down his pen and stood up. âWhat about the cards?â I called.
âI have no idea what to say,â he answered flatly. His bedroom door slammed.
I straightened my biology notes and looked at Claire, hoping my cheeks werenât burning. âIâm sure my mother will do them when she gets back.â
Claireâs eyes bulged. A clear, obvious thought slid across her face.
â What? â I snapped. Claire looked down.
When I shifted my books, Claire cleared her throat. âI saw you getting coffee for all those girls last week.â
I bristled. âSo?â
Claire traced over a star on her notebook, not following the lines. It devolved from a star to a scribble. âIt shouldnât be your job to get coffee for everyone. You shouldnât be their errand girl.â
I clicked my pen on and off, gripped with anger. The girls I got coffee for were the same girls Claire used to be friends with-the girls, in fact, from the back of the bus. I volunteered to get coffee for them. It was not like they were holding me at gunpoint.
Claire looked up at me, her gaze unwavering. There was such a sage look in her eye, as if she could see straight through my skin. It made me think of a recurring dream I sometimes had, the one where I had no outer covering. Everyone was able to see right through me to my organs and inside my brain, aware of what I was thinking and feeling at all times. I was called a Visible, and I had to go to a special schoolwith the rest of the Visibles. My mother, disappointed, showed me her high school yearbook and told me that she wasnât a Visible when she was my age. It always catapulted me from sleep, causing me to run to the mirror and stare hard at my whole body, making sure my skin was still opaque.
The digital clock on the microwave clicked now from 2:59 to 3:00. I pulled a Christmas card out of the box and held it in my hands for a long time. The pen cap unscrewed easily. I could do them. I had good handwriting. There werenât that many, really.
âWhat are you doing up?â
My fatherâs eyes were squinty slits. He had tied the belt of his robe in a messy knot around his waist.
âIâm doing the Christmas cards.â I made a flourished squiggle on a piece of scrap paper. My mother always used excellent pens for Christmas cards and other correspondence. Fluid ink, fine-tipped, with a gold handle.
My father sat down next to me at the table, watching as I addressed the first one. It was to a Dr and Mrs Myron Finkelstein. I had no idea who they were. I decided I would just sign my mother and my fatherâs names and not include any sort of holiday greeting. I wrote out their address, slid the card in the envelope, and licked it to seal.
âYou donât have to do that,â my father said quietly.
âIâm sure Mom will appreciate it once she comes back.â
âSummer,â my father began. His voice sounded funny, as if there were hands wrapped around his neck. âSummerâ¦Mrs Ryan and I were talking. Aboutâ¦this.â
I stopped writing out the address for Dr Melissa Hailey and looked at him sharply, almost punishingly. âWhy did you tell her ?â
âMrs Ryan and I are kind of in the same position.â
âNo, youâre not.â
He folded his hands on the table. I shut my eyes, hopingthat he wouldnât say anything else. Finally, I heard him sigh. âWeâll do shifts. You work for a half-hour, and then Iâll work on them for another half-hour. Weâll get done faster that way.â
I watched as he walked to the living room and stretched out on the couch. The light of the Christmas tree cast pale yellow light over his cheeks, making him look like a kid. Across the harbor, the buildingsâ lights twinkled sweetly.
I scratched out all the envelopes, trying to keep my handwriting as neat as possible, listening to the kitchen clock ticking. I signed my parentsâ