We Are All Made of Molecules (21 page)

ASHLEY AND PHIL STARTED
to clean up while I searched the house for Schrödinger. I tried to tell myself he was just in a really good hiding spot, because he's a master at good hiding spots. But I couldn't find him. Later in the morning, Phoebe and Violet came over to help with the cleaning (Alistair was long gone; he'd called his mom to pick him up after the cops arrived). When I told them I couldn't find Schrödinger, the three of us took the search outside, wandering the streets and shouting his name.

As we walked, I told them that Ashley had come clean to Phil and me about the text she'd sent Jared. When we checked his Twitter and Facebook accounts we discovered that he'd tweeted and posted our address, along with the message:
New Year's Bash! BYOB!

“I
knew
he was a creep,” Phoebe said.

I didn't tell them that Ashley had taken me aside at one point and asked me exactly what had happened in her room. “Do you really want to know?”

She'd nodded, so I told her everything.

“Oh my God,” she'd said. “If you hadn't taken his phone…I don't know what to say.”

“How about
thanks
?”

Her lip had trembled. “Thank you, Stewart. I mean it. If those photos had gotten out…” Then she'd started to cry.

Phil had decided he had to let Dad and Caroline know what had happened, so they cut their vacation short and took a morning ferry back from the island.

Phoebe and Violet wisely left before they got home.

We still hadn't found Schrödinger.

When Dad and Caroline arrived, they walked through the house, surveying the damage. We'd cleaned up the worst of it, but the carpets would still have to be professionally cleaned. The hole in the foyer would have to be repaired and painted. At least two hundred dollars' worth of booze had been stolen. And Caroline's iPad, which she'd left in the living room, was gone.

“How could you let this happen?” she said to Phil.

“That's not fair, Caroline,” he said. “I couldn't predict there'd be an accident on the highway.”

She must have realized this was true, because she turned to glare at Ashley and me instead. “And you two. How could you?”

“We never meant for it to happen,” said Ashley.

“You will both pay for the damage.” Caroline's voice was shaking. “Every last penny.”

“Now, just a second here,” said my dad. “From what I understand, Stewart isn't to blame. He tried to do the right thing.”

“So you're pinning all of this”—Caroline swept her hand around the room—“on Ashley?”

“Stewart didn't send out any texts. Stewart didn't get loaded. Stewart tried to get in touch with Phil, and eventually called the police. Stewart isn't the one who showed a complete lack of judgment—”

“I'm not sure it's fair to blame everything on our daughter,” Phil said.

“I'm not,” said my dad. “I blame you, too. You were supposed to be supervising!”

Ashley started to cry again. While the adults continued arguing, I slipped out of the room and began yet another methodical room-to-room search for Schrödinger. He was all I could think about. If he wasn't in the house, it meant he was outside. He was an indoor cat. He didn't understand what cars were; he didn't understand what coyotes were. He'd be like a Happy Meal to any wildlife.

When I still couldn't find him, I told the others I was going out to search for him again. Dad and Phil offered to come. So did Ashley. I told her I didn't want her help.

Dad, Phil, and I walked around the neighborhood, expanding my earlier search with Phoebe and Violet. We called Schrödinger's name over and over. Then we decided to search the alleys. We headed down the lane that ran behind our house, whistling and shouting. “Schrödinger! Schrödinger!”

Suddenly, Phil sucked in his breath. “Oh.”

My heart leapt. “Do you see him?”

Phil didn't answer. He just stared. I followed his gaze, and a truly awful day became even worse.

A single word was spray-painted in big black letters on the side of his laneway house, for the world to see.

FAGGOT
.

FOR THE SECOND TIME
in less than twenty-four hours, the police had to come to our house. They took photos of the graffiti, and they asked my dad a lot of questions. A bunch of our neighbors came outside to see what was going on, which I admit made me super-squirmy, because now it felt like the whole wide world knew my dad was gay. It wasn't just the graffiti; Michael showed up and held my dad in front of everyone. Most of the neighbors were really sympathetic, but the Burgesses from two houses down didn't hide their looks of disapproval, and we're pretty sure they're the ones who slipped a piece of paper under my dad's door a few days later with the word
Repent
written on it.

When the police were done questioning my dad, they talked to me and Stewart. We all sat in the dining room,
including Mom, Dad, and Leonard. “We understand you had a party that got out of control last night,” one of the policemen said. “Any idea who might have spray-painted your dad's house?”

I'm not proud of what I did next, okay? But in my defense, I already knew that school was going to be a total nightmare when we went back. Ratting Jared out would only make things worse.

So I shook my head. “No. I can't think of anyone.”

Stewart looked at me across the table with total one hundred percent absolute disgust. Then he turned to the cops. “
I
can,” he said. “I know exactly who did it. His name is Jared Mitchell.” He told the cops about what Jared had done at his old school. Then he told them everything that had happened the night before. And I mean everything.

Mom started to cry when he told the police about the photos Jared had taken. “That little shit,” she said, which was harsh for her because she never swears. Dad and Leonard looked shaken, too. I just sat silently, my face crimson red.

I couldn't make eye contact with my dad. I felt completely one hundred percent totally ashamed, on so many different levels. Why hadn't I stopped seeing Jared weeks ago when he'd first acted creepy? Why did I have to let Stewart be the one to say Jared's name, even though I was the one who should be standing up for my dad? I still couldn't quite believe that Jared had betrayed me in so many different and horrible ways.

The police took a lot of notes. They asked if any of the photos were in circulation, because if so, they might be able to press charges. Stewart told them about the bus. They
commended him on his quick thinking, but they also said that without any evidence, there wasn't much they could do. “That was so brave of you, Stewart,” my mom said, and she gave him a huge hug.

No one hugged me.

We found out later that the police did question Jared about the graffiti. I know because Jared's dad called our house the next night. Leonard spoke to him. Jared's dad shouted that there was no proof his son had done anything wrong. We could all hear him even though Leonard had the phone to his ear. Leonard very calmly told him that he should have his son assessed for behavioral issues, at which point Jared's dad hung up. The next day a letter was couriered to our front door. It was from the Mitchells' lawyer, telling us to
“cease and desist with slanderous accusations”
or they would press charges.

Leonard looked like he was going to explode. He tapped out an angry response on his laptop that included the line:
If your son comes anywhere near my stepdaughter, you will have me to contend with
.

What on earth would you do?
I thought.
Put on your fencing gear, shout “en garde,” and challenge him to a duel?
But it felt really good to have Leonard on my side. I didn't even mind that he'd called me his stepdaughter. I helped him Google the Mitchells' postal code; then we walked together to the mailbox with the letter. Mom tried to talk us out of it, but we mailed it anyway.

I dreaded going back to school. I tried to call Lauren to see what she'd heard, but my calls just went to her voice mail, which was weird.

I spent the last few days of the Christmas holidays holed up in my bedroom and feeling like crap. Mom and Leonard were arguing a lot about small things. A couple of months ago, this might have made me happy, but now it just made me feel worse than I already did. On the weekend I helped Dad and Michael paint over the horrible word, and I swear I could feel Michael's disappointment in me. Even though he never said it, I was sure he wondered why I hadn't done more to stand up for my dad. In fact, I was sure that all the adults in my life felt like I'd personally let them down.

Even Stewart was in a terrible mood. I felt awful that Shock Plug was missing. I'd grown to love that ugly beast. But when he wasn't out searching for him, Stewart spent all his time in his room under that stupid afghan. It wasn't healthy. When I tried to suggest he get out from under it and stop moping, he flipped out and said some very hurtful things, which I guess I deserved.

Then it was Monday, and we had to go back to school. Within the first five minutes, things went from bad to worse. 'Cause the first person I saw when I stepped through the main doors was Jared.

And he had his arm around Lauren.

WHEN I WASN'T LOOKING
for Schrödinger I spent the rest of the holidays in my room, curled up under my mom's afghan, breathing in her molecules. It felt so cozy and warm under there that I would often fall asleep and dream about her. She would come to me and hold me to her and whisper into my ear. I could never remember what she'd said, but I always woke up feeling happy—until I remembered where I was.

I think my dad was worried because he made an emergency appointment for me with Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich.

As per usual, Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich did an excellent job of helping me put my feelings into words. I told her that losing Schrödinger made me feel almost as bereft as I had when my mom died, which seemed completely cuckoo.

But Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich didn't think it was cuckoo. “You suffered a huge loss when your mom died. Schrödinger could never replace your mother, but he filled in a tiny bit of the hole that was left. Now that he's disappeared, the hole's expanded again. It reawakens the pain of losing your mother. You have every right to grieve, Stewart. You're grieving for Schrödinger, but you're also grieving for your mom.”

Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich is very good at what she does.

What I didn't tell Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich is that on top of feeling depressed, I am also feeling a lot of anger. Especially toward Ashley.

Albert Einstein once said, “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the universe.” Ashley's stupidity is infinite. She came into my room on the weekend. I think she was trying to cheer me up. “If Shock Plug doesn't come back, we can go to the SPCA and get you a new cat,” she said.

I wanted to throw something at her head. “His name is Schrödinger. And I don't want a new cat.”

“But we could find you a really cute one this time—”

“Shut up, Ashley.”

Suddenly she was tugging at my afghan. “C'mon, Stewart. Get out from under that stupid blanket. All this moping is getting you nowhere, it's a mute point—”

“
Moot
point. Not
mute
point! You call my afghan stupid? My afghan is a genius compared to you! None of this,
none of this
, would have happened if you hadn't been such a complete and utter moron!”

Her eyes filled with tears, but I didn't care. I wasn't done. “Not only are you dumb as a post, you're
mean
. You're so
worried about yourself and your image you don't care what happens to other people. Even your own dad!”

“That's not true,” she started, but I cut her off.

“And to think I was excited to move in with you. All you do is mock me. You call me a nerd, a freakazoid, just because I don't worry constantly about what other people might think of me, just because I'm
smart
. If that's what being a nerd means, then fine. I'd rather be a nerd than a coward.”

“I'm not a coward.”

“You are the Webster's dictionary definition of a coward,” I said. “I can't believe I ever wanted you for a sister. Now please—just leave.”

She left. And I crawled back under the afghan.