Page 14 of Broken Secrets

By the time the final bell rings, Mr. Henderson confirms that my permission slip hasn’t made it to the main office, the lost and found, or anywhere else in the building. I’m officially off the Catalina trip roster.

I text my mom.

Me

Permission slip wasn’t turned in. I can’t go on the trip.

Her response takes a while.

Mom

Impossible. I definitely dropped it off. Must be the school’s mistake.

Must be the school’s mistake. Because it couldn’t possibly be her fault. Because admitting she screwed up would require her to acknowledge she’s not perfect.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, glancing up to see Derek. I force my books into my locker and slam it shut.

“Rough afternoon?” he asks.

“My mom ‘definitely’ turned in my permission slip, but somehow the school managed to lose it.” I slam my locker shut. “So I get to stay home while everyone else goes to Catalina.”

“That’s frustrating.”

“It’s fine,” I lie. “I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the trip anyway.”

“Since when do you not enjoy boat rides and snorkeling?”

Since never. I enjoy being on the water, love the way everything feels peaceful and clear when I’m floating in the ocean.

“Want a ride home?” Derek asks. “You look like you could use some company.”

I almost say no, insist I’m fine and don’t need anyone to take care of me. But then I remember yesterday afternoon at his house, the way he made me grilled cheese and didn’t try to fix everything.

“Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”

As we drive through town, he lets me vent about the permission slip situation, about her inability to admit when she’s wrong, and about how tired I am of being disappointed by the adults in my life.

“Scale of one to ten, how mad are you at your mom right now?” he asks as we pull up to a red light.

“Fifteen,” I say without hesitation. “Maybe twenty.”

He nods seriously. “Justified anger or displaced anger?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you mad about the permission slip, or are you mad about all the other stuff too? Your father, the secrets, feeling like you can’t count on the adults in your life to tell you the truth?”

Sometimes he sees me too clearly for my own comfort.

“Both,” I admit. “Definitely both.”

“That’s fair.” He glances over at me. “You know, it’s okay to be angry. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine all the time.”

“I’m not pretending,”

“Liv.” The way he says my name makes me stop mid-sentence. “You’ve been carrying this stuff around by yourself for weeks. You’re allowed to be pissed off that the people who are supposed to take care of you keep letting you down.”

The words land hard somewhere beneath my ribs, and for a second, I struggle to breathe. He’s right. My chest tightens at the thought of my mom’s half-truths, the forgotten forms, the mess she leaves for me to clean up. I’m upset that Jeremy gets to have a perfect family while I’m left here trying to piece together who I am. It’s like trying to hold too many sharp things at once, I don’t dare loosen my grip, because if I do, I’m not sure what will happen when they all fall.