I jerk my head toward the doorway, recognizing the voice.
My father. “Shit.”
I look around, knowing there’s no other way out of here. I slip behind the privacy screen my sister put up as decoration by the wall and lock my teeth together to calm my breathing.
I see a shadow block out the hallway light streaming through the doorway and falling on the carpet.
“Misha?” my father asks hesitantly. “Are you here?”
He knows I’m here. He has to. I left Annie’s door open when I came in, and it’s always closed.
But I don’t move. I can’t talk to him.
I peer through the holes in the screen, trying to see him, but I can’t. He’s not in my eyesight.
He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid. Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of our fighting.
“You were always so different,” he says, staring off.
I can barely breathe.
“T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”
My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.
In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen so hard for so long.
“I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped finding a way to talk to you.”
He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.
I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting. Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?
And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.
To go back, simply because that’s where she is.
I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.
My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I heard the hum of Brahms coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and working on his model WWII battlefield.
I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.
You’ll look better in blue. （And no, I didn’t steal it.）
I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck, making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.
I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?
Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to the front of the truck and stop, finding a whole fucking mess.
Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.
And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the word FAG sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.
Rage heats up every single muscle in my body. Motherfucker.
I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes, seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.