I wonder if they opened the curtains, afterward, while I was running away as fast as I could. I wonder if Mom went out onto the balcony in her new sexy robe—it’s sexy, why didn’t I notice that before, why wasn’t I suspicious that she brought a sexy robe with her on a business trip?—and I wonder if she stared out at the ocean perfectly happy with where she was and what she’d just done with someone who wasn’t Pop.

I feel a sudden stabbing pain in my stomach, followed by an awful pressure, and then I veer off the sidewalk and throw up in the bushes. Out comes the half-digested Hawaiian bacon BBQ burger. I kneel down in the dirt for a few minutes, wiping my mouth on the hem of my shirt.

I guess I won’t have to lie about the vomiting, after all.

“Whoa, are you okay?” comes a voice.

I look up. Standing a few feet away is Nick Kelly. He’s been swimming. His hair is slicked back, and he has a towel wrapped around his skinny waist.

“Hi, Nick,” I say numbly. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” His face is arranged in the classic expression of worry, eyebrows arcing upward, wide, sympathetic eyes, slack mouth. “That was . . . a lot of puke.”

“I’m okay, really.” I straighten. Nick takes a step forward like he’d like to help, but that would involve touching me, and he’s not sure he ought to touch me. I would laugh at how awkward we are, but I’m too worn out. “I should go in, though.”

He walks along with me to the door of the building and holds it open for me.

“Do you want me to call anyone? My dad’s a doctor. He could come look you over.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Wow. That was a dumb idea, sorry. I realize that everybody here is a doctor. Should I call your mom?”

“She knows. She’s coming.” My stomach rolls again, but I keep it down this time. Barely. “I need to go in.”

“Okay. Feel better, Ada,” he says.

But I know I won’t.

Chapter 17

17

Morning again. My first whole day in which I know about Mom. We have one of those tour things, to the other side of the island.

“What’s on the other side of the island?” Abby asks at breakfast as I stand behind her, attempting to wrestle her hair into submission. Abby has long blond hair, but a darker, sandier blond than Afton’s or mine, and it’s curly, like mine but way, way more.

“A volcano,” I answer. I am trying—so very hard—to act like everything’s normal. Jokes and all.

Abby’s mouth drops open. “Shut up.”