Justin’s father likes me more, or at least wants more for me to like him. He manages to come home exactly five minutes before dinner is ready, then acts like he’s at the head of the table even though the table is square. Justin and I are perpendicular, and we answer his father’s questions like it’s a joint interview. Our bland answers about school and homework go unchallenged by his bland responses. I risk asking about Justin’s grandmother, and am told she’s doing as well as can be expected. Everyone tenses up, so I change the subject and compliment the food. Justin’s mom tells me she’s sorry that there won’t be enough for seconds, since she wasn’t planning on cooking for four.

In the beginning, I’d wanted Justin’s house to become my second house, and Justin’s family to become my second family. But I only made it halfway. This makes sense, because Justin barely wants his family for himself. Part of me was disappointed that my second chance at a decent mom fell short. But mostly I decided to claim the absence in Justin’s life. I can remember thinking that if he didn’t feel like he had a family, I would be his family. If he didn’t feel like he had a home, I would make our space together a home. I believed love could do this. I believed this was what love was for.

Now I’m not sure what we have. What kind of family we are. I used to imagine us in the future—getting married, having kids—and then play it backward until it reached us now. But I haven’t done that in a while.

Justin is uncomfortable all through dinner. And I know I am the comfortable part—I know that I am the person at the table who brings him the most happiness, who he feels closest to. When dinner’s over and I’ve helped his mother do the dishes, I find him back in his room, playing a video game. He pauses it when I come in, then pats the space next to him, beckoning me over.

“Sorry to put you through all that,” he says, kissing me.

“Dinner was good,” I tell him, even though it wasn’t really.

I know we’re not going to go beyond kissing with his parents in the house. It’s like every move we make is amplified straight to their ears.

He passes me a controller and we play awhile. If we were different kids, we’d be doing our homework together. Instead, we avoid our homework together. I realize how irresponsible this is. I don’t think it occurs to Justin at all.

I’m glad we’re back to normal. I don’t know if I’ve missed this, but it feels right for right now. It’s like A has never existed. A is a story I told myself.

Justin is better at this game than I am, which is true of most of the games we play. I keep dying, and he keeps passing me new lives.

At nine, I finally beg off, tell him I have to get my bio work done so I don’t fail out. I’m bringing it up partly because it’s true and partly because I want him to remember to do his work, too. He’s much more at risk of failing out than I am.

“Okay—I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the screen.

I make sure to say goodbye to his parents on my way out. His mom says again that it was good to see me. His father walks me to the door.

When I step outside, I don’t feel I’ve lost anything by leaving. Like when I leave my own house, there’s always a part of me that stays behind, waiting for me to get back. That’s what makes it my home—that feeling that a part of me is always waiting for me there.

As I walk to my car, I don’t turn back to see if Justin’s at the window, watching me go. I know he isn’t.

The part of him that waits for me isn’t that strong. Not when he knows he has me.

When I get back to my room, I’m not worried about our fight anymore. This morning seems like ancient history.

It’s A I’m worried about. It’s A who I think is waiting for me. I haven’t sent word all day, and it’s feeling, now that I acknowledge it, like an abandonment. Which is wrong—it’s A who abandons me in the jump from place to place, body to body.

But I know I’m guilty here, too.

I check my email and am almost relieved to find that there isn’t anything new. This excuses some of my silence, if A is being silent, too. Although if A is being silent, it may very well be because I told A to stop.

I get ready for bed, then sleep for eight hours. When I wake up, the first obligation I feel is to end the silence. So I write:

A,

I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you yesterday. I meant to, but then all these other things happened (none of them important, just time-consuming). Even though it was hard to see you, it was good to see you. I mean it. But taking a break and thinking things out makes sense.

How was your day? What did you do?

R

I know this is in two different places at once—I meant to write to you, but let’s keep taking a break. But it’s an accurate reflection of where I am. Or where I think I am.

Even though I know it’s impossible, and I know it won’t help, I still want to know where A is.

Does this mean I’m waiting for A?

I don’t know.

At the very least, I’m waiting to see what happens next.

Chapter Eighteen

I get a rushed email from A as I’m driving to school. I read it in my car, before I go inside. A tells me he (she?) spent yesterday in the body of an immigrant girl who had to clean toilets to make a living, and the day before A wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home at this other girl’s house and watched TV. Today A’s another girl who has this big track meet, so she has to stay where she is. Even though I told him not to come here, I’m disappointed.