Read Online Happy Families by Tanita S. Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanita S. Davis
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“What’s going on? Why are you dropping out?”
“It’s—look, Callista, I’m just going through some stuff, all right? I can’t really talk about it.”
Callista had clutched my arm. “Justin, please! I can keep a secret. It’s not like I’m going to tell everyone what’s going on. Just … talk to me!”
“I can’t,” I’d said, knowing I was throwing everything away and powerless to stop myself. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
We had that conversation too many times to count. Sometimes crying, sometimes angry, Callista kept asking me to trust her.
She said she’d never give up on me, but she doesn’t ask me to trust her anymore.
The whole school, it seemed, wanted to talk to me and ask what was wrong with me and why I’d thrown everything away. I dropped off of my social networking sites and stopped answeringmy phone, but there was no escape. Even Poppy told me he thought I was being selfish and letting everybody down. I almost told him what I’d seen then. But I didn’t.
Why did I keep Dad’s secret?
Dad knew I knew. Ysabel couldn’t have cleaned up his stuff that well. The mug was pretty well smashed; it doesn’t even hold water anymore, but Dad didn’t ask us what had happened. He never said anything. It was as if this was all a crazy dream, that I’d imagined everything.
And that was the worst thing of all.
I kept thinking I’d screwed up, I’d seen it wrong. Maybe it was just somebody’s mom. Maybe nothing happened at all. I kept praying that it was nothing, that it was just my imagination. It was all a nightmare, something that wormed into my brain and made things wrong. Dad could have made it right, if he’d just asked a question or said something. Instead, he said nothing, and I felt insane.
I must have finally fallen asleep, because I wake up with a little trickle of drool drying on the side of my face.
Ugh
. I wipe my mouth and sit up, trying to figure out what woke me in the first place. I hear another soft knock at the door a moment before it opens. Dressed in a pin-striped shirt and faded jeans, my father leans into the room.
“Ysabel—” he begins, then breaks off, a broad smile on his face. “Morning, Justin.”
I rub my face and draw my knees to my chest. “Dad.”
“You sleep okay down there?”
I shrug, hoping he’ll get the message and go away, but heonly grins. “I remember when you and Ysabel turned six and got your own rooms. We found you like this every morning for months.”
I just grunt. Dad’s expression is amused. “Right. Well, breakfast is almost ready. You’ve got about an hour, but we’re going to need to hustle. We have an appointment with the therapist this morning.”
“What therapist?”
“Belly? Wake up now,” Dad says, ignoring me.
“I said, ‘What therapist?’ ” I repeat, my voice louder.
Dad raises his brows quizzically. “I told you we’d be seeing people this week, didn’t I? Dr. Hoenig is a family therapist who specializes in transitioning families.”
Panic claws at me, and it feels like my stomach drops through the floor. I cover the sick fear with anger. “Why do we have to go to the therapist when it’s
your
problem? Why can’t you go by yourself?”
Dad’s eyebrows jerk, and I can see he’s deciding what to say to that. He puts his hand on the doorknob and glances at his watch. “Fifty minutes now. Whether you have breakfast or not is up to you. Good morning, Ysabel.” He pulls the door closed behind him with a decisive click.
Ysabel is sitting up, her bedhead hair a kinked and fuzzy frame for her tense face. “What’s going on?”
I flop back onto the mattress, an arm in front of my eyes. “We’re going to his therapist.”
“A therapist?” I hear the mattress rustle as Ysabel moves. Her voice is closer. “Oh, okay, then. Good.”
“What’s ‘good’ about it?” I move my arm and glare up into her face. “Why should we have to listen to someone tell us all thethings we did to
“It’s—look, Callista, I’m just going through some stuff, all right? I can’t really talk about it.”
Callista had clutched my arm. “Justin, please! I can keep a secret. It’s not like I’m going to tell everyone what’s going on. Just … talk to me!”
“I can’t,” I’d said, knowing I was throwing everything away and powerless to stop myself. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
We had that conversation too many times to count. Sometimes crying, sometimes angry, Callista kept asking me to trust her.
She said she’d never give up on me, but she doesn’t ask me to trust her anymore.
The whole school, it seemed, wanted to talk to me and ask what was wrong with me and why I’d thrown everything away. I dropped off of my social networking sites and stopped answeringmy phone, but there was no escape. Even Poppy told me he thought I was being selfish and letting everybody down. I almost told him what I’d seen then. But I didn’t.
Why did I keep Dad’s secret?
Dad knew I knew. Ysabel couldn’t have cleaned up his stuff that well. The mug was pretty well smashed; it doesn’t even hold water anymore, but Dad didn’t ask us what had happened. He never said anything. It was as if this was all a crazy dream, that I’d imagined everything.
And that was the worst thing of all.
I kept thinking I’d screwed up, I’d seen it wrong. Maybe it was just somebody’s mom. Maybe nothing happened at all. I kept praying that it was nothing, that it was just my imagination. It was all a nightmare, something that wormed into my brain and made things wrong. Dad could have made it right, if he’d just asked a question or said something. Instead, he said nothing, and I felt insane.
I must have finally fallen asleep, because I wake up with a little trickle of drool drying on the side of my face.
Ugh
. I wipe my mouth and sit up, trying to figure out what woke me in the first place. I hear another soft knock at the door a moment before it opens. Dressed in a pin-striped shirt and faded jeans, my father leans into the room.
“Ysabel—” he begins, then breaks off, a broad smile on his face. “Morning, Justin.”
I rub my face and draw my knees to my chest. “Dad.”
“You sleep okay down there?”
I shrug, hoping he’ll get the message and go away, but heonly grins. “I remember when you and Ysabel turned six and got your own rooms. We found you like this every morning for months.”
I just grunt. Dad’s expression is amused. “Right. Well, breakfast is almost ready. You’ve got about an hour, but we’re going to need to hustle. We have an appointment with the therapist this morning.”
“What therapist?”
“Belly? Wake up now,” Dad says, ignoring me.
“I said, ‘What therapist?’ ” I repeat, my voice louder.
Dad raises his brows quizzically. “I told you we’d be seeing people this week, didn’t I? Dr. Hoenig is a family therapist who specializes in transitioning families.”
Panic claws at me, and it feels like my stomach drops through the floor. I cover the sick fear with anger. “Why do we have to go to the therapist when it’s
your
problem? Why can’t you go by yourself?”
Dad’s eyebrows jerk, and I can see he’s deciding what to say to that. He puts his hand on the doorknob and glances at his watch. “Fifty minutes now. Whether you have breakfast or not is up to you. Good morning, Ysabel.” He pulls the door closed behind him with a decisive click.
Ysabel is sitting up, her bedhead hair a kinked and fuzzy frame for her tense face. “What’s going on?”
I flop back onto the mattress, an arm in front of my eyes. “We’re going to his therapist.”
“A therapist?” I hear the mattress rustle as Ysabel moves. Her voice is closer. “Oh, okay, then. Good.”
“What’s ‘good’ about it?” I move my arm and glare up into her face. “Why should we have to listen to someone tell us all thethings we did to
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