Dad sighs, drumming a hand on the arm of the couch. “Well, I can’t say I love it, but, like I just told Noelle, you’re both old enough to make your own decisions.”
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” Yumi asks, biting her thumbnail, her enthusiasm tempered by my father being A Dad about the whole situation.
He shrugs, face remaining neutral. “It’s your decision,” he repeats. “All I’ll tell you is, you better figure this”—he points between us—“out before the producers decide to figure it out for you.” His eyes dart to me. “As your mom and I used to say, you need to present a united front, or the enemy will tear you apart.”
I scoff, placing a hand to my chest. “WasIthe enemy?”
“No, honey.” He smiles at me, then Yumi. “Both of you werethe enemy. Menaces. And it appears that you will continue to be menaces. Far be it from me to keep you two from chasing your very complicated dreams. How long do you have to prepare?”
Yumi and I exchange a look.
When neither of us answers right away, my dad groans. “Don’t tell me it’s next month or something.”
“Oh, no,” I say with a laugh, knowing that what I’m about to say will blow that look of relief off his face. “It’s Monday.”
“Monday?” he yells. My dad drops his head into his hands, his voice muffled as he says, “Oh my God, you girls are going to make me go gray before my time.”
I don’t mention the obvious issue that is his current salt-and-pepper hair. It’ll only upset him. “We just wanted to tell you, Dad. But we have to go call back and confirm it before they give our spot away.”
“And then I should probably get home.” Yumi glances my way.
I nod, hooking my thumb toward the door. “I’m gonna drive her, but I’ll come right back. You don’t have to wait up.”
My dad squints at me defiantly. “I’ll be up. Drive safe.”
“I will,” I say, holding the front door open, waiting for Yumi to finish up her goodbye hug.
“See you soon, Pops,” she says softly.
“You better,” he replies, unmuting the TV and waving us off.
Yumi and I step out into the warm air together, for what feels like the millionth time tonight. She waits until we’re alone, enclosed in the safety of my two-seater, before handing me her phone. “Call her,” she says. “I’ll do it.”
Aliona picks up on the second ring. “Hello, girls. Have you made a decision?” Her voice is measured, apparently not wanting to show her hand before we show ours.
“Yes.” I pause, giving Yumi a moment to speak now or forever hold her peace. When she doesn’t, I continue, “We’d love to be on the show.”
“Great,” she says with clipped enthusiasm. “I know we don’t have very much time, so we need to get the ball rolling.”
She walks us through some absolute necessities for the next twenty-four hours: getting clothes, backpacks, and fanny packs in blue—our team color—sending in scans of our passports and IDs, and signing the paperwork. She also mentions a list of things we aren’t allowed: cell phones, GPS devices, travel guides, language books, and money chief among them.
“I’ll send you an email with all of this as soon as we hang up,” she says. And because she’s apparently the most competent person to ever walk the planet, my phone pings with a notification within sixty seconds of the line going dead. The email is more of a novel. The attached PDF contains a litany of rules and instructions. Most of them, we know from years trollingThe Adventureverseforums, but Yumi and I agree to review it when we meet up for planning tomorrow, just to make sure.
Then I’m driving her home. And we’ve agreed to something I’ve wanted since I watched Clare and Pat win Season 6, sandwiched between my mom and my dad in the dark living room. My once best friend is back in my car. My dad has a chance at anormal life without unfathomable debt. And if my mom were here, she’d squeal and help me pack my bag.
So, what does it really matter whatIwant? What more do I need to think about? Everything is where it needs to be.
I flip on my left turn signal, blowing through a yellow that I know—from years of driving this route to Yumi’s house—is about to turn into the world’s longest red light.
“Hey, is your dad going to be…?”
Okay?“I don’t know.”
I glance over to see all the color drained from her face. But she doesn’t even get it. She never will. Yumi missed the worst of the not-knowing. Before we had a diagnosis, I was lost. I failed tests, fell asleep in class, spent entire days lying in the nurse’s office, exhausted. I paced hospital hallways, turning my phone over in my palm because I had no one to call. All the days alone in my house, all the things that became my responsibility. I dig my fingernails into the steering wheel’s leather to keep myself from losing my cool.
“I’m sorry,” Yumi says.
I’m sorry.Every time my heart breaks, people apologize exactly like that. My mom, my dad, Yumi. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. I used to take comfort in the pity—it was a scarf I could wrap myself up in. But sympathy has spent so long growing and tightening around my neck that it’s starting to feel like a noose.
