Hancock Park by Isabel Kaplan Page B

I said and then looked sheepishly at Mr. Elwright.
    He was chuckling. “Language,” he said. Then, “Hey, what is Uganda’s gross domestic product, anyway?”
    Even though I knew he was joking, I rattled off the answer, then headed on to biology.

State of the Union
    S ara Elder had finally called back. I wasn’t home when she called—which kind of sucked because I had been practicing what I was going to say to her—so my mom talked to her. Mom told me about it over a dinner of cereal and fruit salad. It was just Mom, Jack, and me. I didn’t know where Dad was, and I didn’t especially want to ask.
    â€œSo I made you an appointment for Monday afternoon. Is that okay? I just wanted to take advantage of the fact that I had her on the phone.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œMom, can I have the milk?” Jack asked.
    â€œSure.” Mom reached for the milk, and as she passed itto Jack, she said, “We’re moving on Monday.”
    â€œFabulous. Sounds like Monday’s going to be a great day.” I spoke with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I jabbed my fork into a grape.
    â€œHoney, please. I know you’re upset, but I’m doing the best I can.” She turned to Jack and said, “Remember, you start school next Tuesday.”
    â€œShit! Are you fucking serious?”
    â€œYou don’t curse like that at school, do you?” my mom asked.
    Jack shrugged.
    â€œWhat would dinner be without some attractive swear words, courtesy of Jack?” I said, loving the protection that sarcasm provided me.
    â€œExactly!” Jack agreed, uncapping the milk and pouring it over his bowl of Frosted Flakes. “And what would dinner be without the creative Miller cuisine?”
    Â 
    So it was our last week of living as a four-person family. It wasn’t that I thought things were so great for the four of us, but I was scared of what changes the move would bring. Especially since we all walked on a tightrope of mental health. One gust of wind and we might trip, might find ourselves dangling, our hands slipping, struggling to hold on.
    Dad wasn’t shaving and maybe wasn’t sleeping either. I came downstairs one morning and stumbled into the kitchen to get an apple and a Diet Coke. Dad was standingat the kitchen counter in the dark, an empty coffee cup in front of him.
    â€œHello?” I took a step forward and flipped on the light switch. “Are you okay?”
    â€œBecky! Oh, um, yeah.” Dad turned to face me. He wore a wrinkled white button-down, with his tie loosened around his neck, and an old pair of sweatpants. “You heading to school soon?” he asked, rubbing the stubble on his cheek.
    â€œYeah.” I nodded, waiting for more, wanting more. Dad and I hadn’t discussed the divorce. It was just lurking in the room, sucking up all the air and conversation. We didn’t talk about the divorce; we didn’t really talk at all. Dad had never been one for confronting emotional situations. I took an apple from the refrigerator, and my dad reached for the jar of instant coffee crystals. “Have a good day,” I told him.
    â€œYou, too, sweetheart.”
    Maybe we were dangling already.

Sara Elder, or the Remainders
    I ’d been seeing Sara Elder since I was in the fifth grade. One day, I came home from school and told my parents that I felt bad for the numbers in long division problems. “What numbers?” they asked me.
    â€œThe remainders,” I told them. “The ones that get left over. The ones nobody wants. So I’m remembering them, making sure they know someone cares about them.”
    Mom had leaned forward, her head on her fist, and asked me to explain. Dad had just sort of sat there, shifting his leg nervously. I listed out the remainders of the fifty long division problems that I had done that day. I had started storing those numbers in my head, and once I started, I couldn’t