Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill Page B

phone to me. He goes back to doing homework, pretending he’s not listening to our conversation.
    Mitchell is polite, respectful, and careful. He lets me know that he paid the contractor in full for the staircase renovations. It’s just easier, Mitchell explains, and I find myself nodding in relief at his decision. Then, after a pause, he asks if he can pick up his overcoat. And the boys. Tomorrow. Just for a few hours, he says, after school. He misses them so much.
    Like a ghost breezing by me in a darkened hallway, my mother’s thoughts nudge me. He misses them, Ava.
    â€œWould that be all right?” he asks. “I’ll have them back around seven. Just pack their pajamas and toothbrushes. They’ll be ready for bed.”
    And stupid me, I say yes.

CHAPTER 16
    JACK
    WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31
    When Dad swings by to pick up Sam and me, a million questions fly across my brain, like Scooby-Doo chasing clues.
    What’s happening? Are you getting a divorce? What’ll happen to Sam and me?
    But I keep my mouth shut.
    Ava keeps her bright smile while the workmen are here, four of them in their sweaty, worn T-shirts and frayed jeans. She keeps a pot of coffee brewing and, this afternoon, slides chess pie from the heat of the oven. The top of it glows gold like hay in a farmer’s field. The entire house is thick with the smell of warm caramel, the kind you drizzle over vanilla ice cream. As usual, Ava doesn’t eat a bite, just passes it out to the men and me on wobbly paper plates.
    When the workmen leave for the afternoon and Dad pulls into the driveway, her mood clouds over like a storm that’s raced across the sky. Her shoulders curve inward, like she’s bracing herself for a blast of wind. Without a word, she hands over his long, tan coat.
    Sam, permanently velcroed to her hip, starts crying the moment Dad touches his middle. “No, no,” he cries, squawking and tilting his head back, flailing his arms.
    Ava turns away, closes her eyes, and gives me a quick hug. She hands over Sam’s diaper bag and disappears into the house.
    An urge to run after her hits me. My legs twitch, but I force them to be still. It will only make Dad mad, and I can’t risk that. I make myself metal instead. Tough, unbendable, blocking out everything, even my brother’s cries—even if it’s just for a second.
    Before I get into the Range Rover, Dad asks me if I’ve brought a few DVDs, just in case. I show him my personal favorite, Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost , along with The Samurai Sword , and a few others.
    Sometimes I like to pretend I’m right there with the Mystery Machine gang, hiding in a dark closet behind the brooms to get away from creepy villains. Making a plan with Fred and Velma to solve the crime.
    Sure, I’m old enough to know that monsters and goblins don’t exist, but there are bad folks that like to trick other people. Like the time I figured out my ex-friend Stuart stole my baseball cards. Man, he loved them, looked at them every time he came over. One day, gone! All of them, and I didn’t want to believe he’d take them.
    When I got up the courage to ask, he choked up, turned tomato-red, and denied it. He stopped coming around. Weeks later, on a whim, I took a detour by his house. His mom let me in, smiling, and gestured at the stairs with oven mitts on her hands. Stuart had his back to me, playing some new version of Call of Duty , oblivious to my footsteps. And there they were, my cards, in a neat stack by his bed.
    I didn’t want to find them. Didn’t want to know he’d do a buddy like that. I took a step or two, grabbed the cards, turned around, and left. It stung for a while, but I’m over it.
    Lesson learned: Monsters don’t have to be green or crazy with gnashing teeth. They look like regular people. What’s different—what makes them mean or bad—is on the inside.
    On the ride over, Sam’s