LITMIR.BIZ

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I said, the finances of our household are mine to worry about,” he said. “Now, see if you can guess what I’m going to order.”

      “Dad, that is not challenging in the least. You will have Pad Thai. You always have Pad Thai.”

      “Is that your official guess then?”

      I nodded, as Dad held the door of Thai Castle open for me. He’s big on the whole gentleman thing. Chivalry, he always reminds me, is not dead.

      “Let me tell you what I think you’re going to order,” he said a little too loudly, like he was talking to a four-year-old. I let Dad know telepathically that we were in the restaurant now, and I was embarrassed to play the guessing game with people around. We were not the only family hitting this popular eatery, post-graduation.

      “I’m embarrassing you?” he said. “Of course I am. We’ll stop the shenanigans. We’ve got a public image to maintain.”

      And right then the woman showed up at the register to take our order, and Dad said, “My daughter will have the tofu with veggies.” He looked at me for confirmation. I nodded. There are four things on this menu that I like, but he guessed it; tofu with veggies was what I was planning to order that night. Proud of his telepathic gift, he continued: “And I think I will have the Massaman curry, spicy.” The waitress actually had to scratch Pad Thai off of the order tablet where she’d written it in advance. She and I looked at each other, like Lo and behold, the creature of habit has ordered something new!

      “What?” he said. “A man can’t change his mind? A man can’t branch out and be adventurous? It’s a new era,” he said. And then, “We’re celebrating Tate’s graduation.”

      When we got home, he had the guest house ready. He’d set a nice table with my favorite tablecloth. It’s blue, and has yellow chickens and white hens in a pattern all along the hemline. As a centerpiece, he had this cake holder pedestal thing, an antique from his own grandmother—mint green depression glass—and right in the center were two perfect replicas of eggs, one white and one yolk-colored, made out of Play-Doh. When I was little, he could make anything with Play-Doh and these so closely resembled real eggs, I only knew they were imposters by their distinctive Play-Doh smell.

      “Oh my God!” I said, taking in a deep whiff. “Where did you even find Play-Doh?”

      “They still make it,” he said. “Compliments of Hasbro. Go ahead and choose one.”

      My dad is big on rituals. We used to play this game when I was little where he would take a small toy of mine—a roly-poly person from one of those Fisher Price farms, or one of my collection of dinosaurs, or a spike heel from Barbie’s vacation wardrobe—and bury it in a ball of Play-Doh. And then he would make it into a shape, like a block or a sphere or a big triangle, or even something more difficult, like a bird or a banana. He’d make another one identically shaped, in a different color of clay. I had to guess (guessing is always part of Dad’s games) if it was the red triangle or the blue one that held a toy inside. He was great at making the two shapes identical, one with hidden cargo, one without. I would use my telepathic powers to figure out which one held the toy. I used to think I really did have ESP, because I was right about half the time. But I know now how silly that was—the odds were always 50/50.

      I went after the white egg, pretending to crack it on the table edge, just to humor Dad, then pulling it apart into two hunks, revealing the key to the studio, my very own new house. He had wrapped the key in cellophane so the Play-Doh wouldn’t stick.

      While we ate, he explained to me that he would always be moments away in the main house, and I should always feel free to sleep in my room there if I wanted to. I could go over and eat whatever he was having for dinner, or I could fix something in my own kitchenette. It’s what every teenager dreams of—freedom, privacy, autonomy. A door that locks.

      But the point of all this is, my dad, always afraid that Carla wouldn’t do enough for me, doubled up on goodness. His main goal in life is to give me a really solid childhood, a really terrific start. This insanity that’s going on now, so out of his control…well, it’s killing him to think how it’s affecting me.

      I was only in the guest house for three weeks when our world fell apart.

      After a month at the Finches, when Jasper broke up with me, I couldn’t stay there anymore. They would have kept me, but it was sad and humiliating and I had already lost a lot. You cannot live with the family of your ex-boyfriend, hello. Once I convinced Dad and my Aunt Greta to let me move back into my guest house, they convinced the other relatives who’d taken up the business of hawking over me. So the deal is, for now anyway, someone from my mom or dad’s family is in the main house at all times. They take turns. And I get my little studio in the back. This took a lot of convincing. Everyone is waiting for me to completely disintegrate. Delayed reaction to loss. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

      I intend to make more of this summer than I made of the last one. I have goals up on a chart in the studio. I had them written in my notebook but my best friend Kale said write them bigger and put them on the wall where they will stare at you every day. So I did.

       1. Learn to Swim laps

       2. Do some kind of volunteer work

       3. Research colleges (and study for SATs)

       4. Go camping with Aunt Greta

       5. Find a part-time job (save money!)

       6. No more boyfriends till I figure out my life (give it six months)

       7. Be there for Dad (visit, bring favorite foods)

       8. Redecorate studio (paint, get cool furniture)

       9. Keep it neat (or else they will take it away!)

       10. Become a vegan (and buy vegan cookbook)

      Obviously Kale influenced #1 and #10. She’s vegan and has been trying to get me to join her. And she’s learned to swim laps for meditative reasons. She tells me there’s nothing like the calm and the rhythm you reach after the first mile. You find your buoyancy, apparently, and it’s heaven once you get the hang of it. If it works for Kale, I’m willing to try it. Kale named herself after her favorite leafy green. Up until tenth grade, Kale was Karen. She never liked that name.

      My name’s Tate—Tate McCoy—and I like it just fine.

CHAPTER TWO:

       GOOSE BUMPS

      Kale and I are stretching on the lawn at Barton Springs. It’s 11a.m. and already a scorcher. Barton Springs is a long, natural limestone pool, spring-fed, and 68 degrees year-round. It’s a thousand feet from one end of the pool to the other, three football fields long, where serious swimmers do their laps. Everyone out there now, some of them elderly, has swim caps on. They move through the water like human fish. They appear to not mind the cold.

      “I can’t believe I didn’t think to get a one-piece,” I say. I’m in the bathing suit I bought last summer, and it’s a bikini.

      “Next time,” Kale says. She’s arching her back and grabbing her toes in some yoga move.

      I do a few lunges and sit-ups. Stretching has never been my thing.

      “You really swim a mile here? That’s impressive.” I’m looking at the far end of the pool, wondering just how far it is.

      “I’m telling you,” says Kale, “learning to swim, the right way, will change the way you think about working out.”

      “I pretty much don’t think about that at all.”

      “Well, that’ll change, too. Once you get the hang of doing laps, you could go on forever. It’s the most relaxing thing.

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