Anxiety keeps me awake half the night. I give up on sleeping and sit up in bed, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. My eyes strain against the brightness of the neon blue light. It's not even five, but my heart is still pounding like a drum in my chest, convinced that I've woken up late.
Dad hated lateness. If you were late, it meant you thought your time was more valuable than his, and he'd give you the silent treatment. Out of all of the weapons he had in his arsenal, this was the one I hated most. You never knew how long it would last, so you'd tiptoe around, breath held, waiting for the moment he acknowledged you again—the moment you could finally exhale.
It's strange, most would see silence as a good thing—a prerequisite to peace—but Dad saw it as a weapon. Silence became a punishment, and he was our judge, jury, and executioner.
The photos on the nightstand slowly come into focus. I hadn't brought much in the way of possessions—there was only so much I could fit in two cases—but as I fretted over what to pack, I found myself tearing them from the Goodwright family album.
The first is my favorite, a polaroid of Mom in her senior year. She's leaning against an old red truck, her high school boyfriend on one side and her best friend on the other as they prepare for their precollege road trip.
She's always hated the picture—she claims she wasn't ready—but it's my favorite because it's so candid. She's clutching the camera she'd spent months saving up for—a graduation present to herself—and for once she isn't posing, she's looking up, mouth open, on the brink of an almighty laugh.
My mother had to sacrifice a lot of her teenhood when Grandma got sick with cancer. She says it's like they went from living comfortably to drowning in medical bills overnight. Grandpa had to sell his café to help pay for it all, and Mom and Lilly got part-time jobs while trying to survive high school. Thankfully, Grandma made a full recovery, but their savings didn't until many years later. It's why, when my mother got accepted to Cornell with full financial aid, she said it had felt like a miracle.
Gently, I brush my thumb over her face. There's always this strange sense of sorrow when I hold it, like I'm looking at a ghost. This version of my mother—smiling, happy, warm—was taken by a version of him.
She met my father a year later, at a frat party of all places. She'd been lining up for the bathroom with her friends when she saw this handsome boy in a toga. He noticed her, too, walked over, said something unmemorable. But, according to my mother, that's all it took. Six months later, she got pregnant with me and dropped out of college to move in with Dad. The rest, as they say, is history.
The photo behind it is my least favorite. It's of Mom, Minnie Mouse, and me during a trip to Times Square. I'm standing between them, one hand in Minnie's, one hand in Mom's as I grin at Dad behind the camera. Mom is smiling, too, but it's not her bright, the world is my oyster smile—it's her fake one.
We'd spent the day pretending to be tourists. It was my first ever visit to the touristy heart of New York, so of course I was immediately bewitched. It felt like I'd stepped onto another planet, one where screens lit the sky and people swarmed together like bees, moving and acting as one. I stopped and tilted my head at the buildings, suddenly feeling insignificant.
"Don't stop," Dad said, squeezing my hand, "or you'll be gobbled up by the crowd."
I clutched his hand tighter and quickened my pace. We walked a little farther, and when Spider-Man and Minnie Mouse greeted me, I nearly combusted with excitement. "Can I take a picture with one?"
"Of course you can," Dad said. He gently pulled us through the crowd and over to Minnie. Mom and I got into our positions, and afterward, Dad tipped Minnie and led us down the street toward the Disney Store.
It felt like we'd been walking for ages. My feet were begging for mercy, but my heart wasn't listening. There were millions of people and things to look at, and I didn't want to miss a thing.
We spent over an hour in the Disney Store, scouring each shelf for the perfect toy to commemorate our trip. I'd narrowed it down to a handbag and a princess doll, settling on the handbag out of practicality. But as soon as we left the store, Dad knelt in front of me and pulled from behind him the princess doll I'd wanted.
"Happy birthday, my little ballerina," he said, and he kissed me on the forehead.
I could have burst into song as we continued down the street. My parents were holding hands, laughing about something as I cradled my doll, and for this brief moment, everything was perfect.
Then Dad stopped suddenly, right there in the crowd, and turned to Mom. Gone was the bright, gleaming smile I'd just seen, as if a switch had been flipped. "Are you really going to stare at every man we pass?"
My mother fell still. Her face seemed so calm in comparison to his, but her pulse thrummed and stumbled under my grip. "Henry," she said. "We're not doing this now."
"It's a simple question." He sounded calm, but something about his cool expression made me nervous. "Because if you are, I'd rather we just go home now."
I looked between them, panicked. "But I don't want to go home yet, Daddy."
"Come on, Maddison, honey," he said, holding out his hand, "let's give Mommy some alone time to think about what she's done."
Mom's eyes found mine, glossy with tears, but still warm as they regarded me. My dad, whose own eyes had hardened, beckoned me over. I clutched my doll harder, frozen with indecision.
Dad's expression closed down as he took a step forward. "I'm the one who got you that doll," he said softly. "If you don't want to come with me, then you'll have to give it back." He made it sound so reasonable, as though I should have known this.
"No," Mom said, stepping forward, but one look from him gave her pause.
Forever passed as I walked toward him, doll outstretched, tears flowing. He pried it from my clammy hands, kissed my forehead, then started down the street without us. I clutched Mom's hand tighter as we pushed through the crowd, no longer bewitched by the sights. Instead, it felt suffocating, the buildings twisting and pulsing like my heartbeat.
"What's wrong with Daddy?" I asked as we raced through the crowd. He hadn't yelled or raised his voice, but somehow I just knew he was angry, like I felt it to my core.
"That wasn't your daddy," Mom said as she squeezed my hand tighter. "That was Mr. Hyde."
But it wasn't until eighth grade, when I'd had to read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for English, that I finally understood what she'd meant. My father had two faces: one he showed the world, and one he kept for us; neither ever lasted.
As soon as we got home that day, I found the doll waiting for me in my bedroom, propped against the decorative pillows. I picked it up, clutching it to my chest as I thought about what had happened. I'd never seen Dad like that—at least, not that I could remember—and the change in him had been so subtle, so sudden, that it left me feeling dizzy.
Quietly, I tiptoed toward his office, knocking twice on the door.
"Come in," he called.
The door creaked open as I stepped over the threshold. He swiveled in his chair, saw me standing with the doll in my hand, and smiled. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong, honey?"
"Can I keep it now?" I asked, because I wanted to be sure. I wanted to be sure that he wouldn't take it again.
"Of course," he said, looking confused, "why wouldn't you be able to keep it?"
I stood there a moment, feeling small and out of place. His office was huge, covered in pictures of people's before and after surgery shots. He was a plastic surgeon, so there were countless photos of peeled-back noses and Frankenstein scars. "Because you said I couldn't if I didn't go with you."
"No, I didn't," he said, standing up. He walked toward me, running a hand through my doll's long hair as he gently kissed my cheek. "You must have misunderstood me."
Then he ushered me into the hallway, where I stood for the next ten minutes in a dreamlike state, as if a fog had taken over my brain. In some ways, that fog never lifted.
—
I pull on my clothes and fasten my sneakers to mentally prepare for my run. I joined track in junior year as a way to get Mom off my case about extracurriculars and ended up loving it. It's empowering when I'm pushed to my limit, knowing the only thing I have to rely on is my own strength and determination. And when I reach that limit, that point where it feels like I want to die, I feel stronger, somehow. Untouchable.
Grabbing my phone and headphones from the table, I pause. The flyer from last night is still on the nightstand, the determined face of a boxer staring up at me. I should throw it away, but I'm reminded of the way Red Gloves fought the other night, and for a split second, the anger makes room for something I don't recognize. Instead, I throw it in the drawer and tiptoe downstairs, careful not to wake anyone.
The house is intimidatingly big, much like the others in this part of Granada Hills. It sits in a grove with four other houses, the front lawns perfectly pruned and trimmed, the driveways cobbled and edged with miniature hedgerows. The inside is just as seamless, each room lending itself perfectly to the next, with dark wooden floors that shine in the light, and wide but homey rooms.
Quietly, I slip onto the street, breathing in the warm spring air. With my headphones on and Red Gloves's fight still playing in my head, I select a song from my angry workout playlist and lose myself to the routine.
—
I'm showered and sitting at my vanity table before anyone wakes up. With a finishing touch to my makeup, I run my fingers through the ends of my hair, which started off wavy but now hang straight as a pin down my back.
I have a love-hate relationship with my hair. A combination it being frizz prone and me being in middle school—where kids are old enough to know how to hurt you, but are too young to understand the long-term damage—meant I'd had to endure the nickname Frizzy Head.
It was the first time I'd ever been stung by a word, felt the cold, hard crack of its whip. I'd always hated that my hair wasn't as curly as Mom's, nor as straight as Dad's, and now this thing I disliked about myself had been recognized, confirmed, by somebody else. But somehow I kept it together. I bottled my feelings, wore that same smile that my parents both wore, and the bullies left me alone; it's how I've survived ever since.
By the time I'm ready, it's nearly six thirty, which means Jamie will be sitting in English right now, my desk beside him empty. I try to fit in a video call before he starts his next class, scared that the distance will have changed us already, but the moment I see him, there's this sense that I'm safe. Home.
"Hey, you." He smiles that bright, lopsided smile when he sees me. "Your hair looks nice."
He looks good right now too—even better than usual. His dark hair is styled into soft, messy waves, pushed away from his forehead. His eyes, which are a soft ocean blue, match the color of his heavy-duty jacket. It's practically still winter back in Brooklyn, a startling contrast to the early spring light that streams through my balcony doors.
That's the one thing about California that I hadn't been expecting. I'd banked on the pool (I'd read everyone has one), the palm trees, the sun, but nobody told me about the near-perfect view of the Santa Susana Mountains.
"How's life with the Applegates?" he asks.
"It's okay," I say, "but I miss you. It's weird that I'm not going to see you today."
There was rarely a day that went by where we didn't see each other back home. Everything about him is familiar to me—his touch, his warmth, even the thrum of his heartbeat from the hours spent leaning on his chest.
"I miss you too," he says softly as he takes a seat on the bench in front of the entrance. I can hear the familiar chatter of kids changing classes in the distance, but he doesn't take his eyes off me. "It's like I'm trying to function without a part of my body, like I'm missing an arm, or something." We laugh together, perfectly in sync, which makes me feel like I'm back home. "Hey, don't laugh, I'm vulnerable right now. Who's going to walk me to class? Who's going to help me study for finals?"
"Are you just using me for my brains, Mr. Parkinson?"
"Not just your brains." He says that, but Jamie and I have only ever made it to second base, so I know he's not using me for that. His friend, Tyler, walks up behind him, and he holds up a finger to him as if to say one moment, before turning to face me. "Just promise me that we'll talk every day, okay? No matter what happens."
"I promise."
"Good." He looks into the camera, his expression unusually serious. "We just need to get through the next few months. Come fall, you'll be back here, and we'll be getting ready to go to college together. We just have to survive until then."
"I know," I say. "I love you."
"I love you too."
As soon as I hang up, I check my schedule, then check it again. AP English is first, and if I can just get through that class, everything else will be fine.
I head downstairs, past the rows of pictures lining the walls. Lots of the twins holding various trophies, holidays shots with Grandma and Grandpa, snaps of them as a family. Even though Lilly never wanted kids, it's clear she treats Dylan and Olly as her own.
Our apartment back home is the opposite. Dad likes everything neat and orderly, so there are no trinkets or photos, nothing to show that we were there, we lived. It's the kind of home where you are careful not to disturb the polish on the floors or the perfectly plumped pillows on the couch.
My bedroom had a similar feel, but tacked to the inside of my closet door, hidden from view, was life: ribbons from recitals, honor roll, shots of me and Jamie ice-skating at the Rockefeller Center. There were a couple family photos too. One was from last Christmas, the three of us dressed in matching pajama sets, the picture-perfect snap. Mom sent it to Lilly as our holiday card—a look how perfect we are gesture—and now it's pinned to their fridge. Perfection, or at least the illusion of it, was the only way she'd found to survive.
Tim and Lilly are already in the kitchen, which is my favorite room in the house. It's got these huge French patio doors that filter in light and open up to the pool, which I've spent nearly every day in this week.
"Good, you're up," Tim says. He's bent over the stove with a spatula in his hand, wearing one of those World's Best Cook novelty aprons. Despite being in his forties, Tim has the bone structure of a model. Big dark eyes, warm brown skin, and the kind of cheekbones I've always been jealous of.
Lilly is at the table, the opposite of Tim in every way possible. She's wearing an oversized black hoodie, her dark curls poking in different directions, and she's clutching a Baby Yoda mug.
The great thing about Jamie is that we are so alike. We like the same food, the same books, the same movies—we even love the same TV shows. But with Tim and Lilly, it's like they don't have a single thing in common. Lilly, having had to work just as hard as my mom to get by, is every bit the confident, independent New Yorker I've always wished I were, while Tim is goofy and laid-back. Every time I look at them, I find myself wondering what twist of fate allowed someone so composed to meet someone so disorganized.
"Morning, Mushroom," Lilly says. "Have some breakfast."
I sigh at my unfortunate nickname, which I'd earned myself three Christmases ago. With Mom's family all living in different states, tradition looks a little different in our family. Instead of meeting up for birthdays and holidays, Lilly would gather her family, Mom ours, and we'd all jump on FaceTime for a catch-up. Even my grandparents would tune in from their new bungalow in the Florida Keys, though the camera was usually upside down as they argued over who got to hold it.
For everyone else it was a laid-back occasion, but for Dad it was an opportunity to show off how perfect we were. He didn't have a family—after going through a messy divorce, his parents abandoned him when he was just seven, leaving him in his grandma's care, so while his pride in our nuclear unit bordered on unbearable, a part of me understood why; he was terrified of being alone.
Still, last Christmas is when I finally put my foot down. He forced us to wear these ridiculous Santa hats that made my head itch, so I threw it off midcall, despite the twitching of his smile, not realizing my hair had flattened like a mushroom. Lilly found it hilarious—she's been calling me Mushroom ever since.
I take a seat at the table, which is barely visible under the pancakes, yogurt, and fresh muesli. "This is a lot of food."
"No kidding," Lilly says. "Tim's procrastinating."
Before I can ask what she means, Tim slides some funny-shaped pancakes onto my plate. "I have a bad case of writer's block," he explains. "Figured I'd get my creative juices flowing with some comfort food."
Lilly shudders dramatically. "Don't say creative juices ever again."
"Juices," Tim says with a devious grin, "juices, juices, jui—"
The pan Tim is holding suddenly clatters to the floor. The noise startles me, and instinct kicks in. My chin snaps forward until it's tucked into my chest. My arms rush to cover my face. Eyes closed, I imagine his large, clenched fist rushing forward, only to withdraw again last minute.
"Crap," Tim says, but he sounds far away. "The handle got too hot again. I thought you said you were going to throw this pan away, Lill."
When something brushes the side of my arm, I flinch. "Sorry," Lilly says, withdrawing her hand. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's fine." I smile in a bid to reassure her, but my heart's still throwing itself against my chest, trying to catapult out of it. "I think I'm just nervous about today."
Lilly reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "The school is still fine with you starting next week if you need a few more days to settle in."
"No," I say quickly. Tim, who is best friends with the principal, had to pull a lot of strings to get me off the waiting list for Granada Hills Charter School. Not only would delaying my start look bad, but I need to keep busy. Distractions, goals, are what keep me sane.
"You'll never convince her. Maddie loves school."
Mom crosses the room and takes the seat opposite. She's made an effort as usual—fitted, pressed jumpsuit, dark hair carefully scraped into a bun—but her brown skin looks ashen, her dark eyes plagued by dark circles. They're partly hereditary—like mine—but have worsened from sleepless nights.
My hand extends to hers, squeezing it tight. Maybe she was happy and confident once, but if so, I don't remember it. I have only ever known this version of my mother, quiet and withdrawn, preferring to retreat inside of herself than contribute to discussion. Lilly and the others put it down to the split, but the truth is, my mother was like this long before we left.
"Like mother like daughter, then," Lilly says. "You used to make Mom drop us at school early just so you could be there before everyone else, remember?"
"I remember," Mom says. She grabs the pitcher of orange juice, pouring herself a glass. She pauses, then, "I've been meaning to ask how they're doing. It's been a while since I've, well—"
"They're both great. Can you believe they're in the Bahamas? Tim and I are thinking of traveling once the boys leave for college in the fall. Europe maybe, or the Caribbean. We're undecided."
Mom's expression clouds over. We're going somewhere fancy this year, Dad would say. The Caribbean, or Turks and Caicos—somewhere hot. He never meant a word of it, but the hard part was never the lying. It was knowing he was lying and wanting to believe him, anyway.
"How's the job hunt going, Lori?" Tim asks. "You're a photographer, right?"
Her eyes suddenly dart to her lap. "I was. I mean, I am." She's nervous, I can tell by the way she stumbles over her words. Dad might as well be standing over her shoulder, breathing down her neck. Did you just look at him, Lori? Are you flirting with him? "I haven't really done much lately. Henry worked so hard that he felt I didn't need a job, and looking after Maddie was pretty much a full-time job." She shoots me a playful look and adds, "I'm just going to get a job in a store, or something."
Lately is an understatement. Mom worked as a freelance photographer for a while but quit when Dad complained she wasn't spending enough time with her family. She turned it into a hobby instead, turning the fourth bedroom into her private studio, and she'd lock herself away for hours, flicking through the pictures she'd taken, editing them on her computer. It was rare that she'd let us in, so being in there always felt like a special occasion, like seeing a part of my mother she tried to keep hidden.
Then one night, as I worked on my homework upstairs, she screamed. I ran downstairs to see what was wrong, finding her in a ball in her studio, rocking back and forth. Her camera was gone from its stand.
For a split second, I wondered if Dad had something to do with it. While he was known to be controlling, impatient at times, he knew how much that camera meant to my mother, there's just no way he would have touched it.
When he finally came home, he peeled off his coat and hung it on the coat stand before placing his briefcase by his feet. Mom rushed to him sobbing, begging him to tell her what he'd done with her camera. Dad just looked at her, eyebrows furrowed, an innocent frown on his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about. What's going on?"
"Mom can't find her camera," I said. "We've looked everywhere." It was a running joke in our family that my harebrained mother would lose her head if it wasn't screwed on, but this was the first time she'd lost something so valuable—both in price and sentimentally.
"I haven't seen it," he said, and he pulled my mother into his arms, stroking her hair as he cradled her close. "I'm always telling you not to leave things lying around," he said softly. "Aren't I always telling you that?" But whatever she said was muffled by his cotton shirt. "We'll find it, Lori, I promise." But we never did find it, and Mom never went in her studio again. The camera was gone, just like the last of Mom's will to live.
Mom's still staring at the table in a trance, so I wave the breadbasket in front of her. "Make sure you have something to eat."
She snaps to attention. "Oh, I don't really have much of an appetite. I would love some coffee, though."
Tim rushes to the table with the coffee pitcher. "I'm not much of a breakfast person either, Lori." He pats his gut, which is slightly bulging beneath his T-shirt. "Breakfast is what left me with this little fella. Well, donuts for breakfast, specifically." He hovers a moment for some kind of response, but he's not going to get one.
"These pancakes are amazing," I say to fill the silence.
For as long as I can remember, I have been Mom's buffer to the outside world. The one who talks to the cashiers at the supermarket, or who thanks the delivery driver or answers the phone. I am the mouthpiece for a woman who lost her voice.
"I'm glad someone appreciates my culinary skills," Tim says. "Lill always sticks to that cardboard-tasting toast, and the boys are never up early enough to eat anything other than an apple on the way out the door. My potential is wasted."
Right on cue, the twins drag themselves into the kitchen, where they grab an apple from the fruit bowl. Tim gives me a look as if to say, I told you so, and I get to my feet, kissing my mother on the cheek.
"I love you," she says.
"I love you," I say back.