Ink Is Thicker Than Water (27 page)

It’s about a week later when Dad knocks on my door (a somewhat big occasion, as we’ve mostly been keeping to ourselves). I minimize my chat windows with Adelaide, Chelsea, and Jessie, and make this big show of looking over my copy of
Macbeth
.

“You have a minute, kiddo?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I’m glad you’ve been spending more time here lately, don’t get me wrong, but you think maybe it’s time you head back to your mom’s?”

“Right now?”

Dad laughs like that’s actually funny. He is still pretty weird. “Not this second. Just later this week? Soon? Mel’s got to be missing you.”

“You don’t miss me when I’m not here?”

“It’s different, kiddo,” he says, which isn’t at all what I want him to say. “But you’re welcome here, Kellie, you know that.”

I’m really happy to hear that, which then makes me really sad. Being wanted at your dad’s shouldn’t be some cause for celebration.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me, and this is probably the first time he seems to have accurately picked up on one of my emotions.

“Nothing,” I say, but then I change my mind. Honesty, self. “I know you wish I was more like Sara and less of a screwup. But I’m just me and I wish you could finally be okay with that.”

Dad’s eyes go really wide, and I laugh despite that this is kind of a serious moment.

“I don’t wish that,” he says.

“Dad, come on. You’re always saying stuff about how Sara never gets Bs or that I could take things more seriously—”

“Well, you could, kiddo. I can tell how smart and talented you are, and sometimes it’s like you go out of your way not to make use of any of that.”

I shrug. “I’ve been trying not to be like that lately. I just wish I didn’t have to figure out what to achieve so you’ll finally be proud of me.”

“Maybe I’m bad at showing it, but of course I’m proud of you, Kellie.” He ruffles my hair. “Okay?”

“Proud of me for what?” I laugh so I won’t cry. Crying out of happiness always feels so goofy. “Give me a specific example.”

“Always trying to take such good care of your whole family,” he says. “And you’re a very clever writer. Maybe next year for the paper you could—”

“Stop talking,” I say because I can tell the nice stuff will be over any minute. “And thank you.”

“Have you been thinking about our trip?” Dad nods to the college guide he gave me that, truthfully, I’ve been looking through more and more lately.

“A little.” I haven’t highlighted or flagged any pages, but I do have a small list started. “We’re definitely going?”

“Sure. Start a list, we’ll get a route planned.”

I really like the sound of it and that I’ve already made the right first step, so I promise I will. I also promise I’ll at least think about going back to Mom’s soon.

The thing is, I want to return with Sara in tow. There isn’t any proof my twice-daily text plan is breaking any ground, of course. Still it feels good not to be completely out of contact with my sister—one-sided still counts, doesn’t it? And how great will it be to walk back into the little house on Summit Avenue a hero, our prodigal Sara returned to us?

Still, I can’t avoid the inevitable forever, and maybe that’s how long Sara will be gone. Also I want to work on this part of my rep or whatever I’m comfortable with. And being honest doesn’t seem to go with hiding out at Dad’s.

Not forever at least.

Chapter Twenty-six

It’s Thursday of the next week when Adelaide brings fliers about a writing competition to English class and gives me my own copy before handing the others off to Jennifer. My instinct is to shove it into my bag without a second look, until it hits me that would be incredibly stupid. After all, not only do I actually
like
writing now, but people seem to think I’m at least okay at it.

“You really think I should enter?” I ask Adelaide, since I’m still getting used to this whole idea of not sucking at everything useful, not because I’m fishing for compliments or anything. (Okay, I am fishing a little.)

“Hmmm.” She seems to consider this. “No, but only because I want less competition.”

I could have jumped up and hugged her right there.

So I’m going to say that it’s my excuse, or my proof of, well,
something.
Because even though ideas for an essay are flooding my brain, I shove them aside and spend the day writing something else instead. Normally, I just write my “Ticknor Ticker” columns to crack myself up, but next week’s is going to be different, even if at our meeting I said I’d be writing about standardized testing.

When I turn it in to Adelaide, she slips it back to me. I’m expecting a big note like,
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, BROOKS?
but she just has her standard edit notes for me and a smiley face.

“Kellie!” Jessie flags me down after our last class on Friday, and I realize she’s standing with Kaitlyn. “I read your column for Monday.”

“Oh, um, cool,” I say, even though I’d kind of forgotten that even if you write something super personal, if it’s for the paper, other people will read it.

“It’s really good; I related to it a lot.”

“We’re getting coffee,” Kaitlyn says. “Do you want to come with us and get your stupid hot cocoa?”

She grins as she says it, so I agree. And we grab Chelsea on our way out, who has typical Mitchell-type complaints, and Kaitlyn tells us how disappointing it was when she finally made out with Garrett because apparently he’s not that great of a kisser, and I feel okay admitting to everyone that Oliver and I are on a break. It’s not the most personal conversation in the world, but everyone has advice. Maybe at this very moment I don’t have anyone I could call at one a.m., but maybe before long I will again.

After school on Monday, I drive up to U City, ignore the car in the driveway, and reread my column and attached Post-It one more time before sealing the
Ticknor Voice
in an envelope labeled
Sara
and leaving it in the mailbox.

SARA! We’re not allowed to dedicate our columns to people (I asked), but if we could, this one would be for you. Let’s talk about everything. Whether or not you want to come back, I think I can ask this much, I hope? So let’s meet tomorrow: 4pm at the Old Orchard Starbucks, totally safe, no one we know goes there. Love, your sister, Kellie

The Ticknor Ticker

Bravery (It’s Not Funny)

By Kellie Brooks

I always thought I was brave. Being brave seemed the best thing a person could be. You could defeat anything or at least not be afraid of it as it defeated you.

Earlier this year it started hitting me that maybe I wasn’t actually that brave, at least not all the time. This seems like a pretty obvious statement, because who’s brave all the time? Even lion tamers probably cry over a breakup, and astronauts might get a little freaked out if their best friend wasn’t returning their texts. I don’t know why I thought I was some magical exception, when in all truth I wouldn’t even be comfortable one-on-one with a lion or the depths of space.

This probably seems like a personal topic and not something to be explored in my column, not like a universal issue like why the lunch courtyard still smells a little like poop. But I’ve been so preoccupied this year trying to be what I thought everyone expected of me that I got tackled by change. And once I started worrying a little less about being brave and more about being honest, everything’s been easier.

Change doesn’t have to be the end of the world anyway. What if no one had invented the wheel or iPhones or hot cocoa? Those probably all seemed like crazy ideas at the time, but we’d live in a horrible place without that stuff.

So, my advice—not that anyone’s specifically asked for it—is to just worry about being you and letting other people be them. Life works a lot better that way.

When I pull into the parking lot at Starbucks the next afternoon, the nearest empty spot is right next to Sara’s car, and I feel my heart soar. I wasn’t really sure my column would work—and maybe it won’t, not completely—but it’s a start.

Sara’s sitting on one of the plush purple chairs inside, and I force myself not to barrel into her for a hug like Finn would. “Hey.”

“Hi, Kellie.” She doesn’t get up, so I just sit down across from her in the other purple chair.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, instead of telling her how great she looks, because she does, new haircut and highlights or something, like she isn’t perfect enough as is. Also she’s wearing jeans and a sweater, not her uniform, and it’s always sort of special seeing her in anything but.

She opens up her cell and shows me her text message inbox.
KELLIE KELLIE KELLIE DEXTER KELLIE
. “I never realized you’re so…”

“Annoying?”

“Tenacious. Let’s get cocoa.”

“Definitely.”

I follow her to order our drinks and then settle back in the purple chair with my hands around the warm cardboard cup. I haven’t really thought my plan out past getting her here.

“Sorry about the other week,” she says. “We should have just talked then, I know. You just really caught me off guard.”

I nod. “Me, too. I mean, if you needed some space to think or whatever, I guess I could have tried to give that to you.”

“I know I messed up,” she says. “Not with you—not
just
with you
.
”

“Yeah,” I say and want to punch myself almost as soon as it’s out of my mouth for not just forgiving her and hugging my arms around her and saying something like,
We’ll be okay forever and ever from now on.
Honesty, though.

She shrugs, leaning over so her blond hair falls in front of her face like a shampoo commercial. “Camille gets it. You know? I know it’s a really clichéd accusation to make, but Mom’s never understood me. I know she’s proud of me—”

“Mom’s not exactly shy about telling us that.”

“Well, right. I always feel like I’m a letdown, though. You’re so creative, and Mom’s so
interested
in your life. I feel so dull. Dexter seemed like the only exciting thing I’ve ever done.”

We both giggle at how sexual that sounded, like perverted little kids.

“I just always thought it evened out,” I say. “
More than
evened out. Considering Dad—”

“I know it seems like that,” Sara says. “But it’s not like he seems much more interested, as long as I keep up my 4.0 and follow in his footsteps.”

“Do you even want to be a lawyer?”

She shakes her head and laughs. I join in. “Dad just expects so much, and Mom expects so little. And then I met Camille and it was as if someone finally saw me as I am.”

“I totally get that,” I say.

“Really?” She sounds genuine so I don’t protest. “I read your column, but still, someone like you—”

“Someone like
me
? What does that even mean? I’m frigging
nobody
.”

“Right, yeah, you’re just really funny and interesting, and you always have people to hang out with, and…” She pauses and blinks a few times, and it really takes me this long to realize that Sara is crying. “Anyone can make people proud the way I do. You have so much more going for you. It makes me crazy you act like that isn’t true.”

“We should just stick together,” I say. “Our powers combined can rule the world.”

Sara laughs again, which is much better to hear. “I like the way you think.” She bows her head down for a few moments, but I know her well enough to give her the time to get her thoughts together. “This might sound kind of strange, but I just needed to keep Camille all to myself. I didn’t want her getting your or Mom’s version of me, definitely not
Dad’s
. With Camille everything felt pretty limitless, which I don’t think I’ve ever had. I could be whoever I wanted to be, which, honestly, was just myself.”

“I never used to realize people needed fresh starts when they were in high school,” I say. “Like it feels like it’s this big thing I’m on newspaper and trying to be…”

“More?” Sara asks gently.

“More.
Exactly
.”

We exchange smiles.

I pause before I say the next thing, because it is really nosy and I’m not even sure I want the answer, especially after having this amazing little connected mind-meld thing. “So is Camille, like, your mom now?”

Sara shakes her head for a long time. “Camille’s important to me, and always will be part of my life. But Mom’s my mom.”

“So then you’ll come back home?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy, Kell,” she says. “I’ve hurt Mom a lot. I can’t just walk in and have things be fine now.”

“No, but…” I rack my brain for ways to end the sentence. I guess the truth will have to do. “I hurt Mom a lot, too.”

“Right,” she says. “As if that’s even possible with you two.”

So I tell her. I repeat the terrible things I said, and I tell her how Mom cried and I did nothing. And I even tell her about that disappointed look on Russell’s face, even though it hurts my stomach just to think about it.

But then I keep going. I guess I’m getting better at thinking on the fly, because all of a sudden I see so clearly this plan that is going to fix everything. So—making up big chunks of it as I go—I lay it all out for her. I know from her raised eyebrows she is dubious, but I’ve found I’m really good at winning people over through sheer enthusiasm. How else would my little brother be so okay with eating vegan cheese?

“I don’t know,” is all she says at the end of it.

“You can’t hide out forever,” I say. “And I can’t, either.”

She is silent as she sips her drink. I feel her slipping away from me again.