After that, our friends cut their ties to me. They’ve known Luca longer. They like him better. Plus, he convinces them I’m creepy, I’m nerdy, I’moff,somehow. I stole his car.
From then on, I eat lunch on my own and don’t hang out with anyone after school. I stop being invited to parties.
I am completely unmoored. No friends, no boyfriend, no family, no mother.
No reason to be anywhere, atall.
Part Two
Martha’sVineyard
9
Matilda,
Hidden Beach is on South Road outside West Tisbury on Martha’s Vineyard. After the fourth mailbox past the strawberry, walk to the driveway with my name.
Don’t be afraid of glum. See you soon!
There are four strange things about Kingsley’s second email, which arrives the day after I answer his first.
One: No normal street address.
Two: What strawberry?
Three: What glum?
Four: He’s letting me buy my own plane ticket, even though I’m his child and he’s a famous painter.
“The first three strange things are cool,” says Saar. “But the fourth one is terrible. Maybe your mom is right about this guy.”
“I don’t evenknowKingsley,” I say. We’re in the kitchen. Saar is trying to figure out the instructions for an espresso machine he just bought. “It’s weird to expect someone you’ve never met to pay for things,” I add.
Saar hitsgrindon the machine and it makes a loud buzzing noise. When it stops, he takes a minute to look at the owner’s manual. “I know people who are loaded who never pick up thecheck for things,” he says, flipping a page. “And those peoplealwaysturn out to be weasels, somewhere along the line.” He tamps down the ground coffee and sets the machine up to brew. “Let me pay for your flight.”
“I have money saved,” I tell him. “You don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. But I can afford it, you pipsqueak,” he says. “You should save your cash. Don’t make it weird.” He hands me a cup of espresso. “Taste this. Any good?”
I swallow down the awkwardness of it all, tell Saar the espresso is delicious, and let him buy the ticket.
—
I have beentraveling for almost twenty-four hours. I’ve had a mocha, a Starbucks pumpkin loaf, four Diet Cokes, and three mini bags of Doritos—but nothing else to eat. My phone is almost without charge, and my portable charger likewise. I’ve been on a flight, then another flight, and finally a plane that seats only eight. It’s so small that my knees touch the back of the pilot’s seat.
Below us stretches the island of Martha’s Vineyard, mostly green. It’s edged in sandy beaches and rocky shores, dotted with lakes and curlicue inlets.
Kingsley Cello is on this island.
Why is he willing, after so many years of absence, to fill the blank space I have labeledFather? Will he look at me with a light in his eyes, like a father looks at his kid?
Maybe we’ll drink mugs of tea late in the evening or walk by the ocean, talking about video games and art. He’ll show me his painting studio and ask to see my game sketchbook. Even if it takesa long time to get to know each other, even if it’s awkward at first, Kingsley could be the person I am missing. The person I thought Luca might be. The person my mother never has been, who wants to understand the inside of my mind. Maybe in knowing him, not just a father but a great artist, I will somehow step into myself. Into my powers. I’ll no longer be lost.
I am sweating in my squashed plane seat. The pilot wears thick headphones, but for the passengers, the noise is constant and loud. We arc over the lush green of the island and my stomach lurches.
By the time the tiny plane lands, I’m bloated and hot. No, I’m cold. I make it to the airport bathroom and kneel on the grungy tile, heaving horrible Dorito-pumpkin vomit.
The floor is grungy white tile. There’s a lost receipt down by my knee.
