say something, to make this all seem less weird.
“It’s really pretty here,” I say, straining to sound normal. “We missed you a ton.”
I guess those were the wrong things to say, because Dad just stares down at me (sadly? madly?).
Mom crosses the room to him. She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Jimbo,” she says again. Her voice is very tender. “Can we talk, just the two of us, for a little while?”
Patricia Chevalier clears her throat.
Dad clears his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Dad tells Mom. “But things are extremely busy right now. A lot of very urgent work to do. It’s absolutely essential that I get back to it immediately.”
Mom lets go of his shoulders. She’s still crying. But now I can see that she’s also angry.
“You are
not
this way,” she practically hisses. “You need to tell me
what’s going on
.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” Dad says, and he does sound sorry. But he ought to be calling her Via.
Right then the room is hit with a crazily loud sound, a huge whoosh of noise—a rockslide would sound like this, or an avalanche, or the end of the world—and I scream.
“What
is
that?” Mom shouts.
“The monsoon,” Ken/Neth yells. “Every afternoon at 3:08! You could set your watch by it!”
And that makes me feel like we truly are on another planet, a planet where the weather tells the time.
After that no one says anything for a while; we just stand there in the white marble room in our three little clumps—me and Roo, Mom and Dad, Patricia Chevalier and Ken/Neth—listening to the pounding rain.
How
can it be so loud? There aren’t even any windows here.
“I suppose we should be going, then?” Patricia Chevalier screeches over the noise with a bright smile. “Perhaps the Flynn-Wade family can have another visit later on.”
Dad always used to call us the Flade family. It tickled our funny bone, to call ourselves the Flades. But right now Dad doesn’t say a thing. He just sinks back down into the metal chair.
As I turn to leave I know I’ll never forget this, the sight of our father sitting in that metal chair, elbows on the glass table, holding his head in his hands while the monsoon thunders all around him.
CHAPTER 4
W e do order fried bananas—actually, fried plantains—at the Selva Café, but it’s not as though we feel very happy about that, or about anything else. The four of us are just sitting here on the white plastic chairs at the white plastic table, not saying anything. It’s a
very
quiet night at the Selva Café, a single waiter serving our table and one other. After trying a few times to get a conversation going, even Ken/Neth finally understands that we all just want him to Be Quiet. Mom’s eyes are super bloodshot and the tendons in her neck are super tense. She looks kind of scary, to be honest. She’s not even trying anymore to pretend for me and Roo that she’s okay, the way she did during The Weirdness. Not that Roo’s paying attention anyway—she’s simply munching away on fried plantains. I’m pretty shocked she can eat so perkily, considering what’s happened today, but as Dad liked to say, Roo has the appetite of a superheroine.
Since three sides of the Selva Café are open air and look right out into the jungle, I spend the whole meal staring into the trees andimagining Dad popping out from among the vines to tell us he was just playing a practical joke on us today: “I can’t believe you thought I was serious! Don’t you remember how much I love practical jokes? Hey, don’t tell me you’ve already finished the plantains! Let’s go to the pool after dinner.”
It’s still partly light outside, and it feels like this weirdo day is going on forever and ever, and all I want is for it to end, and I know I’ve never been as unhappy as I am right now.
It used to be that whenever I felt sad or angry or jealous, Dad would explain that just a few little chemicals were creating the feeling. He said: Just a few little
“It’s really pretty here,” I say, straining to sound normal. “We missed you a ton.”
I guess those were the wrong things to say, because Dad just stares down at me (sadly? madly?).
Mom crosses the room to him. She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Jimbo,” she says again. Her voice is very tender. “Can we talk, just the two of us, for a little while?”
Patricia Chevalier clears her throat.
Dad clears his throat.
“I’m sorry,” Dad tells Mom. “But things are extremely busy right now. A lot of very urgent work to do. It’s absolutely essential that I get back to it immediately.”
Mom lets go of his shoulders. She’s still crying. But now I can see that she’s also angry.
“You are
not
this way,” she practically hisses. “You need to tell me
what’s going on
.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” Dad says, and he does sound sorry. But he ought to be calling her Via.
Right then the room is hit with a crazily loud sound, a huge whoosh of noise—a rockslide would sound like this, or an avalanche, or the end of the world—and I scream.
“What
is
that?” Mom shouts.
“The monsoon,” Ken/Neth yells. “Every afternoon at 3:08! You could set your watch by it!”
And that makes me feel like we truly are on another planet, a planet where the weather tells the time.
After that no one says anything for a while; we just stand there in the white marble room in our three little clumps—me and Roo, Mom and Dad, Patricia Chevalier and Ken/Neth—listening to the pounding rain.
How
can it be so loud? There aren’t even any windows here.
“I suppose we should be going, then?” Patricia Chevalier screeches over the noise with a bright smile. “Perhaps the Flynn-Wade family can have another visit later on.”
Dad always used to call us the Flade family. It tickled our funny bone, to call ourselves the Flades. But right now Dad doesn’t say a thing. He just sinks back down into the metal chair.
As I turn to leave I know I’ll never forget this, the sight of our father sitting in that metal chair, elbows on the glass table, holding his head in his hands while the monsoon thunders all around him.
CHAPTER 4
W e do order fried bananas—actually, fried plantains—at the Selva Café, but it’s not as though we feel very happy about that, or about anything else. The four of us are just sitting here on the white plastic chairs at the white plastic table, not saying anything. It’s a
very
quiet night at the Selva Café, a single waiter serving our table and one other. After trying a few times to get a conversation going, even Ken/Neth finally understands that we all just want him to Be Quiet. Mom’s eyes are super bloodshot and the tendons in her neck are super tense. She looks kind of scary, to be honest. She’s not even trying anymore to pretend for me and Roo that she’s okay, the way she did during The Weirdness. Not that Roo’s paying attention anyway—she’s simply munching away on fried plantains. I’m pretty shocked she can eat so perkily, considering what’s happened today, but as Dad liked to say, Roo has the appetite of a superheroine.
Since three sides of the Selva Café are open air and look right out into the jungle, I spend the whole meal staring into the trees andimagining Dad popping out from among the vines to tell us he was just playing a practical joke on us today: “I can’t believe you thought I was serious! Don’t you remember how much I love practical jokes? Hey, don’t tell me you’ve already finished the plantains! Let’s go to the pool after dinner.”
It’s still partly light outside, and it feels like this weirdo day is going on forever and ever, and all I want is for it to end, and I know I’ve never been as unhappy as I am right now.
It used to be that whenever I felt sad or angry or jealous, Dad would explain that just a few little chemicals were creating the feeling. He said: Just a few little
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