Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [15]
“Arden … It’s not … It’s nothing … We were just … She was upset, you know? And I was …”
Arden throws a beer bottle at him. It smashes against the chimney. The shouting starts.
“You better go,” he tells me.
I do. Quickly. Down the ladder, down three endless flights of stairs, and out the door. I’m halfway down Pineapple Street but I can still hear them shouting on the roof.
“I can’t believe you! I don’t mean anything to you, do I?”
“I told you it was nothing!”
It never is. Never was. Why didn’t I jump when I had the chance?
8
“Mom?” I shout as I open the door to my house. No answer, which is not unusual, but the fact that the house is all lit up is. “Why is it so bright in here?” I mutter. “Mom?”
Footsteps come, hard and quick, from the parlor.
“Where were you?”
That voice. Those words. They stop me cold. They were exactly what he said to me that morning. The day Truman died. Only he shouted them at me. Over and over again.
“Well, hey, Dad,” I say. “Long time, no see. How’s all that D, N, and A?”
“Where were you?”
“At a party. At the Goodes’ house.”
“The Goodes? Andi, don’t tell me you’re dating Nick Goode.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God.”
“I’m dating Rupert.”
His face darkens. “Is that supposed to be funny? Because it’s not. Why do you always have to be so …”
Horrible? Terrible? Downright shitty? So I can pretend we’re standing ten feet apart with no hugs, hellos, or how-are-yous after not seeing each other for four months because I’m being shitty. Not because we hate each other.
“… caustic. This is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable. Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About Nick’s party?” I say, confused.
“About St. Anselm’s! About your grades. The paintings. Your mother. Why on earth didn’t you tell me about her?”
I panic. “What’s wrong? Where is she? Does she know you’re here?”
I’m scared that he’s upset her. He has a way of doing that. I blow by him and run into the parlor. To my relief, she’s there. Painting. Just painting.
“Hey, Mom,” I say. “You hungry? Want some cereal?”
She shakes her head.
“Dad? Cereal?”
“No, I—”
“Toast?”
“What I want is an explanation!” he shouts, gesturing to the walls.
“They’re paintings. Mom’s a painter, remember?”
He turns around in a slow circle. “Every wall is covered with paintings. Completely covered.”
He’s right about that. She’s started to nail them to the ceiling.
“There must be two hundred of them,” he says. “All of Truman. How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know. A few months.”
“Months?”
“Look, she’s happier this way. When she’s painting she isn’t crying or screaming or throwing things, okay? What do you want, Dad? Why’d you come?”
He stops staring at the ceiling and stares at me. “Because I …” he begins. But his words fall away. He looks confused. He looks flustered and sorry. Like you do when you run up to someone you think you know and take her arm and she turns around and you were wrong.
“Because I got a letter from St. Anselm’s,” he finally says. “I called you about it. Twenty times. No one answered. I left messages. No one called back. So I got on a plane. Ms. Beezemeyer says you’re failing all your classes. That you’re going to be expelled. What the hell is going on, Andi? Are you taking your pills?”
“Yes, I’m taking my pills, and for the record, I’m not failing all my classes. I got an A in music. Did Beezie mention that?”
He doesn’t hear me. Or pretends he doesn’t.
“Two years ago, you were a straight-A student. You won prizes in French and biology.”
“And music.”
“I don’t understand this. I don’t understand you. What’s happened to you?”
I look at him in disbelief. “Are you serious? You’re asking me that? Seriously? Did you catch Alzheimer’s or something?”
He’s silent for a few seconds. All I can hear is the sound of Mom’s brush against her canvas and the mantel clock ticking.
Then he says, “Damn it, Andi, Truman’s dead.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So let him go.”
“Just like you’ve done, right? New life. No strife.”
“Truman died. Truman. Not you,” he says.
“I know. Unfortunate, isn’t it? For