Center of Gravity (15 page)

“Remind me about your husband's family.”

Ava swallows. “Mitchell's dad passed away right after Karen died. He had an awful time of it, losing both of them at once.” Ava winces and closes her eyes. “His mother committed suicide when he was really young. Had to be terrible. I can't imagine.”

“Convenient dead end. If it's all true, though, it's certainly enough drama to make anyone a little crazy.” My fingers drum on the desk as I weigh our options.

Ava props her head against her fist, pressing the knuckles into her temple. “I can do some more research—”

“Look, I'm trained to be skeptical. And pessimistic. Forget the Internet.”

Ava hesitates, puzzled. She cocks her head and purses her lips.

“Go to Birmingham.” I make a pushing gesture toward the street.
“What's stopping you?” I shrug my shoulders. “You can hire a PI, but that's some big bucks.”

“I don't know,” she says. “Where would I start?” Ava is hedging. I can't blame her. But it doesn't mean I'm going to give up on the idea.

I feel a little uneasy pressing her too much but shake off the worry. “Anywhere.” She can do this. She's got to learn to trust herself.

Ava considers this. One finger runs down the table, stops, and taps. “With that Will Harris guy? Mitchell's old neighbors?”

“Yes,” I urge. “What you find out could make all the difference.”

CHAPTER 27

JACK

TUESDAY, APRIL 13

Mobile Prep's nearly deserted when I flop down on the school's front steps. I peel off my navy-blue backpack. The weight of it hits the cement with a thud. I pull at the neck of my uniform shirt, shading my eyes from the sun piercing through the oak leaves overhead. Afternoon heat rises from the circular driveway, paved smooth and black. Bees, fat with nectar, buzz around azalea blossoms so bright pink you have to squint.

Behind me, the glass door opens. “Jack,” a voice asks. “Someone coming to get you?”

“My dad'll be right here.” I twist my neck to look at my teacher.

“You're sure? I'm happy to drop you off somewhere. But I have to leave now. My daughter has a doctor's appointment at four thirty,” she says.

“S'okay. Thank you,” I reply, forcing my mouth into a big smile.

She pauses, nods with a frown, then disappears back inside.

I turn back to the street, pull up my knees, and lean back against the brick of the building. Yesterday, Mo's sister Molly took pity on me and dropped me by the apartment. Of course, Dad bawled me out for a half hour because he thought someone kidnapped me.

I close my eyes and imagine I'm not here at all. Different time,
different place. Namely the Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four. Now my biggest issues would be foiling Doctor Doom or Silver Surfer when they try and stir up trouble. Sure, this superhero family argues with each other, holds some grudges here and there, but they always end up as a team. That's the kind of family I want.

Mr. Fantastic is a scientist and absolute genius, but stretching out my arms and legs in all directions isn't my idea of the best superpower ever. He's married to the Invisible Woman, who can shield everyone with force fields and disappear. Their friend, The Thing, crushes everything in his path and survives almost anything, but—like him—I'm not sure I'd be happy looking into the mirror at a stone face every day.

It's the Human Torch who's the coolest. He's the Invisible Woman's brother. Johnny Storm can burst into flames, absorb fire, and control any nearby blaze by thinking about it hard enough. Best of all, he can fly away.

Which is what I'd do, if I could, when I see the Range Rover finally make its way to the empty car pool lane. Of course I can't, so I take my time getting up from the curb. My dad's on his cell phone and waves me into the truck. He's animated and relaxed, oblivious that I might be worried he's not coming at all. Dad's mood has been rock-paper-scissors every day this week. Monday—pretty mad; Tuesday—okay; Wednesday—not so great. You never know what you're gonna get.

“Hey, how was your day?” Dad hangs up, claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “School good?” His fingers drum on the steering wheel.

Here's the truth: I'll probably survive third grade, but I hate geography, miss my brother during the day, and worry about Ava.

However, there's no sense ruining the ride home. “Fine.”

My dad waits a beat. “I've been thinking. You must need some of your things, more of those comic books, your ball caps, the Demarini
bat I bought—you know, from the house.” He coughs. “Ava's house.”

It's still my house too.
Buildings race past, their doors and windows a blur of white and gray. Neighborhoods come next, and Dad slows down to make the turn. Older teenagers cut neat stripes of green on shiny riding lawn mowers. A few girls balance on training-wheel bikes.
How many of them have to divide stuff up between houses, deciding what stays and what goes?

“Why don't you call her? I'm sure she'd be happy to drop off whatever you need.” He wrinkles his forehead, expecting an answer.

“Um, sure.” We pull up to the apartment. Dad keeps the engine running and doesn't apologize for dumping me off with the sitter. He hasn't made it home before dinnertime yet. “I have to get back to work. Use Isabel's phone. She won't care.”

I heave my backpack onto the seat and start to slide out. “Okay.”

My dad puts the truck in park. “Having your stuff here is important, don't you think? This is home now.”

What he's saying—what he's trying to get across—is probably meant to help, but it only makes me feel like throwing up my lunch.

“You'll feel better,” he says. “Really.” Like he's trying to convince me a big, fat tetanus shot won't hurt. It's moments like these, it's the flicker of worry on his face that gets me. Like the parents on the news whose kids are missing.
Sheesh.
Enough already with the guilt.

I slam the door and watch him pull away.

“Sure,” I say and attempt a halfhearted wave at the Range Rover's taillights.

“Hola, Señor Jack.¿Cómo estás?” Isabel shouts above the music. She has the radio cranked to a Spanish-only station. It's loud enough that the neighbors might complain, but Sam seems to like it.

He's bouncing up and down in the kitchen in time to the beat.
Isabel's juggling at least three frying pans full of smoky, savory food. She tosses chicken, peppers, and onions like an expert. Tortillas sizzle in another, refried beans in the third.

“
Estoy bien
,” I reply, trying out some Spanish Isabel taught me. I hover over the sizzle and spit of the stove grease. “Who's coming to dinner?”

Usually I long for crispy fried chicken, buttered greens, and puffy yeast rolls, but whatever Isabel's making smells incredible.

“
Señor
.” She swirls around and cups her thick hands on my cheeks. “We will have fiesta. You and baby Sam are too skinny!” she declares, brandishing the spatula like a pirate. “No food in cupboards. No food in icebox. Isabel fix this.” Hands on her hips, she sways in time to the song. Sam laughs.

For the first time in what seems like forever, I laugh too. For real. At a Mexican woman cooking us dinner, at my brother crazy-dancing to salsa music, me about to eat refried beans, which I surely would have gagged at a week ago. Over the din of Sam's clanging pots and mariachi trumpets, I manage to ask Isabel for her phone and tell her I have to call Ava. When Isabel turns the music down, I punch in her cell number, jiggling my leg impatiently.

“Can you bring my comics in the blue box and my Titans cap?” I picture my room. “Um, my soccer ball and cleats. My
Sports Illustrated
, if it came. Some books. My bat from Dad, the new silver one. Anything else you can think of.”

I worry that I sound greedy, a spoiled kid at Christmas. Then I start to worry about something else. Something much bigger.
Dad. Ava. Here at the same time. Not good.

“How long will it take you to get here?”

Ava promises less than ten minutes.
Phew.
I hand the phone back to Isabel and pace circles around Sam, who thinks it's a game. He grabs at my legs, beats on my shin with one hand.

“What's going on, big guy?” I pick him up, carry him to the living
room. Sam pokes at my nose and jabbers. We plop down near the television, which seems to play a continuous loop of muted Latino soap operas. Today a spandex-skirted heroine cries silently into her shiny red pillow.
Like we need more drama around here.
We watch for a while, and then I click it off with the remote.

I study my brother as we stack colored blocks. Green on yellow on orange. Another and another until the pile wobbles precariously and Sam whacks it down with a fist. He laughs and claps his hands at the mess, then blinks up at me.

“Do it again?” I ask and start over. I can't help but wonder if Sam knows what's going on with our family. Whether he understands any of it. I'm not even sure I do.

Ava's knocking. I spring to my feet, unlock the door and swing it open. She's balancing a box in one hand; several bags hang from the crook of her elbow.

“Ava!” I barrel into her chest and hug. Her hair's in a ponytail, but the wisps tickle my cheek. She smells like peach pie and vanilla ice cream. I untangle myself long enough to take the box from her arms. She puts down the bags and reaches for the Demarini bat and ball she laid on the porch.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she says and kneels down to grab Sam, who's in line for the next round of squeezes. When I step out of the way, I blink. Her ribs almost show through her white T-shirt.

Before I can think of anything to say, Isabel steps beside me. She makes clucking sounds with her lips, looks Ava up and down, and shakes her black curls. “Isabel,” she announces, pressing a hand to her chest. “You the boys' mommy? Everyone too skinny,” she scolds and gestures to the kitchen. “Come, come.”

Ava hesitates at the doorway, wrapped around Sam like a blanket. “I can't,” she says and frowns. “Really.” She hugs Sam tighter. “I'd love to, thank you.” Ava smiles at Isabel. “But it was nice to meet you. Dinner smells wonderful.”

“
Muchas gracias
.” Isabel glows and wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. “Come,” she says, then heads back to the kitchen.

“Just for a minute,” I beg. “You need to see our room, Ava. Please?”

“It's not that I wouldn't love to. Jack, honey . . .” she protests and glances toward the street. I know she is looking for Dad.

“Never mind.” My lip trembles. I try not to cry. My eyes sting. I hate this. I hate everything. I tear the bags out of her hands and stalk off to the bedroom. Stupid stuff. The bags hit the wall, and I throw myself on the bed, face first.

Of course, Ava's voice is already calling after me. “Jack?” She's in the hallway. I flop on my bed and stare hard at the ceiling.

Sam toddles over toward me and pats my leg. “Jaa.” On one elbow, I prop myself up and squeeze his fingers.

“Here's your box.” She sets it down on the floor. “I left you some cookies, too, in the other room. Your favorite.” Ava sighs. “I'm sorry, Jack. This is hard on everyone. And I really, really want to be here and see your room and play with Sam and talk to Isabel, but I can't.”

“Are you trying to fix it? You promised. You said you'd try.”

She walks over, kisses me on the head. “I am. I have to leave, though.” Sam clings to her, then screams bloody murder when she lets go. “Take care of him,” she mouths and dabs at her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

Ava's bawling; Sam's a mess. I scoop him up close and rock him, not even realizing I'm crying until Isabel wipes my tears away.

CHAPTER 28

AVA

TUESDAY, APRIL 13

Full-fledged exhaustion slams me when I turn into the driveway. It's all I can do to steer the Jeep into the carport. My head throbs from the dagger-sharp pain of leaving Jack and Sam.

In my emotional delirium and recent acute insomnia, I think I hear a baby's cry. Deep, low, then caustic and biting. Added to the guilt, which grew wings and followed me home. I press my forehead against the steering wheel. But the noise bleats again.

It's inside the house.

I stumble from the Jeep, unsteady, throw my bag over one shoulder. My keys jangle against my leg. I reach for the knob but realize the door is already open. The air is stuffy, humid, stale.

“Did we blow a fuse?” I wonder out loud, and press my fingers to my head. “Was I in that much of a hurry?” My voice echoes in the empty house, then the alarm pierces the silence.

My purse makes a satisfying plunk on the ceramic tile. The oven light blinks at me, mocking my disbelief. “What in the world?” I press the digital display and shut off the oven, hot to the touch. “Come on. Am I losing it?”