds great, but I can’t,” Simon said, standing up and grabbing his notebook. “I have a . . .” His eyes slid away. “I have plans.”
“Plans” could mean only one thing. A specific plan, with a specific individual.
“Some other time,” Mom said. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“You too,” he said. “And thanks for the offer.”
“Of course.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, but the damage was done, the sense of connection shattered.
“Hot date?” I asked. I was going for nonchalance: See how much I don’t care you’ll be kissing someone else tonight? But inside, my heartbeat slowed to the tempo of a dirge. He’d confided in me, trusted me with the most awful truth imaginable, but I wasn’t the one he wanted. “Bet I can guess who.”
He released the arm on the old-fashioned metronome we kept next to the piano, and the steady ticking filled the silence. “Bree’s nice,” he said eventually. “And it’s not serious.”
“It never is.” Why was he telling me his secrets one minute, and leaving to see her the next? Maybe I’d imagined the connection between us. Maybe he told everyone, making them feel as special as I had. The idea made me feel hot, then cold, and then very, very stupid.