alone is reason to keep the bracelet on—as a reminder that maybe she knew what she was talking about on occasion and I should have listened to her more often.
“Claire?” Kristen snaps her fingers in my face and I nearly hit the ceiling.
“Did you say something?”
She laughs, but her face is filled with concern. “Are you okay?”
I blink and force a smile. “Yeah, sorry. I spaced out thinking about the song. What did you say?”
“Just that I have to go. The parental units texted.”
I check the clock and realize it’s nearing dinnertime. “Right.”
As I watch Kristen drive off a few minutes later, April appears in the foyer, clearing her throat. Two years younger than me, she’s already my height. Plus, she’s mastered the art of the oh-so-superior expression. As a result, most people assume she’s actually the older one.
She thinks that’s awesome. I think it means she’ll get wrinkles first.
“Yes?” I cross my arms and mimic her look.
April tosses her long hair over her shoulder. “You need to lay off the noise making. Gayle and I are trying to finish our group project upstairs. Can’t you take your guitar to the basement or something while you still can?”
I raise my eyebrows. “What do you mean while I still can?”
“You know, before we move? Dad’s putting the house up for sale?”
I gape at her. “We’re moving?”
She returns my dumbfounded expression with one of her own. “Oh, my God. Did you really just ask that? Maybe if you ever had dinner with us anymore you would have known.” April spins around and stomps out of the foyer, but her voice echoes off the marble floor. “You are so clueless, Claire!”
I yell at her to shut up, but the words are a reflex. I’m frozen, unsure what bothers me more—the idea that we’re moving, or that no one bothered to share this not-so-unimportant piece of information with me at a time when they knew I could hear it. Why now? Is it because of my mom’s death, or something else?
My stomach knots as I pad down the hallway and knock on my dad’s office door. Without waiting for an answer, I push open the heavy, paneled door and step inside.
He’s hanging up the phone as I enter. “Yes? What is it?”
Feeling rude for barging in like this, I dig my toes into the cushy carpet. “April told me you’re selling the house. Is that true?”
My dad looks up sharply. Then he beckons me toward his desk and reclines in his chair. “This isn’t news at this point. I’ve been working on the arrangements for two weeks now.”
“It’s news to me.” It’s always news to me. I should be used to being the last to know things around here, but really, I’m not sure you actually can get used to that sort of treatment.
“I’m downsizing,” my dad says. “I’m looking at condos.”
I nod dumbly, too stunned for speech. My dad’s voice is mostly devoid of emotion as he tells me his plans. He’s either approaching this as he does everything, like a simple business decision, or he’s trying to hide how much it bothers him. I suspect it’s the second. My dad does not do downsizing any more than my sister does non-designer purses. Although I knew things weren’t good since his company folded recently, it had never occurred to me how bad it could be. Or how much of my dad’s money might be tied up in his company’s investments, from what it sounds like.
Trying not to outwardly freak, I put on my best unconcerned face and regain my wits. “Yeah, sure. We’ll adjust. And since I’m going to college in the fall, you and April will be even less cramped. It’s not like three people need all this space.”
My dad’s mask slips a little. His cheek twitches. “Actually, Claire, sit down. I’ve been putting this conversation off, but we need to talk about college.”
My eyes open wide. On second thought, maybe now is precisely the time to freak.
So I sit, and from the depths of a leather wingback chair, I learn a valuable lesson. I learn there are worse fates than having your ex-boyfriend write a chart-topping song that turns you into the most infamous Miata-driving girl in the country.
For example, your ex-boyfriend could write a chart-topping song about you, and your dad could have invested your college money in a fund that has since run dry.
Did I say worse fates? I meant far, far worse fates.
Minutes pass. The clock on the far wall ticks obnoxiously loudly, and my dad keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word. I feel sick to my stomach, and all I can do is think that I’m living a bad country song. You know, the one about how your mom died, your college fund left you and not even your red Miata can drive you out of utter loserdom. That one.
I have three weeks until graduation and suddenly no longer anything to look forward to.
Chapter Two
Two months after fate vomited all over my plans, my Miata is, in fact, driving me somewhere. We’re going to the beach. If that’s not what normal people do when facing a financial crisis, then this is just further proof that we are not normal. That my dad is bringing his personal secretary along with us is like an insanity bonus track.
Fortunately, my dad is not crazy enough to be renting the beach house himself, given his financial situation. We’re crashing with my aunt and uncle, and my two cousins. It should be...interesting. I don’t know either of my cousins well these days. Hannah is my age, and Lisa is a couple years older. When we were younger and they lived nearby, we used to play together at family gatherings. Then my aunt and uncle moved to Virginia, and that was that. I talk to Hannah online sometimes, but she’s barely a friend no matter what her Facebook status claims. Since I really only use my account to promote the band and talk to other musicians, I know more about strangers than my relatives.
As I pull onto the highway, April sticks her bare feet on the Miata’s dashboard, and I swat at her leg. “Get them off there.”
She lowers her sunglasses my way. “Please, as soon as I get my license, this car becomes ours. Our car. My feet.” She wiggles her pink-painted toes.
“The license plate still has my name on it.”
“That can be changed.” April crosses her arms. “You have to share.”
The emphasis she places on the last word is evidence that she’s still bitter that she’s no longer getting her own car when she turns sixteen. It’s one of the reasons my dad opted not to sell the Miata. He doesn’t want to have to chauffeur April or I anywhere, and heaven forbid his younger daughter should have to take the bus to school. That would be beneath us.
Appearances have always been way too important to my parents, and my dad in particular. He can pretend the house is too big for the three of us, and that he’d only bought the boat to make my mom happy, but getting rid of the Miata or his Mercedes would look too bad. As for me and my lack of college
