Dad is fucking fahrbot for inviting me to England. He lived with Mom. He must know what she’s like — even if the divorce made it a thousand times worse. How on earth can I ever take a trip when she’s like this? Moreover, what is going to happen when I leave for college? Who is going to extricate her from her rituals, interrupt her when she compulsively recloses doors and checks windows, and make sure she doesn’t get too distracted to eat? Who is going to help her finish what she starts when it’s the only way to calm her down?

We’re like two cogs in a machine that need each other to keep the system in motion. She’s the train and I’m the railroad switch keeping her from going down a bad set of tracks. What will she do without me?

How can I ever leave?

Zoe

On Wednesday I linger after class while Miss Delegatti grades the math quizzes, not minding being late for lunch. At this point, Homecoming is all anyone can talk about — mostly the after-party. I’m not in the mood for the questions and the pressure.

Miss Delegatti turns to me with her toothy smile and says, “Ninety. Good job, Zoe.” I’m disappointed. A ninety is not enough to raise my grade from the B+ it’s hovering around. And I’m firmly at a B in physics, too, so this feels like a bit much. My life was once a B-free zone. My dad will probably ask what happened, like he has the few times I haven’t gotten all As. Sometimes I kind of resent it — I mean, a B is not even that bad. Still, I hate disappointing him, so I’ll just have to try harder.

There are no retakes, so I ask her if I can have an extra-credit assignment, which she gives me because she’s kind and decent. “Thank you so much,” I tell her as I’m heading out. I only mean to be polite, but even to my own ears I sound like a suck-up.