The Hole in the Middle by Kate Hilton Page A

droids.
    It’s not until Jamie says, “What’s Scotty watching?” that I realize the theme song from the menu screen is playing over and over again, and if the video is over and Scotty isn’t shouting for me to fix it, it can only mean one thing. I groan and peer into the den, where I see Scotty fast asleep on the couch, two hours before his bedtime. With two of my essential parenting principles in conflict, I am torn between Never Wake a Sleeping Child and Mess with Bedtime at Your Peril; but Scotty needs the rest, and I’m not keen on the prospect of spending two hours with a fussy three-year-old who would rather be sleeping. I carry Scotty upstairs, and he barely moves as I change him into pajamas and roll his sweaty little head onto the pillow. I sit on the edge of his bed for a minute or two, listening to his congested snorts and snuffles in the dark, and my chest aches with the fierceness of my love for him. When Jamie was born, I realized that children are to their parents as Kryptonite is to Superman—they are the only thing in the world with the power to destroy us utterly, and their presence leaves us in a state of constant and unrelenting vulnerability. But by the time we realize it, we’re committed forever.
    The doorbell rings and I rush downstairs to claim the pizza. “Do you want to watch
Clone Wars
?” I ask Jamie.
    â€œCan we eat in the TV room?” he asks, as if hardly daring to imagine that an ordinary weeknight could offer such marvels.
    â€œAbsolutely,” I say, and as we snuggle on the couch, eat our supper, and watch the Jedi restore peace to the universe, I think,
Just under the wire, it turned into a good day after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

    august 1994
    â€œIt’s Paris,” says Zoe. “I’m going.”
    It’s a steamy Saturday night in August and we’re walking to a party. We’re down to a handful of weekends before classes start, our last September as the graduating class of 1995. It’s muggy and airless, and I’m deeply regretting my choice of footwear. I’ve got my hair up in a scrunchie and am draped in a loose, sleeveless black peasant dress, but they are doing little to compensate for the fact that my feet are slippery with sweat inside my Doc Martens.
    I’ve been planning this conversation for a few days now, but it’s not going the way I thought it would. “I can’t afford the apartment without you,” I say.
    â€œThat’s why I’ve been telling you since May to make other plans,” says Zoe. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I know how much you hate the idea of moving, but I’m going to Paris.”
    I try one last time. “Are you sure you want to miss your last year on campus? It’s the best one. You can take all these great seminar courses . . .” I trail off as Zoe starts laughing.
    â€œThat’s you, Soph, not me,” she says. “With my GPA, it’s a miracle I got permission to do the exchange program at all. It’s happening.” Shethrows an arm around my shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world,” she says. “You can come and visit me next summer. And I’ll help you find a place. I’m going to ask a few people tonight.”
    â€œI don’t want to live with a bunch of strangers,” I say.
    â€œStrangers are just friends you haven’t met yet,” says Zoe, quoting one of my mother’s notorious aphorisms. I open my mouth, stick my finger in, and make a gagging sound. “No need to be dramatic,” says Zoe. “We’ll find you something great. I promise. Now stop pouting and try to have some fun tonight. Will’s parties are legendary.”
    â€œIs he on your hit list?” I ask. It’s clear that someone is; Zoe is wearing a baby-sized black tee with the words DO YOU WANT ME TO SEDUCE YOU? emblazoned across the midriff. It’s supposed to be ironic, but it works