Leo

LEO

NOW

I don’t go to the hypnosis. I go to school because Dad makes me go. He’s worried I’ve missed so many days that I’m starting to fall behind.

The day sucks as school days do. When I get home, you and Dad are in the kitchen. I come in and overhear you tell Dad that you’re sorry. I hang back, by the door, watching you, wondering what you’re sorry for. You look so small. You stare down at your hands, picking at hangnails that you’ve torn and bitten off.

Dad’s bought you clothes of your own and, even though they fit right, they’re not right. Girls don’t wear clothes like that these days because Dad had to shop in the little-girls section and not the one for teens. There’s a panda bear on your shirt. It has rainbows for ears. A girl like Piper Hanaka wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say again.

Dad tells you, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t know. How could you have known?”

There’s a quaver to Dad’s voice. I know it by heart. He just barely manages to keep the valve closed so the waterworks don’t begin. As I watch, Dad puts his arms out like he might hug you. You shrink back, banging into the countertop. Dad gets the point. He puts his arms down, knowing you’re more of a trauma victim than his daughter. You may never be the daughter he used to know.

Dad hasn’t gone back to work since you’ve been home. He’s on what’s called FMLA. He isn’t getting paid but that doesn’t matter because we have money. Dad’s a workaholic. After you and Mom left, he would rather have been at work than home with me. We never went on vacation or did anything fun. He thinks he’s undeserving of nice things. His car is a twelve-year-old Passat with a hundred thousand miles on it, when he could easily afford the same Mercedes-Benz the neighbors just got.

“It’s not your fault,” Dad says.

I close the front door and let my backpack drop loud enough that you know I’m home. I go to the kitchen. “How’d it go?” I ask. I help myself to an apple, sink my teeth into it. You and Dad are mute. “The hypnosis,” I say, with a mouthful of apple, because no one’s answering me. “How did it go?”

“Good,” Dad says, busying himself making dinner. He takes ground beef from the refrigerator, a skillet from the cabinet. He sets the skillet down lightly, careful to keep noise to a minimum for your sake. “It was very informative. We learned a lot. I’m glad we did it.”

Talk about beating around the bush.

I look from Dad to you. You stand with your shoulders rounded, your head slumped forward. I take another bite of my apple. My question this time is less open-ended. “What did you find out?”

It’s quiet at first. Everyone’s disinclined to tell me. I wait it out and, in the end, you’re the one who does.

“Gus ain’t real,” you say. You shuffle your feet, staring down at them so that your hair falls in your eyes.

My jaw hits the floor. “What do you mean he isn’t real?”

You’re red-faced when you say it. “Gus is pretend. I made him all up.”

This gets a rise out of me. After all that Dad has done for you, you go and do something stupid like this. You got Dad and the cops all worked up about some kid who didn’t exist.

“Why would you do that?” I ask.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“What do you mean you didn’t mean to?” I’m mad because a person doesn’t just go and invent another person by accident. You did it for attention. For a reaction.

“Leave it be, Leo,” Dad says. His voice is stern. He frowns at me.

But I won’t leave it be. “She’s a liar, Dad.”

You pull a face. Dad does, too. I might as well have hit you.

“Don’t call your sister names.”

“But she is,” I say.

“She’s not.”

“Then what is she, a schizo?”

It’s out of my mouth before I can think better of it. I don’t mean to be a jerkweed. I just am. But I’m pissed. Because I thought you and I were getting close. I thought you were opening up to me. Turns out I was wrong.

Dad slams a wooden spoon on the countertop. The sound is loud. “Damn it, Leo! Just shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

In all my life, Dad’s never told me to shut up. You freak out, because of the noise. You’re shaking. You start to cry. Or maybe that’s pretend, too. Maybe you’re making that up just to dupe us.

Dad coaxes you into a chair. He gets you something to drink. He gets you one of those pills the shrink prescribed for you.

If I lied, Dad would take my internet away for a month. You lie and he babies you.

After you’re done shitting your pants, Dad goes back to his ground beef. I stand there watching the whole thing and then leave.

No one asks about my day.