The Vow

Chapter 20

Mo

Did you know?” I ask.

“Hello to you too.” My father’s face on the computer screen is distorted, the webcam stretching his forehead and shrinking his chin. And the sound of his voice is a half second ahead of his moving lips. “Did I know what?”

“That Annie and I were committing a crime. That we were going to have to pretend to be married for real.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter if I knew. You didn’t consult me before you got married, remember?”

I lean back and fold my arms. He’s right. “But did you?”

“If you’re asking me if I know what marriage fraud is, the answer is yes.”

“Does Mom?”

He stares blankly, unimpressed by me, by the question, by Mom—it’s hard to tell which. Maybe all of the above. “Good question,” he mumbles.

I picture the triumphant look on her face at the Taylorsville courthouse. If she knew, it didn’t matter. It was more important to her that I stay. And that she win.

“Would it have changed anything if you had known?” he asks.

“No. But you should’ve told me.”

“Again, I had no idea you were considering it. You just ran off and got married behind my back.”

“I mean after,” I argue, knowing it’s pointless, that he’s right, that I’m the one who didn’t go to him for help. “You should’ve told me or helped me find out about a student visa for college or some other way to stay. Instead you just retreated and made your plans and ignored the rest of us because you didn’t care. You don’t care.” I stop for breath. I never talk to him like this. I’m not yelling, but my pulse is racing, and I’m telling him the truth. It’s disorienting.

“That’s a bit dramatic, Mo. You were the one who shut me out.”

“So what, you wanted to teach me a lesson because I went to Mom instead of you? You could’ve at least found me a real lawyer.”

“You asserted your independence,” he says. “I was letting you be your own man.”

“You washed your hands of me.”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t be paying your living expenses.” It’s the same even voice he uses with Mom, the same impassive look on his face. The screen between us and the out-of-sync audio don’t help. He seems like someone else. Or maybe I’m someone else. “Have you found a job yet?” he asks.

“Have you?”

He glares.

Ha. Finally, a crack in the stone. I’ve pissed him off, and I haven’t even shared my fabulous news yet. “Turns out I can’t work anyway,” I say, doing my best not to grin. “The genius law student you sent us to said it’ll take a few months for me to get work authorization. Probably more. I might as well go to basketball camp.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Work authorization. The form is being filed, but it takes—”

“I got that. I meant basketball camp. Obviously that’s out of the question, since I’ve already been reimbursed and your spot on the roster is long gone. You can spend the rest of the summer studying for the SATs and working through that reading list I gave you.”

I fight the urge to stand up and walk away from the computer. It’s not like I really thought I could still go, but he could’ve at least been more annoyed. Or apologetic. “Is Mom there?”

“She’s at the store. Sarina’s here, though. Do you want to talk to her?”

I did when we planned this call, but now I’m not sure I can hold a decent conversation with anyone. “I guess.”

Dad leaves. After a few seconds Sarina appears, and she looks okay. Thousands of pixels, thousands of miles, but she looks okay. I didn’t realize I was worried she wouldn’t be until now.

“Hey,” she says. “Your nose looks huge.”

“So does yours. It’s the webcam.”

“Oh. How’s it going?”

“Fine, I guess. Sort of weird being alone in the apartment, but I won’t be for long. Annie’s moving in.”

“I heard.”

“Yeah?” I say, trying to imagine the conversation that must have gone on after I called Dad on the way home from Sam’s. I can’t, though. I don’t understand them anymore. The who-knew-what, the who-was-right—that’s their fight. I don’t want to be on anyone’s side anymore.

“How’s Jordan?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Good, I guess. I feel a little lost with the language. It’ll come back though, right? That’s what everyone is telling me. It hasn’t been that long.”

I hate and love her optimism at the same time. “What about Teta and Jido? And are the crazy cousins still crazy?”

“Everyone’s good. Teta and Jido are making a big fuss over us, and the cousins generally ignore me, which is good.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t realize how rich Teta and Jido are,” she continues in a whisper, which is probably unnecessary with her Kentucky-accented English. “Do you remember their house?”

“Sort of.”

“It’s huge. And we have, like, servants. People actually do my laundry and make my bed. Oh, and there’s a cook and a driver. Can you believe that?”

“I’d sort of forgotten, but now that you mention it, I do remember getting in trouble for stealing food from some guy in a uniform with a beard.”

“That would be the cook,” she says. “Amir.”

“Wow. Seven years, same beard. Go, Amir.”

She laughs, but it’s tight and nervous. There’s more. I’m torn between wanting to hear it and hoping she doesn’t tell me everything. “Have you started school yet?”

“It’s summer here too,” she says.

“Right.”

“I went to mosque the other day.”

“Yeah? How was that?” I ask. We only went to mosque in Louisville a few times. I guess people were nice enough, but I always felt like such a fake. We were too far away from everyone to be part of any sort of Muslim community. Nobody else there was the only Muslim in their school.

“It was nice,” she says. “Teta goes all the time, so I go with her. Mom and Dad not so much. And I’ve started wearing a hijab when I go out.”

I try picturing Sarina’s face framed by a head scarf or anything but her light-brown hair, and I’m lost. “Do you hate it?”

“No. Actually, I kind of like it.”

I’m not sure what to say. A few weeks ago I would’ve been disturbed, borderline pissed, but now, not really. She doesn’t sound particularly miserable. Except then I remember who I’m talking to. Sarina would sing on her way to the guillotine. “Is Mom wearing it too?”

“Yeah. Most of the women here do. It isn’t so weird when everyone is doing it. In fact, I stood out more those first few days before I started. So, how’s Duchess?”

“Duchess?” It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about Satan’s Cat. “Still alive.”

“Tell me you’re being nice to her.”

“She’s getting free room and board at the illustrious Wisper Pines. That’s as much nice as I’ve got in me.”

“Seriously, just pet her every once in a while, okay?”

“That beast nearly clawed my eyes out last time I tried to touch her. Luckily for you, Annie seems to like her.”

“Good.”

She sounds relieved enough that I shelve the comment I was going to make about the rising black market rate of feral cat kidneys.

“So,” I say.

“So.”

But then there’s nothing to talk about. We’re not good at this—scheduled conversations, our noses too big, our words out of sync with our mouths. Even if we do this regularly, I have to assume the talking will just get harder and more unnatural as our worlds shift further and further apart. Until we don’t even know each other.

“So you’re coming over winter break?” she asks.

“Depends. Turns out I need special permission to leave and come back if I’m in the process of becoming a permanent resident.” Another of Sam’s bombshell revelations.

“Oh.”

“So Mom’s not there?” I ask even though Dad already told me.

“Nope.”

“Has she been a total basket case?”

“No. Yes. Both. Yo-yo. How’s Annie?”

“Fine.” I put my feet up on the coffee table, and Satan’s Cat hisses from her lookout. I flip her off.

“Are you giving me the finger? Was that Duchess?”

“No and yes.”

“Can I see her?”

“I couldn’t make that cat come to me if I was wearing a catnip suit.”

“Okay. Parting request, once she calms down, rub her belly for me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then ask Annie to.”

I roll my eyes. “If I remember.”

She smiles. “Thanks.

“You’re welcome.”

We hang up, and I stare at the empty Skype window.

Living alone sucks.

I could email Bryce. Yeah, I’ll do that. I open up a new email, ready to tell him the truth—or the lie that Annie and I are in the process of making true—but I can’t. I stare at the white screen and blinking cursor instead. There isn’t a good place to start. And I can’t even concentrate on it because as worried as I am about Bryce’s reaction, it’s not what’s really gnawing at me.

I’m worried about Annie.

She was so stalwart yesterday, a rock, an Amazon warrior, but then she had to go all comatose on me in the car after—how am I supposed to process that? I thought we were in the clear, but the delayed zombie routine means we’re definitely not. Not until she’s actually told her parents. If she’s even going to tell her parents.

Satan’s Cat thumps her tail against the wall.

“Stop it.”

She glares, keeps doing it.

“Seriously. Cut it out.”

It’s hypnotic, the swirly eyes, the rhythmic thump . . . thump . . . thump.

“I swear, I’ll put you in the bathroom.”

She smiles at me. It doesn’t seem like she should be able to, like that’s even anatomically possible for a cat, but I swear, she smiles, and that smile says Go ahead. Try.

I sigh. We both know I can’t put her in the bathroom without sustaining significant lacerations to my face.

I close my laptop, email unsent. Next week Bryce’ll be home for five whole days before he’s off to Greece. I’ll tell him then.

“Happy now?” I growl.

No answer. Just thump . . . thump . . . thump.

I spend the rest of the afternoon making room for Annie: cramming all of my clothes into the bottom two drawers, pushing my hangers to the left side of the closet, transferring my toiletries into just one of the drawers in the bathroom, clearing my books and retainer case from the bedside table. I strip the sheets and put clean ones on for her.

I’m not sure when I forget how miserable talking to my family made me, but I do. Somewhere between stuffing pillows into fresh pillowcases and scrubbing the toilet, the anger is replaced by a wave of sheer relief. Because Annie’s coming. And when she’s around I’m not spiraling toward insanity or begging the cat to stop screwing with me or worrying about Sarina. I get to live with my best friend. It’ll be fun. We’ll stay up late watching South Park reruns, and she can set up her easel in the corner of the family room where my boxes and junk used to be, and maybe she’ll even make some half-decent food every once in a while. Not like I’m expecting her to, but it’d be nice. I could offer tutoring for food. Or even better, she could teach me how to make some half-decent food for myself. That would work too.

The relief doesn’t last long before guilt finds me, prickles my skin like the glare of that evil, evil cat. I am one selfish bastard. I’m sitting here thinking about how awesome this extended slumber party is going to be when Annie is at home packing up her life. Closing down. Logging out. Shutting off.

It’s not that I don’t feel bad, because I do. But I didn’t ask her to do it. She dreamed it up and chose it again and again and again, even after I tried to talk her out of it. So maybe it makes me a jerk, but for the first time since my family left, I’m happy. After a few days of loneliness, living with Annie sounds like heaven.