And yet . . . I can’t get that image of myself out of my head. Chin tilted up, shoulders pushed back, walking with pride and self-assurance. Like Keiko does. The way she carries herself is something I’ve always admired. It’s like she knows she’s beautiful and deserving; like she knows she’s worth something. I want that for myself. I want that so badly it churns in my chest, a sinkhole forming in my ribcage.
It’s how I feel around my dads, I realize with a pang. Loved and wanted and respected. They make me feel funny, smart, beautiful. Special. Like nobody in the world could interest or inspire them more than me.
That’s it. That’s the way I want to feel all the time, no matter where I am or who I’m with. Because it’s the greatest feeling in the entire world.
Suddenly I identify the strange hollowness I experienced when I looked at the pictures on Vati’s computer. This time next year, I’ll be living hundreds of miles away from my dads. What if I never get to feel that special again? What if I go through my college career – and the rest of my life – feeling the same way I do when Haruki Ito looks at me with nothing but apathy? The thought sends a lance of sadness through my heart.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach under my bed for my purse and pull out my debit card. A potentially imbecilic use of my birthday cheques, but the red-wine buzz has taken the edge off my inhibitions.
The Matching Hypothesis has been proven countless times. But what if this is the antidote?
4
The house is dank. The walls are dark. I’ve been here before.
The ceiling shifts and warps, and I know I am alone. I am small, and so terribly, terribly alone. My body tries to sweat, tries to cry, but there’s nothing left inside. I am a husk, and the end is near. The walls bleed darkness, and the darkness bleeds fear.
Somewhere, a door opens.
I jolt awake, my snoozed alarm blaring into the sun-dappled room. Heart thudding, I turn it off and throw the tangled duvet off my sweaty legs.
I fucking hate that dream.
Every single morning, without fail. In that half-sleep, half-wake state of lucid cloudiness, the exact same dream. I push my fingers into my eyes until they turn into kaleidoscopes, forcing out the mental image of that damn room.
I was adopted by my dads when I was tiny, and I think these dreams are memories of my past life – of which I recall almost nothing. I have no reason to. Whoever my birth mother was, she’s not around anymore. And my dads are. So why does my subconscious torture me? Why does it force me back into that room day after day after day?
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams, or flashbacks, or whatever the hell they are, while I’m dozing. And I still don’t have the self-control to stop snoozing my alarm. Figures.
I pad downstairs in my Buckbeak slippers. Dad, who is much more well-rested than Vati and thus less likely to replace the sugar with arsenic, lays out the usual breakfast buffet. This sounds impressive, but really it’s just a bunch of half-eaten boxes of cereal arranged by sugar content. As usual, I reach for the higher end of the spectrum, while Dad chows down on some sort of bran-based atrocity, washed down with tap water. Vati isn’t into breakfast, so he pours himself a giant coffee and slumps into the third chair. For all his japes and hijinks, he is not a morning person.
‘What are you guys doing today?’ I ask, crunching into a brimming bowl of Lucky Charms. I chuck one to Sirius under the table, but he just stares at it like it’s a hand grenade.
Dad finishes his mouthful of bran before responding plainly, ‘I plan to visit the police station, on account of the fact we have been burgled.’
Vati and I both gape at him. ‘What?’
‘It is the most likely explanation.’
I look at Dad in bewilderment. ‘Explanation for what?’
‘The missing object.’ His face betrays no emotion or affectation. He is impossible to read, even when you’ve lived with him as long as I have. You’d have more luck trying to psychoanalyze a park bench.
Vati drains his coffee mug and immediately pours another. ‘What’s missing?’
‘Well, Felix, during my bi-weekly kitchen stock-take this morning, I discovered a discrepancy in the quantity of wine glasses in the bar cabinet. Wine glasses are sold in boxes of four or six, to reflect the nonsensical societal preference for even numbers, and yet our cabinet currently contains a mere five glasses. Having checked the trash to ensure none had been smashed or discarded, I deduced that one had been stolen in the night. Would you like to accompany me to the police station?’
Shit! The wine glass! I was so caught up in my covert pill-purchasing operation that I forgot to return the glass to the cabinet. It’s still on my bedside, burgundy dregs turning to syrup in the bottom. I shoot Vati a panicked look, and he immediately understands what’s happened.
Unfortunately, so does Dad.
‘I see.’ Dad lays down his spoon and folds his arms. This is much more serious than it sounds, because there’s still bran cereal floating in the milk. Dad is not one to compromise the structural integrity of his breakfast by leaving it to swim in half-and-half. ‘And how long have you suffered from alcoholism, Caro?’
I splutter, trying to compose myself. ‘I’m not an alcoholic! I just had half a glass of red wine last night, that’s all. Eighteen is the legal drinking age in Europe.’
‘You’re seventeen. And this is South Carolina.’
I try to fight the urge to roll my eyes. ‘I’m not an alcoholic.’
‘Why did you want a glass of wine?’
I shrug, pushing Lucky Charms around my bowl with my spoon. ‘I dunno. I’d had a crappy day, alright?’
Dad nods knowingly. ‘Classic sign of addiction.’
Bless his soul, Vati breaks the tension with a bark of laughter. ‘Lay off her, Michael. It was one kleine glass of wine. No big deal. You’re not going to do it again, are you Caro?’
‘No.’ I suspect this might be a lie, but still.
‘And you’re going to return the wine glass to the cabinet in immaculate condition, right?’
‘Yep. Ja.’
‘So, there’s no problem, is there?’ Vati smiles, even though it looks to be causing him great physical pain. ‘You don’t have to attend the police station today, Michael.’
Dad rises from the table, pours his ruined cereal into the sink, and starts toward the door. ‘Perhaps I shall research the best juvenile rehabilitation programmes instead.’
I look at Vati, and we both press our lips together to keep from laughing. I polish off my cereal before the hilarity can escape. ‘Okay, I gotta get to school.’
‘Good luck with your seduction today.’ He winks in a horrifying sort of manner.
As a furious blush spreads across my cheeks, I roll my eyes again. ‘You’re the worst.’
‘Danke,’ he says earnestly, bowing like some kind of royal thespian.
After the last class of the day, I meet Gabriela at Keiko’s locker and we catch up about our days, since we all take such different classes. Keiko does most of the talking, as per, about how her art teacher is a pervert and her drama teacher is the single best human being on this earth.
Slamming her locker shut and popping a stick of gum into her mouth, Keiko says, ‘What shall we do this weekend? My parents and dweeb sister are out of town and I don’t have any gigs, so it’s on y’all to entertain me.’