Abandon - Meg Cabot [83]
And it had all kind of hit me. It was too much. All of it. I was going to have these people in my house, building a coffin that had something to do with a guy who was the ruler of this Underworld that none of them knew existed, right underneath the island on which they’d lived their whole lives.…
If a hurricane did come and wipe all of us out, at least I wouldn’t have to deal.
But that was no way, I knew, to cope with my problems. Nor was calling my dad and telling him I’d decided to take him up on his offer of boarding school.
Because I couldn’t help thinking Switzerland was sounding pretty tempting all of a sudden. It would break my mom’s heart, but she’d get over it if I convinced her it was so I’d have a better chance of getting into a decent college.
Surely, this would be better than telling her the truth…that I needed to get away from this crazy place she’d brought me to, which also happened to be on top of the exact place I’d spent every day since I’d died trying to forget.
I even went so far as to dial Dad’s number as I was sitting there in the garage — after carefully closing the door so Mom wouldn’t overhear.
“What?” Dad yelled, picking up on the first ring, as he always did when I called.
I could tell he was at a business dinner. I could hear the buzz of conversation and clink of cutlery in the background. Dad never ate at home. Why should he, when there was always some client willing to take him out to eat at one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants?
“Dad,” I said. “Is this a bad time?”
“Never,” he said. “I’m at that place we went, remember, with that glass wall of wine bottles that you said should spin around so you could just point to make your selection?” Suddenly, my dad was in a rage. “But they did not implement your suggestion! The racks still don’t spin!”
“They’re stupid,” I said. “Dad, I need your help. I have to get out of here.”
He sounded delighted, as I’d known he would be. I heard a snapping sound.
“Plane,” he said to someone. “Isla Huesos. Tomorrow.”
“It’s just,” I said, “there are some things going on. Mom’s great, you know —”
“Is she going out with anyone?” Dad asked, too casually.
“Uh,” I said. “What? No. Of course not. But —”
“What?” Dad was suddenly yelling. “No. I said the 2005 Chateau La Mission Haut Brion. Not the 2008. If I wanted the 2008, I’d have asked for the 2008. Are you people trying to kill me?”
I looked down at the diamond on the end of my gold chain. It was back to its usual color, pale gray on the edges and midnight blue inside.
What was I doing?
I couldn’t leave, I realized. Not now. Leaving now would be no better than crawling back inside my glass coffin.
“Dad,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Never mind. I —”
Dad got back on the phone with me. “Now they’re telling me there’s some kind of hurricane coming your way. Did you know this? I told your mother not to go back to that godforsaken hellhole.”
Hellhole. Dad, you have no idea.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “I changed my mind. I want to stay.”
“Pierce,” Dad said. “It’s fine. I can get the plane there. Just the commercial airport is closed. All the pilot has to do is land at the naval base, and then I can get this friend of mine to pick you and your mom up.”
“Look, Dad,” I said. “It’s fine. I just had a weak moment. I have to go. Mom’s calling me. Forget we had this conversation. I’ll talk to you at our usual time on Sunday.” I hung up.
Mom went to bed right after the news, which she always does. I took a shower and washed my hair, then threw on an ancient cami and pair of sleep shorts. By then the feeder band, or whatever it was, had died. The rain had stopped. Peeking out through the curtains of my bedroom window, I could see that the sky was completely clear and the stars were out. The lights Mom’s environmentally conscious landscaper had strategically planted at the base of a few of the royal palms in our backyard had come on and shined up against the trunks, even though my mom had fretted about “light pollution” and worried the lights would cause confusion