Starry Eyes

Maybe I should show him the photo book privately and see what he says.

Would he try to talk his way out of it? Or would he come clean?

I don’t think I have the guts to find out.

Dad stares at me, seemingly expressionless, but I can tell that gears are turning inside his head. Does he have some inkling about what I’m thinking? I relax my features to match his.

After a moment, he sniffles softly and jingles the car keys in his hand. “If that boy bothers you again, Zorie, please tell me. Immediately.”

He can hold his breath, but I don’t think I’ll be confiding anything to him any time soon.

Maybe ever.

5

* * *

That was all my dad and I said to each other before he apologized to Mom for making a scene at work. Then he made a pit stop in his office and jogged out the door again. Like nothing had happened. A couple hours later, he’s still gone, phoning to tell us to eat lunch without him. He claims he’s playing racquetball with a client. Only, I’m not sure I believe that’s what he’s really doing.

I may not believe anything he says anymore.

Mom closed the clinic for lunch, and after nibbling on farm-to-table veggie tacos at her favorite vegetarian restaurant, we are strolling back home through the main Mission Street shopping district.

Apart from food and coffee, the sycamore-lined promenade has nothing anyone really needs, but everything you want. Specialty shops selling Swedish toothbrushes, craft sake, exotic hand puppets, and toys made from recycled wood are tucked between a handful of national chain stores. And all along the sidewalks in front of these shops, moms and tattooed street punks share benches as they listen to a student jazz ensemble that plays for donations outside the Jitterbug coffee shop.

“You barely said anything in the restaurant,” Mom points out, carting the leftovers from our meal in a white plastic bag. “I know it was busy and loud in there, but you usually get in at least one joke about vegetarians.”

It’s easy to do. Tacos should have meat. That place goes against nature. Half of the people who eat there are in need of a good iron supplement.

“Just thinking about the trip,” I lie.

“The trip . . . or your dad making an idiot of himself in front of Lennon?”

“Maybe both,” I admit, slanting my eyes toward hers. “Diamond Dan went a little nuts.”

“Diamond Dan can get carried away by his emotions sometimes.” She sighs deeply, tugging on the diagonal seam of her tunic scrub top. “I’ve never agreed with how he’s treated Lennon. If the Mackenzies ever treated you that way—”

“But they don’t.”

She nods. “I know. And it’s not much of an excuse, but your father is really stressed out right now about the business. He’s lost so many massage clients. We’re bleeding fairly profusely now, and I’m not sure how to stanch the wound until the business bounces back.”

I consider this for a moment. “You could call Grandpa Sam. He’d loan you money.”

Grandpa Sam is my mom’s dad. He’s the nicest guy in the world. Her parents came to the US when she was a baby, and they own a shipping company, Moon Imports and Exports—Moon is their Korean family name—that ships machinery from South Korea. The Moons aren’t wealthy, but they’re doing all right. Grandpa Sam’s the one who bought me Nancy Grace Roman and all my other astronomy gear. I text him my best constellation photos every month, and he texts me back in nothing but repeated, enthusiastic emojis. He used to send only smiley faces, but lately he’s been branching out to thumbs-up signs and stars.

“No, we’re not asking my parents for any more money,” Mom says firmly. “They’ve already done enough.”

We walk in silence for a few steps, and then I think about something she said. “Why aren’t you losing acupuncture clients?”

“Hmm?”

“If the Mackenzies’ sex shop is pushing away Dad’s massage clients, then why are most of your clients still around?”

She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe because there are more massage therapists in Melita Hills than acupuncturists. I’m a rare commodity.”

“Maybe Dad should take up acupuncture too.”

“Believe me, your father and I have considered a dozen options. We’ve analyzed the business to pieces over the last few months.”

When we get to the end of the block, a woman dripping with beaded jewelry wants to tell us about the benefits of psychoneuroimmunology while a man in a shabby suit across the sidewalk tries to hand us a pamphlet about salvation. I wave both of them away. “Can I ask you a question?” I say after we cross the street. “Are you happy with Dad?”

Mom’s head turns toward me. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” But now I wish that I hadn’t.

“Of course I am,” she assures me.

I don’t know how to feel about this. How can she be happy while my dad is gallivanting around the globe with other women? Shouldn’t she realize that something is wrong? I think I’d know something was awry if my partner was cheating on me. At least, I’d hope so. My only personal experience with relationships is Andre Smith. I started seeing him after homecoming, but right before our second date, his mom got a job in Chicago, and they moved. Our third date was at his farewell party, and because we were never going to see each other again, we got a little . . . carried away with the goodbyes. Bad choices were made. Apart from my taking three pregnancy tests after he left—just to be triple certain—and then confessing what we did to my mom for health advice to be quadruple certain, the whole experience was a letdown. For me, anyway. Andre emailed for weeks, trying to keep things going, until I was left with no choice but to flag his email address as spam.

This is what happens when I don’t stick to a plan. Complete and utter disaster. Never again.

Mom runs a hand over the top of my head. “Money problems are a strain on any couple. But we’ll get through it. Bad times don’t last. You just have to hang on until they pass.”

But she doesn’t know how bad they really are. And the thing that’s bothering me, other than Dad’s unhinged fit of anger this morning, is the worry that I’m not the only one keeping secrets about Dad’s extracurricular activities. The Mackenzies know. Lennon knows. How long before that knowledge leaks and my mom finds out?

I can’t let that happen.

“Are those hives?” my mom asks, stopping to look at my arm. “Jesus, Zorie. You’re covered in them. Have you had shrimp?”

“No.” Sometimes shellfish causes them, but mostly it’s stress and the occasional random allergen. It’s unpredictable. My body is a mystery.

She frowns at me, worry tightening her face. “You have to get back on daily antihistamines. And we need to get some more of that homeopathic cream from Angela’s shop.”

The cream gives me a headache, but I don’t say this. Mom is telling me that we can stop and pick it up on our way back if we hurry, but something across the street catches my attention. Lennon’s big, black satanic hearse is parked at the curb. We’re half a block or so away from his place of employment, so he must be working. And thinking about his fight with my dad this morning makes me realize something: I will be gone for a week, while Lennon will be here. All it would take is one more standoff with my dad and Lennon might say something about the photo book.