Fangirl

The second time was in sixth grade. He was standing over the sink, laughing, and telling them that they didn’t have to go to school anymore. Life was an education, he said. He’d cut himself shaving, and there were tiny pieces of toilet paper stuck with blood to his chin. Cath and Wren had gone to stay with their aunt Ly

The third time was in high school. They were sixteen, and their grandma came to stay, but not until the second night. That first night they’d spent in Wren’s bed, Wren holding Cath’s wrists, Cath crying.

“I’m like him,” she’d whispered.

“You’re not,” Wren said.

“I am. I’m crazy like him.” She was already having panic attacks. She was already hiding at parties. In seventh grade, she’d been late to class for the first two weeks because she couldn’t stand being in the halls with everyone else during passing periods. “It’s probably going to get worse in a few years. That’s when it usually kicks in.”

“You’re not,” Wren said.

“But what if I am?”

“Decide not to be.”

“That’s not how it works,” Cath argued.

“Nobody knows how it works.”

“What if I don’t even see it coming?”

“I’ll see it coming.”

Cath tried to stop crying, but she’d been crying so long, the crying had taken over, making her breathe in harsh sniffs and jerks.

“If it tries to take you,” Wren said, “I won’t let go.”

A few months later, Cath gave that line to Simon in a scene about Baz’s bloodlust. Wren was still writing with Cath back then, and when she got to the line, she snorted.

“I’m here for you if you go manic,” Wren said. “But you’re on your own if you become a vampire.”

“What good are you anyway,” Cath said. Their dad was home by then. And better. And Cath didn’t feel, for the moment, like her DNA was a trap ready to snap closed on her.

“Apparently, I’m good for something,” Wren said. “You keep stealing all my best lines.”

*   *   *

Cath thought about texting Wren Friday night before she fell asleep, but she couldn’t think of anything to say.

The Humdrum wasn’t a man at all, or a monster. It was a boy.

Simon stepped closer, perhaps foolishly, wanting to see its face.… He felt the Humdrum’s power whipping around him like dry air, like hot sand, an aching fatigue in the very marrow of Simon’s bones.

The Humdrum—the boy—wore faded denims and a grotty T-shirt, and it probably took Simon far too long to recognize the child as himself. His years-ago self.

“Stop it,” Simon shouted. “Show yourself, you coward. Show yourself!”

The boy just laughed.

—from chapter 23, Simon Snow and the Seventh Oak, copyright © 2010 by Gemma T. Leslie

TWENTY

Her dad and Wren came home on the same day. Saturday.

Her dad was already talking about going back to work—even though his meds were still off, and he still seemed alternately drunk or half-asleep. Cath wondered if he’d stay on them through the weekend.

Maybe it would be okay if he went off his meds. She and Wren were both home now to watch out for him.

With everything that had happened, Cath wasn’t quite sure whether she and Wren were on speaking terms. She decided that they were; it made life easier. But they weren’t on sharing terms—she still hadn’t told Wren anything about Levi. Or about Nick, for that matter. And she didn’t want Wren to start talking about her adventures with their mom. Cath was sure Wren had some mother–daughter Christmas plans.

At first, all Wren wanted to talk about was school. She felt good about her finals, did Cath? And she’d already bought her books for next semester. What classes was Cath taking? Did they have any together?

Cath mostly listened.

“Do you think we should call Grandma?” Wren asked.

“About what?”

“About Dad.”

“Let’s wait and see how he does.”

All their friends from high school were home for Christmas. Wren kept trying to get Cath to go out.

“You go,” Cath would say. “I’ll stay with Dad.”

“I can’t go without you. That would be weird.”

It would seem weird to their high school friends to see Wren without Cath. Their college friends would think it was weird if they showed up anywhere together.

“Somebody should stay with Dad,” Cath said.

“Go, Cath,” their dad said after a few days of this. “I’m not going to lose control sitting here watching Iron Chef.”

Sometimes Cath went.

Sometimes she stayed home and waited up for Wren.

Sometimes Wren didn’t come home at all.

“I don’t want you to see me shit-faced,” Wren explained when she rolled in one morning. “You make me uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I make you uncomfortable,” Cath said. “That’s priceless.”

Their dad went back to work after a week. The next week he started jogging before work, and that’s how Cath knew he was off his meds. Exercise was his most effective self-medication—it’s what he always did when he was trying to take control.

She started coming downstairs every morning when she heard the coffeemaker beeping. To check on him, to see him off. “It’s way too cold to jog outside,” she tried to argue one morning.

Her dad handed her his coffee—decaf—while he laced up his shoes. “It feels good. Come with me.”

He could tell she was trying to look in his eyes, to take his mental temperature, so he took her chin and let her. “I’m fine,” he said gently. “Back on the horse, Cath.”

“What’s the horse?” she sighed, watching him pull on a South High hoodie. “Jogging? Working too much?”

“Living,” he said, a little too loud. “Life is the horse.”

Cath would make him breakfast while he ran—and after he ate and left for work, she’d fall back to sleep on the couch. After a few days of this, it already felt like a routine. Routines were good for her dad, but he needed help sticking to them.

Cath would usually wake up again when Wren came downstairs or came home.

This morning, Wren walked into the house and immediately headed into the kitchen. She came back into the living room with a cold cup of coffee, licking a fork. “Did you make omelettes?”

Cath rubbed her eyes and nodded. “We had leftovers from Los Portales, so I threw them in.” She sat up. “That’s decaf.”

“He’s drinking decaf? That’s good, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Make me an omelette, Cath. You know I suck at it.”

“What will you give me?” Cath asked.

Wren laughed. It’s what they used to say to each other. What will you give me? “What do you want?” Wren asked. “Do you have any chapters you need betaed?”

It was Cath’s turn to say something clever, but she didn’t know what to say. Because she knew that Wren didn’t mean it, about betaing her fic, and because it was pathetic how much Cath wished that she did. What if they spent the rest of Christmas break like that? Crowded around a laptop, writing the begi

“Nah,” Cath said finally. “I’ve got a doctoral student in Rhode Island editing all my stuff. She’s a machine.” Cath stood up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll make you an omelette; I think we’ve got some ca

Wren followed. She jumped up onto the counter next to the stove and watched Cath get the milk and eggs from the refrigerator. Cath could crack them one-handed.

Eggs were her thing. Breakfasts, really. She’d learned to make omelettes in junior high, watching YouTube videos. She could do poached eggs, too, and su

Wren was better at di