But we both know it’s not her permission to give.

“I don’t know if my parents think that.”

Which is to say, I know they don’t. The assumption that I’ll stay behind and help run this place, that I’ll eventually take it over, is so ingrained in them, we’ve never actually talked about it. It just is. Like it was set in stone before I even knew how to read the words.

She pats my knee. “You should talk to them about it. Graduation will come faster than you think.” She rests her hand there for a moment and says, “I love the hell out of that deli and everyone in it. I hope whoever runs it someday loves it that much too. But, small fry, it doesn’t have to be you.”

I’m not used to having serious conversations. Not with Grandma Belly, or with anyone, really. At least not the kinds of conversations that have so much riding on them like this. It suddenly feels like I skipped ahead ten years, like I’m talking for myself and whoever I’m supposed to be on the other end of it.

Still, the words come out in barely more than a mumble. “I don’t want to let them down.”

Grandma Belly tilts her head at me and narrows her eyes, her classic no-nonsense look. The problem is she always looks slightly ridiculous doing it, so it’s hard to clamp down a smile, even now.

“You could never.”

It still helps to hear, even if I’m not sure if it makes it true.

Jack

I sit with Grandma Belly for a while after that. We eat the day-olds from the deli that Dad stashed in the fridge, chocolate pie and Kitchen Sink Macaroons, and watch a few episodes of her beloved Outlander on the DVR under oath that we don’t tell Mom we watched it without her. Then the clock strikes eight and I slink into my room, conveniently just before I know Mom and Dad and Ethan will be trudging up from downstairs.

Nobody says anything to me, or even knocks on the door. I’m grateful and disappointed at the same time. I bury myself in my laptop screen—I’ve been working on something to surprise Bluebird—but the more I try to distract myself, the more restless I am. I don’t even realize I’ve started tap-tap-tapping my foot on the wall until Ethan bangs his hand on it from the other room to remind me to stop.

I’m too stuck in my own head. I pull out my phone reflexively, the way I have too many times to count in the last few months—talking to Bluebird has been like touching base with something outside myself, as if we’re just close enough to ease each other’s minds but far enough away it never feels as scary as it should.

I open Weazel and glance briefly at the Hallway Chat. A few people are swapping contact information for different organizations that are looking for volunteers, since the Honors Society kids have twenty-five hours due at the end of the month. Other than that, it’s a pretty slow night.

I hear footsteps in the hall and pull off my headphones, wondering if one of my parents is going to knock. I hear my mom’s voice, though, and realize she’s talking to Ethan.

“… nothing to do with this Weazel app we’re getting all these emails about?”

“I’m not even on it. Don’t have the time. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’re saying a student made the app. And I know you’re good with computers…”

“Mom, I fixed the Wi-Fi, like, two times. I can’t develop entire apps.”

Whatever they say next, I don’t catch. I shove my headphones over my ears and blast the music loud enough to make them go raw. It’s the kind of feeling that transcends hurt or anger or any of the things I try not to feel when they do this, over and over and over again—always assume the best in Ethan, and just plain forget about me.

Okay. That’s not fair. They don’t know I’m in here teaching myself to make apps, and they certainly aren’t asking Ethan because they’re proud of the idea of him making my unfairly maligned creation. But it doesn’t stop my hands from curling and uncurling, doesn’t stop my teeth from grinding together, doesn’t stop me from wanting to open the window and scream out into the street like the New York cliché I’ve probably been destined to become from the start.

I click out of the Weazel app, then, and pull up Pepper’s number.

Did you get home okay?

I’m not expecting her to answer so quickly.

Yeah—thanks again. You were a real lifesaver

I’m weirdly nervous texting her, like it’s somehow left me more exposed than actually talking straight to her face. And I guess in a way it has. Every time we interact, it’s because we have to—whether for the swim and dive teams, or Twitter, or ill-fated college admissions interviews. This is voluntary. Personal. Like anything she writes or doesn’t write back can affect me twice as much as it would otherwise.

Today 7:21 PM

Sorry for being a dick.

You weren’t

… But Ethan did TOTALLY screw up our bet.

Yeah. I’m less than pleased with him at the moment

Pepper’s typing, and then not typing, and then typing again. I wince, watching the little ellipses come and go. I can almost picture the exact look on her face on the sidewalk this morning, in the beats where she was trying to decide whether to speak or leave it be.

But he’s still your brother