“There’s one more thing you should consider,” she says, turning to me. “The US government gives visas to foreign students all the time. You’d have to go back to Jordan to finish high school and apply to American colleges, but once you’ve been accepted, you could apply for a student visa. It wouldn’t be a sure thing, but it would be legal. As opposed to other methods.”
“But not a sure thing,” Annie repeats. “And what happens when he’s done with college?”
“His visa expires and he goes home.”
“Back to Jordan,” Annie corrects.
“Yeah.”
Annie shakes her head.
“So what’ll it be?” Sam asks. “Do we need to start going through these documents, or do you guys have stuff to rethink? It’s pretty expensive to file them, so it makes sense to be really sure that you aren’t going to change your minds in case you have, um, issues.”
I turn so I’m facing Annie and try for all the world to pretend Sam is not here. Annie’s bottom lip is quivering. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
“Why don’t I give you guys a minute?” Sam says. “I’ll be in my bedroom.”
I wait until the door slams shut before I let out my breath. “We’re being represented by the
“Reese Witherspoon. And I like Sam.”
“Let’s argue about how annoying she is later. We can’t do this. We have to get it annulled.”
“No.”
“Maybe I should go back to Jordan and try to get a student visa.”
She’s right. Sam probably doesn’t even know the numbers, but maybe that doesn’t matter. It’s our only legal option, now that our perfect marriage solution is irreparably screwed up. “We’re committing a felony, Annie. Why didn’t I know that? This is a fraudulent marriage. We’re
“No, we aren’t,” Annie says. “And we’re not getting the marriage annulled.”
“What, you seriously want to tell your parents? Everyone we know? Move into Wisper Pines and start senior year as the married couple?”
“No.” She swallows and folds her arms. I can see she’s pinching the skin on the undersides of her arms again, probably hard enough to leave bruises. “But I will.”
Instantly, Annie’s eyes are ablaze. I’m an idiot. I just poured gasoline and threw a match at all her nervous energy and now it’s exploding into unadulterated fury. I have the distinct impression that this is what a gazelle feels like, staring into the eyes of a pouncing lioness. Incisors gleaming. Claws drawn. This is my last breath.
“Don’t you dare say that to me,” she spits. “I know what I’m doing. I can do this.”
I put both palms to my forehead. I’ve got to think. Two questions. It comes down to just two. 1. Do I want to do this? But this isn’t even a real question. In the last three days of dark moments, even in the darkest of them, I didn’t consider following them all to Jordan. Even when I felt so guilty about abandoning Sarina that my skin hurt, or when I was too depressed from thinking about the next year without any of them to do anything but stare into Satan’s Cat’s eyes—even then. Of course I want to do this.
And 2. Can I let Annie do this? What’s ridiculous is that she will. She really will. I can see it in her eyes, the fire that’s anger and desperation and survival burning together.
But this doesn’t have to be her decision. I could just get on a plane and leave. Except she’ll hate me if I do that, and I don’t know if that’s more terrifying than what she’ll give up if I stay.
“Your parents will flip out,” I say.
“I don’t care.”
“But your dad might actually kill me.”
“Unlikely. He’ll probably just hit you really hard.”
“You’ll be living at Wisper Pines. What about your mural?”
She flinches, and I think maybe I’ve flipped the switch that’ll reverse this hurtling shuttle, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or devastated. But then she says, “You honestly think I care more about paint and walls than you?”
I lean back in my chair, feeling like a wind has slammed me backward and stare at the dartboard. And I smile. I shouldn’t. I’m selfish. But I’m happy. What else can I do?
Chapter 19
Annie
It’s the only thing to do. There’s not even a choice to make, not that I can see. He was there for me—the only one there for me—after the world was still reeling from Lena. I won’t send him away to be a foreigner again, not to Jordan, not to anywhere.
I look at him. He nicked his jaw shaving, and he’s giving me that crooked squint and half smile, the one that always makes me think he’s reading my mind.
We’re making this real.
Sam knocks and comes back in. There’s something about her. I like her. I hope it’s not just because Mo hates her. It’s obvious he does, but he sometimes hates people for hardly any reason.
“So?” she asks, tucking strawberry-blond waves of hair behind her ears.
I wait for Mo, but they’re both looking to me, like my answer is the one that counts. “Yes,” I say.
Sam cocks her head to the side, eyes coaxing me to say something else. I wish I could. I don’t know if I imagine the miniscule shake of her head or if she actually does it. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, file the forms.”
She blinks long. Long. Like a prayer-blink. “You’re
I wonder if Lena would have gone to law school. She was smart. She was on the debate team, so maybe.
“We’re sure.”
“Okay, then.” She turns to Mo. “I’m assuming you want me to file for work authorization and advance parole so you can visit your family at some point? Both of those take a while to be approved, by the way. You can’t get a job or leave the country until they are.”
“How long?” he asks.
“I don’t know. A few months?”
A slow smile spreads over Mo’s face. “So I can’t work this summer.”
“No.”
“Awesome.”
Our drive home is quiet. Mo leans his seat back and stares at the dimpled leather roof. I drive between the lines but float my eyes to the clouds, watching them gather and clump and drift apart again. There’s too much to say, so we don’t say any of it.
But the truth of it is spreading through me like a droplet of dye in water. First it bloomed like a single firework in my chest, and now it’s melting into the in-between, dissolving.
I should be terrified, but staring into freedom is the strangest feeling. Not what I expected. I’m going to hurt them. But I can’t believe how little I care, considering that’s all I’ve done for the last seven years—care about not hurting them. Except now I’m marching toward that, the hurting them, and that means I’m marching toward the after too, and I don’t know what to feel about the after.
