My heart leaps. On the front there’s a photo of a woman walking down a city street. Her head is a computer monitor. I flip it over and read:
Rubes—Saw this and thought of you. Because you have a computer brain. Recognize the street? Miss you.
George
This is even better than a text message. George’s own handwriting, in smudged blue ink. I study the photo on the postcard and make out the red awning of the East Bay Café.
Dad winks at me.
“What?”
“He likes you,” Dad says.
“I know.” I hold the postcard to my nose, hoping to catch a hint of George’s sandalwood soap, but it just smells like printing ink. “We’re twenty-five hundred miles apart.”
“So what? If you’re meant to be, it’ll work out. You’ll end up at the same college or working in the same city, someday, somewhere.”
“Fate?” I say, rolling my eyes. “You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Call it what you like,” Dad says. “Fate, destiny, effort, coincidence. True friendship defies distance.”
“That sounds like a headline for an ad,” I say, “for an airline. You should write that down in case you ever need it.”
“For what?” Dad asks over the clanking of dishes. He pulls a soapy mug from the sink and rinses it.
“A headline.” I hand him my dirty plate and grab a clean one from the stack of drying dishes on the counter. I hold my phone over it and take a photo of the empty plate. Then I write George a quick text. Brownie was 2 die 4. Licked the plate clean. Thanks!
“Should I ask?” Dad says.
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” He kisses my forehead and drains the sink. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m on deadline.”
“Gee. What else is new?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how my computer ended up on the floor, would you?” Dad asks.
“Sorry.” I can picture it crashing to the floor, the second after my shin collided with the coffee table.
“That’s my lifeblood, Ruby.” Dad’s voice turns preachy. “There are hundreds of important files on that hard drive.”
“I said I was sorry.” I turn and leave the kitchen, my face flushed with anger. Some things will never change. “Maybe you should back up more often,” I mumble to myself, though I know he can hear me.
“Ruby!” His voice is a warning; he’s on the edge. “It’s been a long day, so spare me the attitude!”
I wince under his lashing tone. Outside, underneath the cloud cover, the sun is making its way toward the horizon. I glance at the wall clock and figure we still have a couple hours of daylight. Enough time to take him to the tree. I can just imagine the slack-jawed expression on his face. I’d have to hold him back from stepping inside the doorway, though, because I’m not interested in taking another gamble tonight, slapping down money on what feels like a dubious carnival game—Step right up, sweetheart! Just slip on this blindfold and spin the wheel.
Still, I feel like I need to tell him something—anything—about where I’ve been. “Hey, Dad? I …”
His back is to me; he’s drying dishes. “Let’s just call it a day, all right?”
“Um, but …” But there’s this tree. And I need to show you. “Where’s Willow?” I ask. I could take her to the tree. She noticed that there was a strange vibe about it; she would understand if I told her I needed to show her something important.
“She’s in Cleveland.” Dad clicks the lights off in the kitchen. “She had to meet with a gallery owner and go buy some new brushes and canvases.”
He sidesteps me and sits on the couch, firing up his computer. “I need to put in a few hours and then get some sleep.”
“Sure. I get it.” I take the hint and climb the stairs as quietly as possible, even though Kandy’s music is still blaring. I hold George’s postcard in my hand and reread it. Miss you.
I think about calling him right this second to hear his voice, to find out what’s been going on since I left. I’d like to know who he went to the movie with yesterday. I’d thank him for the brownie and tell him about the tree. Er, I guess I’d tell him, but where would I begin? What would he think? Ruby, you’re off your rocker, cuckoo, mentally disordered, buggy, certifiable.
Really, I can’t tell anyone. Seeing is believing. Otherwise I’m setting myself up for trouble. Dad will rush me to the nearest therapist to talk about my pent-up issues. I can hear it now: She’s been under a lot of stress. She’s just trying to get attention. Is this sort of lying normal?
My bones ache for my soft mattress; I can’t wait to sink my face into my down-filled pillows. The door to my room won’t open, though. A shirt is jammed underneath, strangely. How did that get there? I shove and pull and reach around the door to kick the shirt out of the way.
Paper everywhere. Clothes draped over lamps, cracked DVDs, torn posters. The Hubble book from George is in shreds. My face turns hot. Even the tips of my ears burn with fury. That psychopath trashed my room.
Before I think it through, I storm across the hall to her room. She’s on her bed with a pair of scissors, surrounded by People magazines.
She aims a remote control at her stereo and turns the music off. “Darn,” she says, snapping her manicured fingers. “I thought you were gone for good.”
“What did you do to my books?” I say, thrusting my thumb over my shoulder. “To my room?”
“We’re even,” Kandy says. She fishes through the magazines until she finds her pink journal. She holds it up with one hand, and she brandishes the scissors with the other.
I’m reminded of the fact that she checked the box next to “yes” on her design school app. Yes, she’s been convicted of, or has pled guilty to, a crime other than a traffic offense. Vandalism? Assault and battery? Attempted murder?
“We’re even?” I spit back at her. “My shin is still bleeding.”
Kandy narrows her eyes at me. “Stop talking,” she says, waving her hand in the air like I’m a bothersome insect. “Your voice irritates me.”
“Your existence irritates me.” Maybe I’m being too bold, knowing what she’s capable of, but I’m shaking I’m so angry. “I’m going downstairs to tell my dad. You’re busted.”
Kandy’s ears perk up, like this is what she’s been waiting for. “I’m going downstairs to tell my dad.” She imitates me using a high-pitched, little-kid voice. Then she adds, “Go ahead. They’ll never believe you.”
“Of course they will. There’s evidence all over my room.”
“You did it. To yourself. It’s so, like, obvious you hate it here, and you didn’t want your dad to marry my mom. You’re trying to sabotage it.” She starts in with the little-kid voice again. “Kandy ripped up my books. We can’t live here anymore. We have to go back to California. Boo-hoo.”
“You’re sick.” I take a step backward.
“You know,” Kandy says with a creepy smile, “just before you chickened out and ran into the cornfields, I had the chance to finish your sorry ass. Next time I won’t hesitate.”
“He-si-tate,” I say, reaching behind me for the door. She’s more psychologically damaged than I realized. “Wow. Three syllables.” Can she hear the spooked tone in my voice?
The expression on Kandy’s face changes from annoyance to malice. “Just stick to the rules. You stay out of my life, and I’ll stay out of yours.” She holds up her journal again. “Understood?”
“You suck,” I say. I slam her door and hurry back to my room before she decides to leap off the bed and rip my intestines out through my nose. I sure as hell hope Dad is still downstairs, within earshot. Otherwise I could end up a grainy photo on the back of a milk carton. Have You Seen Me?