The Enemy's Daughter

Isabella By six-thirty on Wednesday mornings, the second-graders at St. Michael's Academy had already decided two things about me. First, I couldn't draw. Second, I made terrible pancakes. The drawing part was fair. The pancake accusation came from a conversation we'd had two weeks ago after one of my attempts at breakfast ended with the smoke detector screaming loud enough to wake my upstairs neighbor. Apparently, once you admit to twenty-three eight-year-olds that you've burned pancakes, they never let you forget it. "Miss Romano?" I looked up from the stack of spelling tests I was pretending to grade. Mia stood beside my desk with her hands folded behind her back, the universal posture of a child about to ask for something she already knew she wasn't supposed to. "Can I tell you a secret?" I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "Depends." She glanced over her shoulder to make sure her teacher wasn't listening. "I think Ethan likes Ava." I looked toward Ethan, who was currently using two crayons as lightsabers while Ava ignored him with the confidence only little girls seem to possess. "That's a very serious accusation." "I know." "Should we notify the authorities?" She nodded gravely. "I think so." I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh. "I'll file the paperwork immediately." Satisfied that justice would be served, Mia skipped back to her seat. Mrs. Hernandez looked over from the whiteboard and smiled. "I don't know how you do it." "Years of extensive FBI training." She laughed. "No, really." I shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I just remember what it was like." She tilted her head. "What?" "Being the quiet kid." It slipped out before I could stop it. Not because I was embarrassed by it anymore, but because it wasn't something I usually talked about. When I was eight, I spent more time in the library than on the playground. Books were easier than people. Characters always made sense eventually. Real life didn't come with chapters or neat little endings. Mrs. Hernandez didn't say anything for a moment. Then she nodded once. "I figured." "Was it that obvious?" "You always notice the ones sitting by themselves." I hadn't realized I did. Maybe because someone had once noticed me. By the time the dismissal bell rang, my tote bag weighed approximately the same as a small refrigerator. Children have an incredible ability to produce paper. Worksheets. Permission slips. Construction-paper masterpieces. Somehow, all of it ended up in my bag. I had just reached my car when my phone buzzed. Dad I frowned. He almost never called during the day. Our conversations usually happened sometime after ten at night, when one of us was half asleep and the other was pretending not to be exhausted. I answered anyway. "Did you finally fire your assistant?" There was a pause. "My assistant?" "The one who schedules our phone calls once every geological era." A soft laugh drifted through the speaker. "I deserved that." I smiled despite myself. "I wasn't expecting you to agree." "I've been disappointing you enough lately." The smile disappeared. That wasn't like him. My father had a remarkable talent for apologizing without actually saying he was sorry. This... This sounded different. "I'm in New York," he said. "I know. You texted me from the airport yesterday." "I was hoping..." He hesitated, as though choosing each word carefully. "I was hoping you'd have dinner with me tonight." I leaned against my car door. "Dinner?" "Is that such a surprise?" "Considering the last time we had dinner together was..." I counted backward. "Thanksgiving?" "Christmas." I laughed. "You missed Christmas." "I know." "So, Thanksgiving." He sighed. "I know." For reasons I couldn't explain, that bothered me more than if we'd argued. My father never admitted when he was wrong. He changed the subject. He sent flowers. He mailed expensive birthday gifts that always arrived three days late. He did everything except acknowledge the obvious. "Seven o'clock," he said. "Bellissimo." "The place with the overpriced tiramisu?" "The one you always order." "You always steal half." "I'll buy you two." I looked up at the school building, now quiet except for the custodian locking the front doors. It had been months since I'd seen him. Months since we'd done anything that didn't involve rushed phone calls across time zones. I should have been excited. Instead, I heard myself ask, "Is everything okay?" Silence. Not long. Just long enough. "Everything's fine, Bella." He'd answered too quickly. People who are telling the truth don't usually have to think about it. "I'll see you tonight." "I love you." The words came so unexpectedly that I almost missed my chance to answer. "I love you too." But he'd already hung up. I stood there for another minute, staring at the dark screen in my hand. Then I shook my head, laughed at myself, and climbed into my car. I told myself I was overthinking it. I told myself my father was just tired. I told myself dinner was dinner, nothing more. If I'd known that phone call would divide my life into a before and an after, I would have paid more attention to the sound of his voice. I would have listened longer. I would have told him to wait for me. Instead, I started the car and drove home, already wondering what I was going to wear.