Page 33 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
My plans are glamorous: dinner with Vera and my dad. Miller’s are worse.
“Homework,” he says. “I have a lot to catch up on after a week of this.”
“On a Friday?” I scoff, but he doesn’t even look back. Just opens the break room door, car keys in hand.
“On a Friday,” he says. “Let’s go.”
We drive home the same way we always do: staring straight ahead, one of Miller’s world news podcasts droning between us. We don’t look at each other, touch each other,attuneto each other. We’ve learned to be better, maybe, at faking it in public. But beneath the surface we’re just the same.
“Well, this is quite sweet.”
When I come through the front door, Vera’s perched at the kitchen table with Dad’s laptop open in front of her. She’s peering at the screen and he’s leaning over her, one arm braced on the table to read over her shoulder. They both look up.
“What is?” I ask.
“This profile the school did on you,” she says. “Have you seen it?”
I forgot that was dropping today. Principal Armistead thought we’d make for a good home-page banner—senior project success stories. I step behind Vera to look at the screen, and there we are. XLR8 sent the photo to Switchback Ridge High directly from ournew press kit: Miller and me in front of a pink MASH-branded banner withThe Future’s Written Inside Your Mindon it in white script.
Miller’s arm is around my shoulders, his wrist loose, his fingertips brushing my bicep. He’s looking down at me, mouth half-open like he’s talking, and I’m laughing directly into the camera. We’re standing in the photo and it strikes me that Miller looks twice my size: he’s got at least eight inches on me, his shoulders wingspan-broad. We never used to be that way, so imbalanced. Like I’m something Miller could tuck away, instead of an equal version of his same self.
“It does look sweet,” I tell Vera.
She looks up at me, pulling off her glasses with one slow, shaky hand. “Did you resolve your tiff from the morning show?”
They watched it, of course—my dad made celebratory pancakes and everything.
“Sure,” I say. “We resolved it.”
She and Dad share a look, and Vera switches gears.
“I looked him up,” she says. “Blaise Wisener.”
We watch each other in silence. I know what she wants me to say, but I can’t bring myself to admit it out loud: he’s a nightmare. Late fifties with a trim, white beard and all-black clothing in the photograph on his website, where he describes himself as ashaman of the human soul. He runs a wellness retreat in Malibu called the Wisener Institute, where celebrities and anyone else with an extraneous sixty thousand dollars can spend a monthreconnecting to their soul self. I couldn’t find any indication of where the “Dr.”in his title came from. Evelyn is steadfastly ignoring my attempts to talk.
There’s nothing to be concerned about,she told me when I texted her in a panic after finding his bio.The algorithm is solid. Focus on your training with Miller.
“They’ll use him to justify anything,” Vera says. “Irresponsible predictions. Things we cannot know.”
“The categories they’re adding are harmless,” I tell her, dodging. “What breed of dog you’ll adopt? I mean, it’s not going to be anything sinister.”
Vera’s eyes track over mine. “Are you sure?”
No, I think. “I’m sure.”
There’s a tense silence, and she doesn’t break eye contact. From across the room, Dad clears his throat.
“Well,” he says. “Those came for you today.” He points to the end of the table, where a University of Colorado Boulder pamphlet beams up at the ceiling. There are at least three others beneath it, different schools trying to grub my tuition dollars. “Common app’s due in a couple months. Have you started?”
“Dad.” I’m grateful for the change of subject, but does it have to be this one? Lately Maren’s been talking about college, too, working on her list during lunch. I don’t need another reminder. “You know I haven’t started. And I’m not going to.”
“Ro, you’ll miss—”
I don’t get the chance to hear what I’ll miss, because Vera starts coughing. It’s reedy and breathless, shaking her tiny frame. I reach for her hand and she grips on, our argument forgotten, her paperyskin cold against mine. Dad brings over a glass of water and sets it on the table. When our eyes meet over Vera’s head, the look on his face makes my blood run slow. It’s fear.
And even when she stops coughing, when she takes a sip of water and assures us she’s fine, it stays there.
She has an appointment with her oncologist the next week, and I’m diverting every last ounce of energy into keeping busy so I don’t have to think about it.
