More Than We Can Tell

Saturday, March 17      3:22 a.m.

From: Ethan_717

To: Azure M

I don’t want to sound like a stalker, but I didn’t see you. I hope everything is OK with your mom. Signing off for the night.

The Internet is back. I wake to flashing lights on the front of my router.

When I saw the 5Core message on the face of my phone, I was almost afraid to click on it. Thank god it was just Ethan.

That said, I don’t want to sign on. I don’t want to deal with Nightmare yet. I know I need to block him, but it can wait another ten minutes. I go downstairs to find coffee.

Mom is in the living room doing yoga. Country music pours out of the speaker near her, which I find amusing. She never listens to anything tranquil. It’s like she has to be contrary, even when she’s supposed to be mindful.

She’s in this pose called Dhanurasana, where she’s on her stomach, her arms and legs curled up to meet over her back. She used to make me do this with her every Saturday until I realized I could just stop showing up.

“You’re up early,” she says. “Get a good night’s sleep?”

I scowl and head into the kitchen. It shouldn’t be a dig, but it is.

What she means is, Get a good night’s sleep without your game?

I pour coffee into a mug.

“Do you want to join me?” she calls.

“I like my spine the way it is, thanks.”

“The recycling needs to go out to the curb.”

It’s not a request—but at the same time, it is. I don’t want to do it, but I also don’t want her to call Verizon and kill the Internet entirely. I leave the coffee on the counter and head into the garage. The large yellow bin sits by the wall near Mom’s BMW.

Dad’s car isn’t there.

Huh. I’m not sure what to make of that.

I drag the recycling to the curb, then head back inside.

I really don’t want to talk to Mom, especially about Dad, so I grab my coffee and head back up the stairs.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that!” she calls.

“Okay!” I call back. Then I shut myself into my room with my mug.

I open my laptop and go into iMessage.

I was going to send a message to my father, but my last messages with Cait sit right there in silent judgment.

Thanks for the invite. I think I’m going to bed.

I message her now.

Emma: Hey. You there?

Cait: Yes. What are you doing up?

Is it really so shocking? I scowl.

Emma: You sound like my mother.

Cait: It’s 7:30. I don’t usually hear from you until noon.

Emma: OK.

She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know what I expect her to say.

I don’t like this feeling.

I start a new message to my father.

Emma: Hey, Daddy. You’re out early. ♡

I wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t respond.

A new message from Cait appears.

Cait: Are you OK?

Emma: I don’t know.

Cait: You don’t know if you’re OK? You texted me. What’s going on?

I don’t answer her. I close iMessage. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

OtherLANDS takes a minute to load. No new messages from Nightmare. I leave his account alone. Maybe blocking him has been the wrong strategy. Maybe I’ve been giving him attention he doesn’t deserve. Ignoring him might be the better bet.

My phone rings.

I check the display. Cait.

I slide the button to silence the ring.

I am such a horrible friend.

At the last second, I slide the bar to answer.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says back, her voice low. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Yeah? What exactly do I sound like, Cait?”

She’s silent for a beat. “You sound angry.”

“I am angry.”

“Okay. Are you angry at me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“Em?”

I can practically hear her frowning over the phone. “I’m not angry at you, Cait.” I can’t even think why I would be. She’s done nothing wrong. And I’m certainly not jealous of her.

For some reason, this is not a good feeling.

“Is the Internet still off ?” says Cait. “Are you mad at your mom?”

“No. She turned it back on. Probably for herself.”

Another few beats of silence. “Do you want to come over?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Maybe. I don’t know. “I need to finish waking up first.”

She sighs. “Did something else happen? I’m just … I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

My father’s not home, and it doesn’t feel right. My mother is constantly on my case. I have some weirdo sending me bizarre messages through my game. I’m a slacker who’s good for nothing more than late-night gaming.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just PMS-ing.”

“Mom is making chocolate-chip pancakes,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over?”

“Of course she is.” I’m sure Cait and her family will be lining up to share a lovely weekend breakfast. My parents can’t even be in the same room without arguing.

“Are you going to have a snippy comeback to everything I say?” says Cait.

“Maybe. Keep talking.”

I mean it as a joke, but instead, it comes out exactly like everything else I’ve said.

“Mom’s calling me,” she says resignedly. “I need to go.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What?”

I need to apologize. I think.

This has gotten so complicated. I don’t know why I’m taking everything out on Cait.

I do know that I don’t want her to hang up. If she hangs up, I’m at my mother’s mercy. Ethan won’t be awake if he was still online at 3:30 a.m., and I don’t want to take my chances with Nightmare.

I take a deep breath. “I’m supposed to see Rev Fletcher tonight.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. “Like … a date?”

“Sort of.”

“Is that what you’re so keyed up about?”

“No. Maybe.” I clench my eyes shut. “I have no idea, Cait.”

“How did this come about?”

I pause. “I ran into him again. We … talked.”

“He said more than two words to you?”

I had a rough childhood.

“Yeah. He … I think maybe he’s misunderstood. I think he’s quiet for a reason.”

Her voice turns wry. “You mean he’s not really the Grim Reaper?”

“Stop it.”

“Jeez, Em. I’m just kidding.” She pauses. “He doesn’t strike me as the ‘date’ type.”

“We’re meeting behind the church.” I realize how that sounds, and heat finds my cheeks. “To talk.”

“Wow, that doesn’t sound incredibly sketchy.”

“It’s—I don’t know. He’s very thoughtful.”

“Like, he gives you presents?” She sounds confused.

“No! No. I mean—thought provoking. He feels—I don’t know, Cait.” I flop back against my pillows. “He feels real.”

Now there’s a long silence.

So long that I say, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. I think that’s an interesting statement.” She pauses. “I don’t want you to snap at me, but …”

“But what?”

“I think it’s a good statement.” Another pause. “I think you need someone real, Em.”

It doesn’t make me want to snap.

In fact, it makes me want to cry. “I think I need someone real, too,” I say.

She must hear emotion in my voice because she says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”

Yes, I realize. I do. I so desperately do.

I don’t like being desperate for anything. I sniff and get myself together. “No,” I say. “I’ll let you go … before your brothers eat all the pancakes.”