Mr. Hawthorn’s lips purse. “So long as interest persists.”
I smile, letting a raw laugh free. “God knew better than to create a man like Lex without any balance.”
Mr. Hawthorn’s eyes close, and his head dips. “A remarkable point of view.” He opens his eyes, takes a bite of his food. “You have earned my respect, Calypso.”
Lex
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I still can’t stop reeling. Even after the most tense meal of my life has ended. Even after I bring Calypso out to pick the car she wants me to take her home in. Even after we’ve reached the highway.
In my head, I’m still sitting at the table, staring dumbstruck at my father.
You have earned my respect, Calypso. Please continue to look after Alexander.
Neverbefore have I heard words like that leave my father’s mouth. Calypso is kind of horrifying.
I snatch a glance of her beside me, all curled up on the seat in my big truck. It’s the one she pointed at, her eyes all bright, like she hasn’t just survived a dinner no one else I’ve ever introduced to my father has. The immediate distaste that latched onto Jason made his visits screech to a halt sometime last year. Not because my father said anything. No. Jason just figured he knew where he wasn’t wanted, and I didn’t want to subject him to any accidental torment.
Calypso plays with one of her braids, watching the world stream by in the darkness. I can’t even bring myself to tease her about her overwhelmingly beautiful opinion of me. I love the image she’s painted.
And I’ve already said it a million times, but we’re alike.
When she was speaking, I almost was able to believe her. The power she claims I have is no doubt one we share. She doesn’t even realize it. Maybe because the people she may have used it against up until this point are the ones she can’t reach it in front of.
My father is to me like her mother or Agatha are to her.
I can’t find the place inside me to face him at my best. There’s too much hurt and history trapped in the sick belief that the person who doesn’t really know me at all knows the truth about me completely.
Like Calypso doesn’t hate her mother, I can’t bring myself to hate my father. I’m still the child who wants to make him proud, do right by him. I just always seem to fall short. So I settle on hating an idea of him. And I despise the possibility of becoming him, like he wants me to.
No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to become him.
It’s like Calypso has said—we can’tbecomeother people completely. We can only hope to emulate fragments of something too vast to so much as attempt.
I know I can’t live up to my father’s expectations, so I don’t even want to try.
That’s the truth behind me hating my name.Alexander Jr.
I hate how it makes me feel like I was born to become his copy—like I was born to fail an impossible task.
I could tell Calypso the secret, now that so much of it has already come into view, but I know I don’t have to.
She already knows.
I don’t know at which instant she figured it out, but I know I don’t have to explain. Not to her.
“I want muffins,” she murmurs at long last.
I glance her way when she turns from the window to look at me.
“I thought we’d find our way to making muffins. Why did you even invite me over to start with?”
Letting out a tight breath, I ruffle my hair. “So I could ask you the question about Harriet. I tried to ask Mr. D’plume first. He told me to ask you.”
“That sneaky jerk,” she mutters, not at all angry.
I snort. “Right? Don’t worry. He didn’t say anythingincriminating. It felt like he was insinuating that you were in love with me and it had nothing to do with the play at all.”
