cleaner.) But although he doesn’t notice awful Sif doing her best to snub me when I visit them, he’s still, thank goodness, an amazing dad.
He isn’t with Mum anymore, and I’ve accepted that. Mum isn’t seeing anyone, though. She’s on her own. I brighten up, remembering that her sister, my aunt Lissie,was going to come to London and visit her while I was away; Aunt Lissie used to model too, like my mum, and she’s a stylist now, traveling all over the world for magazines. Hopefully Aunt Lissie’s there now, when this email arrives.
Mum usually talks everything over with me. This, I realize, will be the first time she can’t.
I knew that Mum and I were maybe a bit too close. That coming away to Italy might not be the worst thing for either of us. But this is truly bringing it home to me.
I swallow as I read through the email again.
I love you so much, and I always will. Whatever you might have to tell me could never change that, I promise. I know how much you and Dad love me! But please, if there is anything to tell, please do it now! You could email or ring me, whatever you want. But please, please, Mum, let me know.
All my love,
Violet x x x x x
Before I can think it over, I hit Send. It’s gone. I watch the blue line at the bottom of the screen grow, stretching from left to right as the message is in transit, a heartbeat in which, conceivably, I could—shut the laptop? Jam my finger on the off button? Throw it against the wall?
I don’t know if any of that would work: whether, as soon as you send an email, it shoots up into the cloud like a puff of air. And anyway, it happens so fast; it’s gone in a split second. Before I could even try to stop it, the possibility has vanished.
This had to happen
, I tell myself.
You didn’t have a choice. You had to ask her. And it was better to email her, to give her time to think this over and decide how to handle it, not to put her on the spot in person by ringing her, or waiting till you see her again
.
I could never have been brave enough to ask her to her face if I was adopted—or if Dad wasn’t my real father.…
I jump up, slam the laptop shut, and dash out of the bedroom I share with Kelly as if I were being chased by a pack of wild dogs. I can’t think about this any longer. I tear down the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the stone, through the hallway, out the front door, and around the house to the swimming pool. Pulling off my cover-up, chucking it on the stone flags, I dive in, the shock of the cool water on my overheated skin exactly what I need to stop me thinking. I do a length underwater as fast as I can, and when I come up, gasping and shaking my head, I realize that everyone’s staring at me.
“Wow,” Evan says, looking over his guitar, which is propped on his lap as he sits cross-legged on a towel. “You in a race with the Invisible Man?”
I giggle at this image.
“Violet,”
he sings, strumming a chord.
“Running a race with a serious face—so did you win? Or was it him? Don’t forget, Vio
-let—
Dive in!”
He ends on a high falsetto note, grinning at me.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” he adds. “But hey, at least I rhymed your name.”
“Violet’s pretty easy,” I say, propping my arms on the edge of the pool and smiling back at him. “Regret, forget, net, jet, yet, set, bet—”
“Try Evan,” he suggests. “Apart from numbers and heaven, which gets old
very
quickly, there’s practically nothing.”
“Numbers? Oh! Eleven … seven …” I furrow my brow.
“Devon,” Kelly calls over. “That’s a county in England.”
“Leaven,” I add. “You do it to bread.”
Evan’s expression is comical, his blue eyes stretched as wide as they’ll go as he plucks a string and, in a singsong nursery-rhyme voice, intones:
“From the age of seven to eleven
Before he tragically went to heaven
Evan leavened bread in Devon.”
He throws his hands wide. “See? Not much to work with.”
“At
He isn’t with Mum anymore, and I’ve accepted that. Mum isn’t seeing anyone, though. She’s on her own. I brighten up, remembering that her sister, my aunt Lissie,was going to come to London and visit her while I was away; Aunt Lissie used to model too, like my mum, and she’s a stylist now, traveling all over the world for magazines. Hopefully Aunt Lissie’s there now, when this email arrives.
Mum usually talks everything over with me. This, I realize, will be the first time she can’t.
I knew that Mum and I were maybe a bit too close. That coming away to Italy might not be the worst thing for either of us. But this is truly bringing it home to me.
I swallow as I read through the email again.
I love you so much, and I always will. Whatever you might have to tell me could never change that, I promise. I know how much you and Dad love me! But please, if there is anything to tell, please do it now! You could email or ring me, whatever you want. But please, please, Mum, let me know.
All my love,
Violet x x x x x
Before I can think it over, I hit Send. It’s gone. I watch the blue line at the bottom of the screen grow, stretching from left to right as the message is in transit, a heartbeat in which, conceivably, I could—shut the laptop? Jam my finger on the off button? Throw it against the wall?
I don’t know if any of that would work: whether, as soon as you send an email, it shoots up into the cloud like a puff of air. And anyway, it happens so fast; it’s gone in a split second. Before I could even try to stop it, the possibility has vanished.
This had to happen
, I tell myself.
You didn’t have a choice. You had to ask her. And it was better to email her, to give her time to think this over and decide how to handle it, not to put her on the spot in person by ringing her, or waiting till you see her again
.
I could never have been brave enough to ask her to her face if I was adopted—or if Dad wasn’t my real father.…
I jump up, slam the laptop shut, and dash out of the bedroom I share with Kelly as if I were being chased by a pack of wild dogs. I can’t think about this any longer. I tear down the stairs, my bare feet slapping on the stone, through the hallway, out the front door, and around the house to the swimming pool. Pulling off my cover-up, chucking it on the stone flags, I dive in, the shock of the cool water on my overheated skin exactly what I need to stop me thinking. I do a length underwater as fast as I can, and when I come up, gasping and shaking my head, I realize that everyone’s staring at me.
“Wow,” Evan says, looking over his guitar, which is propped on his lap as he sits cross-legged on a towel. “You in a race with the Invisible Man?”
I giggle at this image.
“Violet,”
he sings, strumming a chord.
“Running a race with a serious face—so did you win? Or was it him? Don’t forget, Vio
-let—
Dive in!”
He ends on a high falsetto note, grinning at me.
“That doesn’t make much sense,” he adds. “But hey, at least I rhymed your name.”
“Violet’s pretty easy,” I say, propping my arms on the edge of the pool and smiling back at him. “Regret, forget, net, jet, yet, set, bet—”
“Try Evan,” he suggests. “Apart from numbers and heaven, which gets old
very
quickly, there’s practically nothing.”
“Numbers? Oh! Eleven … seven …” I furrow my brow.
“Devon,” Kelly calls over. “That’s a county in England.”
“Leaven,” I add. “You do it to bread.”
Evan’s expression is comical, his blue eyes stretched as wide as they’ll go as he plucks a string and, in a singsong nursery-rhyme voice, intones:
“From the age of seven to eleven
Before he tragically went to heaven
Evan leavened bread in Devon.”
He throws his hands wide. “See? Not much to work with.”
“At
Similar Books
