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Authors: Rosemary Graham
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McDonald’s.”
“Yes. They did. In our version of back then, they did. We’re using our poetic licenses, okay? Do you think maybe you could just listen and not keep interrupting?”
As soon as Carly put Jess to bed, she went back to Nick’s studio. The music was blaring and the blowtorch burning again. He was welding a spiraled spool of metal, which looked something like a thick, rusty Slinky, along the edge of a large metal box. He held up a finger to tell Carly he’d stop in a minute.
She sat down on his wheeled stool to wait. She used to spin herself dizzy on that thing, or lie on her stomach and push herself across the length of the room as fast as she could. Once she’d smashed into the wall headfirst and gotten a huge bump on the top of her skull. She and Nick decided they wouldn’t tell Isabelle because she’d make Carly stop riding the stool, or want her to wear a helmet or something. They agreed they’d just be a lot more careful from then on.
That’s how they invented the DTM code for “Don’t tell Mom.” They never did it for really big stuff, but for the little things, where telling would serve no purpose except to get Isabelle all worked up. Like the time Carly skinned her knee when she and Nick were hunting at one of their favorite junkyards. At the time, Isabelle didn’t even know Nick sometimes took her along on his junkyard jaunts, so that was an obvious DTM. They attributed the bloody knee to a fall in the park.
“Hey,” Nick said, as he walked across the room.
Carly got right to it. “Mom told me.”
Nick took off the goggles and gloves, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and sat down on the wooden bench across from the stool.
“I gathered.”
“I can’t believe I’m not going to live here anymore.”
“Me neither.” He reached for a coffee mug on the table behind him. From the look of it—a skin of cream floated on top—it had been there for a while. “I wish your mother would reconsider my idea.”
“What idea?”
Five minutes later Carly burst into her mother’s room without knocking.
“Carly, geez. You scared me.”
Good, Carly thought. She wanted her mother’s attention. She plopped herself down on the edge of the bed. The book Isabelle had been reading fell to her side. Families Apart: Ten Keys to Successful Co-Parenting . Next to it was Mom’s House, Dad’s House: Making Two Homes for Your Child and next to that, The Good Divorce.
“Why are we moving when Nick says we can stay?”
Isabelle had left some key information out of her version of events. Like the part about how Nick said they could stay in the loft. Wanted them to stay in the loft. He’d drawn up a brilliant floor plan that involved knocking down walls and building new ones to split the space into two apartments. The girls’ rooms would be in the middle, with one door leading into Isabelle’s (hypothetical) apartment and another leading into Nick’s. There’d be no need for them to move, no need to schlep Jess back and forth for half of every week or every other week or whatever they were planning. Nick would charge Isabelle rent—because she was like that, and he knew she’d never agree otherwise—but no more than she could afford, and nothing close to what he could get for the place on the open market.
And he and Carly wouldn’t have to figure out how to carry on an ex-almost-stepfather/ex-almost-stepdaughter relationship. They’d just see each other whenever. She wouldn’t have to worry about what to call him. They would still be connected.
But Isabelle turned Nick down flat, and Carly wanted to know why.
“I don’t want to live like that.”
“Live like what?”
“Apart but together. Together but apart. You’re old enough to imagine, aren’t you, how hard that would be for me? I don’t want to come home and smell his dinner cooking, or hear his music through the walls. Or that wo—another woman’s voice.”
“Is that why you guys are breaking
“Yes. They did. In our version of back then, they did. We’re using our poetic licenses, okay? Do you think maybe you could just listen and not keep interrupting?”
As soon as Carly put Jess to bed, she went back to Nick’s studio. The music was blaring and the blowtorch burning again. He was welding a spiraled spool of metal, which looked something like a thick, rusty Slinky, along the edge of a large metal box. He held up a finger to tell Carly he’d stop in a minute.
She sat down on his wheeled stool to wait. She used to spin herself dizzy on that thing, or lie on her stomach and push herself across the length of the room as fast as she could. Once she’d smashed into the wall headfirst and gotten a huge bump on the top of her skull. She and Nick decided they wouldn’t tell Isabelle because she’d make Carly stop riding the stool, or want her to wear a helmet or something. They agreed they’d just be a lot more careful from then on.
That’s how they invented the DTM code for “Don’t tell Mom.” They never did it for really big stuff, but for the little things, where telling would serve no purpose except to get Isabelle all worked up. Like the time Carly skinned her knee when she and Nick were hunting at one of their favorite junkyards. At the time, Isabelle didn’t even know Nick sometimes took her along on his junkyard jaunts, so that was an obvious DTM. They attributed the bloody knee to a fall in the park.
“Hey,” Nick said, as he walked across the room.
Carly got right to it. “Mom told me.”
Nick took off the goggles and gloves, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and sat down on the wooden bench across from the stool.
“I gathered.”
“I can’t believe I’m not going to live here anymore.”
“Me neither.” He reached for a coffee mug on the table behind him. From the look of it—a skin of cream floated on top—it had been there for a while. “I wish your mother would reconsider my idea.”
“What idea?”
Five minutes later Carly burst into her mother’s room without knocking.
“Carly, geez. You scared me.”
Good, Carly thought. She wanted her mother’s attention. She plopped herself down on the edge of the bed. The book Isabelle had been reading fell to her side. Families Apart: Ten Keys to Successful Co-Parenting . Next to it was Mom’s House, Dad’s House: Making Two Homes for Your Child and next to that, The Good Divorce.
“Why are we moving when Nick says we can stay?”
Isabelle had left some key information out of her version of events. Like the part about how Nick said they could stay in the loft. Wanted them to stay in the loft. He’d drawn up a brilliant floor plan that involved knocking down walls and building new ones to split the space into two apartments. The girls’ rooms would be in the middle, with one door leading into Isabelle’s (hypothetical) apartment and another leading into Nick’s. There’d be no need for them to move, no need to schlep Jess back and forth for half of every week or every other week or whatever they were planning. Nick would charge Isabelle rent—because she was like that, and he knew she’d never agree otherwise—but no more than she could afford, and nothing close to what he could get for the place on the open market.
And he and Carly wouldn’t have to figure out how to carry on an ex-almost-stepfather/ex-almost-stepdaughter relationship. They’d just see each other whenever. She wouldn’t have to worry about what to call him. They would still be connected.
But Isabelle turned Nick down flat, and Carly wanted to know why.
“I don’t want to live like that.”
“Live like what?”
“Apart but together. Together but apart. You’re old enough to imagine, aren’t you, how hard that would be for me? I don’t want to come home and smell his dinner cooking, or hear his music through the walls. Or that wo—another woman’s voice.”
“Is that why you guys are breaking
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