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He wanted me? That couldn’t be the case. She was trying to make me feel better, but it wasn’t necessary.
“If that were true, why wouldn’t he have had me over for weekends?” I asked. “For holidays? For more than a yearly family photo? There’s no use trying to cover for him, Mom. It’s all right, there’s no need to spare my feelings.”
“I’m sorry I let it go this far without telling you. I saw you were angry when you were little, but I was selfish and wanted you for myself on the holidays. He could have done more with weekends and summers, sure, but the holidays were my choice.”
This was all difficult to hear, difficult to believe. The clench on my throat tightened. “Perhaps you made those decisions when I was a child. If nothing else, he could have reached out when I was grown. He only shared a piece of himself—his precious Carrington Incorporated—once he was gone. It was a way to try and make up for never being there, and as everything else about it, it was tinged with spite. He gave me the broken piece of his empire. Not that it matters. None of this matters. What matters is what he did in life. He never even sent a check, the easiest thing in the world for someone like him.”
My chest heaved uncontrollably. I closed my eyes and tried to will this conversation from existence.
“He did, actually,” she said.
“What?”
“He sent checks every month. I tore them up, not willing to forgive his affair. In hindsight, maybe I should have cashed them, squirreled them away for you when you were old enough. But I didn’t.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was my whole life a lie? My head was swimming, white-hot rage thrumming through my veins.
Keeping my voice as even as possible, I said, “You tore them up?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Oscar. I should have told you sooner, before I allowed this hate to grow inside of you. It’s all my fault.”
There was pain in her voice, sorrow in her eyes.
I couldn’t handle it.
My head was spinning.
Never owe anyone anything. If they have nothing to hold over you, they can’t use it against you.That’s what she’d told me over and over again when I was growing up. Was that what she’d done? She’d chosen not to allow my father to help us, allowed both of us to suffer, simply so she wouldn’t feel beholden to him?
“I have to go,” I told her, and turned on my heel.
“Oscar, wait,” she called.
I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t handle another word. My face burned, my guts twisted. I needed time and space to think.
Everything was falling apart. In this much pain, there was only one place I could imagine going—home to the one person who never lied to, manipulated, or abandoned me.
I needed Morgan.
THIRTY-EIGHT
MORGAN
With Waylen gone, Gilbert carried on asWhat The What?’s temporary host.
A relaxed melody of string music played all around us as Glitter danced. In the middle of her routine, deep, almost frog-like vocals joined the sound. The sound was beautiful and unique, but impossible to dance to. She did her best, though, and I made sure to clap when it was over.
Contestant after contestant suffered similar soundtracks for their routines—construction sounds, the opening song fromStar Wars, “Baby Shark.” Everyone adapted to the best of their abilities, to varying success. No dance was particularly compelling, which I figured was a good sign for me and my friends’ chances.
Layana was called second-to-last.
Her “music” was a woman’s voice whispering as she read what sounded like the nutritional panel on the back of a cereal box. It was cruel, the worst soundtrack any of us had faced. Was she being singled out for refusing to do that skit earlier? I hoped not.
With a cowboy costume and alien mask on, she performed a breakdance to the whispers. It was weird and wonderful, and the first thing to make me smile all freaking day.
Maybe my enthusiasm was in part delirium from stress and no sleep, because I swear this was the best thing I’d ever seen.
When it was over, we all clapped. Me loudest of all.
