Say You'll Remember Me. Katie McGarry

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СКАЧАТЬ my bones.

      I inhale deeply and press my practiced smile on to my face. As I’m about to turn to gain their attention, Mom says, “Elle, come sit. We need to talk.”

      A hiccup is created in my brain because that was not part of my plan, yet I slip into a seat at the small table and take comfort in the quiet and closeness of my family.

      My dad is in a white dress shirt, and his tie is undone. Dad loathes dress clothes. He’s more relaxed in jeans and T-shirts, but people aren’t fond of politicians in dress-down clothes. When Dad practiced medicine, he said his patients weren’t particularly thrilled with the relaxed look either.

      What I adore about Dad is how he gazes at Mom—like he’s still one hundred percent puppy dog in love as when they met in college.

      “Everything okay?” I ask. T-minus ten minutes to a press conference. Not typical heart-to-heart time.

      Mom and Dad do that thing where they share hours’ worth of conversation in a single glance. Someday, I want that special connection, but I’m not naïve. Their relationship is rare.

      “Elle.” Mom uncrosses her legs and edges forward in her seat so that her arms rest on the table. “Henry called your father today.”

      I perk up. Henry and Dad haven’t talked for two years. Maybe the Cold War is finally thawing. “That’s a good thing.”

      “Yes,” Mom’s answer is hesitant, “it is.”

      “Did you invite him to stay with us? I know he prefers Grandma’s when he’s in state, but maybe if you asked him to spend time with us, he’ll come home.”

      A sad shadow crosses my father’s face. “I asked.”

      A ball of lead forms in my stomach and rolls around. I miss Henry at home, and Mom and Dad do, too. Henry came to live with us when his parents died when he was a child, and he became like a brother to me. But two years ago, Dad and Henry got into a terrible argument, and Henry left. To this day, his room is exactly the same as when he walked out, just dusted and vacuumed every two weeks. It’s a living tomb.

      Mom places her perfectly manicured hand over mine. Her eyes flitter over my flawed nails, thanks to playing the midway games, but she’s gracious enough to know that I need a mom and not a campaign adviser on appearance. “He initiated a call, and that’s a positive step.”

      I hope it is because I’m tired of being torn between the two shores of a large ocean. Henry and I talk. Obviously, I talk to Mom and Dad. The three just don’t talk to each other. “What did he call about?”

      “He’s worried about you,” Dad says. “He says you’re miserable.”

      I withdraw from Mom and slump in my seat. Henry is a traitor. “I’m not miserable.”

      “You sure look happy,” there’s a tease in my father’s tone.

      A few weeks ago, I called Henry after a particularly rough fund-raiser for my father, and in my exhaustion and lapse of judgment, I might have cried a little too long to my cousin. If I had known that confiding in him would lead to this conversation, I would have never called him.

      “Why didn’t you tell us you were applying for an internship with Morgan Programming?” Dad asks.

      My head falls back. Henry is dead. I’m going to have to kill him. He’s the only person outside of school who knew about the internship, and he ratted me out to my parents. “Henry told you?”

      “No, but your school called a few months back when you started the application process. I was wondering if the miserable Henry mentioned had any connection to this internship.”

      Gaped. Open. Mouth. “You’ve known about the internship?”

      “Yes, and I’ve had the school update me every step of the way.”

      If I could fit into a sugar cube, I absolutely would. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

      “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mom counters.

      All the air rushes out of my body because this is going to suck. “I didn’t know if I’d make it to the final stage of the interview process or not.” I didn’t want them to know if I had, once again, become a failure.

      “Do you have any idea what you’ve applied for?” Mom asks.

      “It’s a computer programming internship that will start in college and will last four years. I’m a finalist which means the last part of competition is to spend part of my senior year creating an app.”

      One of my elective courses during my senior year will be an independent study in creating this app, and I’m expected to start that independent study over this summer. Knowing that the last part might not go over well due to my schedule for my father’s campaign, I keep that information to myself.

      Mom purses her lips, and I can’t decide what that means. “Computer programming? When did you become interested in that?”

      I shrug because the answer is since freshman year when I took a class that sampled new careers every quarter, and one of those quarters was on programming. I liked it. I also liked drama club and about a hundred other things, so I never thought much about it, but the truth is... “I didn’t give it serious thought until I saw the internship announced on the school’s morning news. Something grabbed me, and I thought...why not?”

      “Why not?” she repeats in a slow way as if the words are new to her.

      “Why not,” I say again and mentally add why not, me?

      “Elle.” Mom touches her throat in search of the gold locket that contains pictures of me and Henry. “You agreed to help your father with the campaign. In fact, we’re paying you to help. You have a ton of scheduled appearances this summer. Then there is the fund-raising and...”

      I sink lower in my seat. “I can still do all those things.”

      “You believe you can compete in this final stage of the application process and still have time?” Dad asks.

      “Yes.”

      Dad shakes his head like I announced I’m attempting a solo trip to the moon. “Your counselor explained that the last stage of the application process is the equivalent to working a part-time job. How are you going to participate in the campaign, which requires traveling, keep up your grades in the fall and compete for this internship? I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”

      Dad’s not seeing the bigger picture. The last stage of the application process is to create an app from scratch. My idea. My conception. My responsibility from birth to production. “Creating the app will be considered one of my classes in the fall, and I have the summer to work on it, as well. I have time.”

      “Twenty hours a week,” Dad says. “That’s the minimum the counselor said is expected of you to work on this program. Subtract the hours you’d work on the program at school, and that leaves fifteen hours to be done at home. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how it’s possible for you to create this program with the commitments you’ve already made to me and your mother.”

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