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Fourth-grade parent-teacher conferences were last night. I always try my best in school, but sometimes, I can’t focus on what the teachers are saying. I enter my father’s office, dropping into the chair I like to sit in. My feet dangle, so I swing them, watching the buckles on my shoes flap with a hypnotic clack. Soothing.
He takes the chair beside me instead of the one at his desk. “How’s my girl?”
“I’m good, Daddy. I think. Am I in trouble?”
“Quite the opposite.” He grins. He always makes me feel better, even when I mess up. “Our shortcomings can shout to the world that we’re at a disadvantage in some capacity, Ivanna. Perhaps that’s true at times. But when you recognize your strengths and weaknesses, you control the narrative. People will dismiss you based on what they believe your deficiency to be, which means mastering it will leave you with the upper hand.”
I like that he talks to me like a grown-up, but sometimes, the meaning is lost on me. I pinch my eyebrows together, confused. “I’m not sure I understand, Daddy.”
He squeezes my leg. “That’s okay, angel. Let me try another way. What do your teachers often report about you?”
A shameful groan falls from me as I roll my lips in. “That I get lost in my mind, am often late and zoned out.”
“That’s right,” he says with an encouraging smile. “Later, after zoning out, do you ever remember something the teacher said?”
My feet kick back and forth, the leather of my shoes swishing with a satisfying whirring rhythm as I think about his question. “Sometimes, I guess. Yes. Like when I’m doing my homework in the evening, sometimes, her instructions hit me even though my thoughts were drifting when she gave them.”
He springs up from his chair with a pat on my head. “That’s right. You process things differently, Ivanna. It takes time for your mind to register the information, but it’s still in there.”
“But that’s bad,” I say, remembering how Mrs. Tucker’s face twists and reddens when she snaps her fingers at me and tells me I’m not paying attention. “That’s why she gets frustrated.”
His face softens, his lips tipping into a frown. Saddened by what I said. “It’s why she gets frustrated, but it isn’t bad. People are often critical of variances they don’t understand. But we’re going to hone it into your greatest asset.”
“How?” I ask.
“By learning how to recover the information you and everyone else thinks you’re missing. But let it be our secret. Don’t tell anyone what you can do.”
“I won’t,” I confirm.
“Good, angel. We’ll start practicing right away.”
My father and I are in the kitchen, eating bowls of ice cream. His guests left a little while ago.
He taps his spoon on his bowl with a tink. “Think, sweet girl. You were in the corner with your book, and your mother and I were with the Palmers. What did we talk about?”
I’m not sure why Dad always wants me to do this, but he seems to think it’s important. We’ve been playing this little game for a few years now. I turned thirteen three months ago, and I think I’m getting pretty good at it.
Closing my eyes, I try to think about the evening. I was readingHarry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, imagining what it would be like to be magical and capable of conquering even the darkest evil. Harry was so ordinary, and yet he rose. He shook everything up. He belonged. I’ve never really had that feeling, like I fit. Except with Celeste. She looks the part, but still doesn’t fit. She’s the polished Celeste to the world, but always wild Lettie to me. Other than her and my parents, books make me feel like I belong, heaping comfort like a weighted blanket.
The chatter tonight was a monotonous hum in the background. I wanted my headphones to block everyone out because the noise mademe anxious, but I knew Dad didn’t want me to use them. So, I concentrated on the words on the page, the visions dancing in my mind’s eye, while Mrs. Palmer gabbed on and on.
“She …” I bite my lip, choosing the piece of the conversation that needs plucked. “Mr. and Mrs. Palmer want you and Mom to go to the lake house.”
His eyes brighten. “Good. Anything else?”
My head spins, trying to remember, when it suddenly washes over me. “May nineteenth. Mr. Palmer said it should work for you because you don’t have a full schedule that day.” I scoop a spoonful of butter pecan ice cream into my mouth, pondering the conversation more. “How does he know when you have patients?”
“Exactly.” My father beams. “Mr. Palmer has been having an inappropriate relationship with my secretary. And you, Ivanna, identified his one slipup in a night full of jabbering.”
I drop my spoon, astounded by that realization—people’s darkest secrets lay bare inside innocent chitchat and relaxed moments when they forget to hide.
My eyes flit to his. “Why is this so important for me to learn, Dad?”
He props his elbows on the island, stealing a bite of my ice cream since his is gone. And he smiles—the smile that is only for me. He has a special one for my mother too. But the one reserved for me is full of pride and adoration. It makes me feel invincible.
“Information is more powerful than a bullet, Ivanna. I’m arming you.”
My eyelids fly open. Wells. Liam.
