magnifying glass between piles of clothes.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be okay, Cooper. You’ll see.”

Mum drops me off outside Dad’s house. The worst part of going to Dad’s is how close it is to

Mum’s. I’d always thought Dad was in Auckland the weeks he wasn’t with us, but his other life had

been only a few neighborhoods over the whole time.

How long? I asked Dad that day on the veranda. When he didn’t answer, I shouted. How long?

“Guess this is it, then,” I say. Mum glances toward his house—his mansion.

Château de Dad has a large, freshly-mowed lawn that glints in the mid-morning light so that the

grass glimmers like a moat. Except this castle is modern, all straight lines and glass, and crowned by a

hilly forest in the distance. It makes a simple, powerful statement: We’re better than you.

I understand why Mum looks away.

I want to lean over and hug her, but Mum isn’t the hugging type. Instead, I shrink into my seat and

refuse to unbuckle my seatbelt.

Maybe this weekend isn’t such a great idea after all.

“We can go back home,” I say, running a hand through my messy locks as if I’m trying to be like

them, trying to prove I’m just as good even though I’m not the one Dad chose. “I wish Annie was

coming.”

“She’ll get there, sooner or later.” Mum grips the wheel like she’s ready to leave. “She needs more

time to adjust.”

I don’t tell her maybe I need that time too. She’s counting on me to be the peace offering; to show

that she is all fine and dandy with this. Like she wants to prove that she’s the reasonable, accepting one.

Like she wants Dad to know that nothing can get to her, and that she’s not turning us against him. She’s

no bitch. She’s gracious. Tolerant. Accepting. She wants to rub what he’s thrown away in his face.

And I want to give that to her.

But I am nervous, and my belly is lurching like it needs food, even though that’s the last thing I

want. I rub my sweaty palms over my shorts and grab the duffel bag between my feet, hauling it onto

my lap. “It’s only the weekend.”

“Just the weekend,” she repeats. Something in her monotonous tone makes me shiver. Does she

think because it’s a mansion I won’t come home?

I don’t care that she doesn’t like hugs; I give her one anyway. The angle is awkward and her short

hair finds its way up my nose. Even though she doesn’t hug back, she warms me inside and out. “Love

you.” I draw away and finally undo my seatbelt.

“I was young,” she says, “when I met your father. I thought we were in love.”

I fumble to open the door. A rush of sweet summer air washes into the car. Mum snaps out of her

reverie and laughs. “Whatever you do, Cooper, don’t fall—I hope it’s different for you and Annie.”

pumice

I walk to the front porch through the moat instead of on the path. I dig my heels in a bit too, hoping

to make my stride look clumpy and ripe with attitude. I dump my duffel bag on the porch and ring the

bell. When no one answers, I check the windows.

A familiar yell comes from the distance; it’s my dad’s voice, but it’s attached to laughter. My spirits

fall to the freckle on my large toe. I kick at the skirting of the house but it does nothing except make my

foot throb. “Shit!” I hop around to the side of the house and stop in the shadows.

My dad is kicking a soccer ball to a boy whose back is to me. The boy has short brown hair and

skin that’s seen some sun, judging by the tan. The way he moves forward to meet the ball with a precise,

hefty kick suggests he’s the cocky type who knows he’s good and flaunts it.

With a grin, Dad catches the ball on his knee and heads it. He lets it fall behind him, using his heel

to kick it over to the front again. He passes it back to the boy. “Try that on for size.”

The boy sniggers and repeats the juggling without a slip. He smoothly kicks the ball back. “Give

me a real challenge, Dad.”

I must not have heard him right. I shake my head. Dad?

I wait for Dad to correct him, to remind this presumptuous boy that he should call him David, not

Dad. But he doesn’t. He smiles.

My vision blurs with angry tears. He’s my dad. How dare this cocky dickweed call him that! Cold

fury fills me, and I stalk out from behind the side of the house.

Dad sees me first. His kick misfires, and the ball hurtles toward me. Dad looks suddenly nervous,

then excited, and then nervous again as he glances from the boy to me.

I stop the ball right before the boy turns around.

A breeze makes the trees in the hills shiver, while the sun brightens. The heat soaks into my skin

and sweat drips down my back.

I stare at him. He’s older than me, maybe my sister’s age. He’s tall, teetering on the edge of

lankiness, like he’s a few summers off from growing into his build. His lips are curved into a half grin,

confirming my suspicions. Cocky, like we’ve started a game that he knows he’s going to win. He

glances over at my dad, then turns his blue eyes on me. They are the blue of the rubbish bags Mum uses

for the bathroom bin; the blue of oily seawater; the blue of regurgitated fish scales.

“Cooper,” Dad says, waving me closer. “You’re here early.”

I glare at the boy, who doesn’t appear intimidated or nervous. In fact, his smile might be growing.

“Gonna pass the ball or what?” he asks. He chuckles and taps a fist against his chest. “I’m Jace, by the

way.”

Jace? What type of name is that?

A nice one.

I hate it.

Tears blur my vision. Dad knows this boy, knows Jace. Knows him like a . . .

I stare at the soccer ball at my feet. I move my foot back, aligning it perfectly. If Jace thinks he’s

the only one who’s good with a ball, he’s wrong. I kick hard and whisper, “Heads up.”

The ball smacks him in the face as he’s turning.

“Fuck!” His garbled words spill out as he clutches his nose. “What the hell?” He spits onto the

grass and I proudly note the blood.

I want to give myself a high-five, but the gleam in his regurgitated fish-scale eyes changes my

mind. I start forward, apologies on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I wish I hadn’t done it. Maybe.

He stares hard at me. The cockiness is gone, replaced with something colder and more calculating. I

have a feeling he’s going to remember every detail of this moment for the rest of his life.

Dad hollers something about brothers, but his voice softens as if he pities me.

I stare at my Puma shoes, fascinated by the slowly-unraveling double knots and dirt clods clumped

into the sole.

Jace wipes away the tiny trail of blood seeping from his nose. When he speaks, his words crawl

across my skin and give me goose bumps.

“Well, Dad,” he says tightly, “isn’t this the brother I’ve always wanted?”

* * *

Jace plants himself onto the kitchen counter and slaps an ice pack against his face.

“Fucker,” he mutters, scowling at me.

“Dickweed,” I retort. I’m sitting at the large dining table scowling back.

“Cooper.” Dad slaps his palm onto my shoulder. “This is not how I wanted you two to start.”

“Start? Start what?”

Dad answers, “Our new life.”

He says more but I can’t hear the words. His voice drones and hurts my head. “I hate you.” This

time they are not my sister’s words. They’re all mine. “Five years? Five?” My voice breaks. “How

could you? I’ll never forgive you.”

My chair protests with a squeal as I push it back and stand. I turn my back to them and rush away,

refusing to run, though my blood is pumping like it’s chanting for me to run. But I can’t because . . .

because . . .

Because I want dad to pull me into a hug and tell me this is all a joke, all a mistake, and he’s