“It’s OK. I found a way to make extra.”
“How?” Has someone given her a loan? Uncle Nick, maybe? He is generous enough to do it—not to mention that he actually appreciates creative talent.
She shoots him an uncertain look. “It’s sort of embarrassing,” she says. “But not illegal.”
He waits for her to say more, but instead she takes a bite of the panini. He does the same. He’s curious, but he doesn’t want to push her.
“I’ll tell you later.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, actually. About your dad. Do you still want to know?”
Malaika had been the first one to tell him about his dad sleeping over at Uncle Nick’s house. She had texted him late at night, close to midnight. By then, Calan had already seen the email. He’d felt gross reading it—but most of all he felt angry. At his dad (which made sense), at his mom (which did not), and at himself (which he was used to). When the memo came out saying that his dad’s account had been hacked, Calan had been flooded with relief. He thought it meant his dad would move back in with them, but days later, he was still at Uncle Nick’s house. It’s been hard on Calan, not knowing what will happen to his parents. He may not get along with his dad—it’s hard to get along with someone who is so disappointed in him—but Calan still loves him. And he knows his dad loves him, too. He wants them to be a proper family. And proper families stay together. The stress has been keeping him up at night, turning him into an insomniac. The other day, he almost fell asleep in the middle of class.
When he shared this with Malaika, she had promised to keep her ears open for any development in his dad’s case. She had already overheard his dad and Uncle Nick discussing it multiple times—both with one another and with others over the phone. But so far, everything she’d heard had already made headlines: the pregnancy rumor, the memo, the TMZ article on his mom. Lately, Malaika has taken to sharing details about his dad’s emotional state. This week, she reported that his dad has started wearing contact lenses regularly (which sounds really weird) and that he’d gone to New York City to view a private screening of some movie at Soho House with Uncle Nick (which had made Calan jealous).
Now, Malaika nibbles on a slice of Brie. “Yesterday, I overheard them on the phone with someone. A woman, but I didn’t catch her name. They had her on speaker right there in the middle of the living room while I was in the sunroom with Allegra. They went into your uncle’s study as soon as they saw us, but I think I heard something about Eva.”
Calan feels his heart rate increasing. By the sound of Malaika’s voice, this isn’t going to be good news.
“They are saying she is pregnant, yes?” Malaika continues.
Calan nods. “There are rumors about it, but nothing has been confirmed.” To the public, Eva Stone has gone dark: no videos, no social media presence. There are people on the internet claiming she was murdered. Calan has read the last public statement she’s made so many times that he’s committed it to memory.
To the people accusing me of backing down, I say this: it is not my job to prove my innocence. I have said all I have to say about this matter. Bobby Dewar is guilty of sexual misconduct and should step down as CEO.
Malaika stares inside her cup like she’s trying to read tea leaves or something. That’s when he knows: whatever she’s about to share isn’t just bad—it’s disastrous. “They said she is pregnant with twins.”
Calan swears he can feel the ground rumble underneath him. As if Avalanche from The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants has created a seismic wave through Hildegard Park.
“Eva Stone is pregnant with twins?” His voice is a whisper.
“That’s what it sounded like.” Malaika is squinting her eyes, her face contorted in an expression of pity. Normally, this would upset Calan. He doesn’t want her to pity him. He wants her to admire him, to love him. But now, he can’t think of anything other than Eva Stone—not even Malaika.
Because if Eva Stone is pregnant with twins, then his dad is definitely guilty.
They wouldn’t even need a DNA test.
Thirty-Six
Bobby
Thursday, October 17th
Bobby is on his brother’s porch, sunken in a rocking chair, overlooking the tranquil tableau that is Backer Street in the evening. It’s a cold night, with a biting breeze in the air. This comes as a relief to Bobby. There is something oddly comforting about the low temperature, about the darkness. It matches his insides.
It’s possible some of his neighbors are peering out their windows, pitying the sad sight of him, alone and downtrodden, exiled from his house. Or maybe they don’t care anymore. That could happen. Bobby learned this from an early age, that life is fickle. That people can lose interest. That a man’s luck can change in an instant.
It’s happened to Bobby twice before.
The first was when he got mumps at the age of fourteen. The real morass was not the illness itself, nor that it hit him so hard he had to be hospitalized. It was that his mother had stopped loving him because of it. Tish denied it—and Nick said he was being paranoid—but Bobby could feel it in his bones. It wasn’t that his mother disliked him—or that she mistreated him. Quite the opposite: Tish had been by his side at the hospital, holding his hand, kissing his forehead, and yelling at the
