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lamp.
    â€œI’m watching this,” Jordan says.
    â€œI’ve got a bunch of school shopping to do this weekend. You want to come?”
    â€œYou’re way too excited about school shopping,” he says. “You don’t even care that he’s gone.”
    â€œOf course I care. I can be excited and care.”
    But Jordan’s hit a nerve. It feels wrong to be excited for a good thing that’s come out of something so bad. If Dad had stayed, he wouldn’t have allowed me to switch schools. If he does come home, he might even make me switch back.
    The space around my fingers presses thicker than empty space should. If I reach across the sofa and squeeze Jordan’s hand, will that mean our fates are sealed? I’ll stay in school, and Dad will stay gone, and we can all stop wondering whether it’s final or not and move on?
    But that feels wrong too. I don’t want to believe I have that kind of power.
    I don’t want to test it and find out.
    This temptation to break my own rules is a traitor’s impulse, like how drivers can get the sudden urge to speed up and fly off a bridge.
    Jordan surprises me by turning the TV down. I’m afraid if I speak first, he’ll startle and run. Finally, he says, “I’m not fun anymore. That’s what Connor says. He says I’m mean.” Jordan pauses. “And his parents think we need a break.”
    â€œHave you been mean?” I ask.
    Jordan shrugs and turns the TV back up, even louder than before.
    I know how he feels. When Mandy and I first drifted, it destroyed me, but I had no idea what to do about it. Everything had changed so quickly. I didn’t know how to be myself anymore, so how was I supposed to be someone’s friend?
    â€œYou know,” I say, “sometimes it makes sense to show when you’re upset, and sometimes it’s better to act like stuff doesn’t bother you. People want to have fun with their friends. They don’t want to be dealing with problems all the time.”
    â€œIs that what you’re learning at your fancy acting school?” Jordan says. “How to act like our family doesn’t suck?”
    I exhale, trying to free some of the tension that’s crept up on me during our talk. “Should I leave you to your misery?”
    â€œPlease,” he says, gruff and shrill at the same time.
    I get up and head toward my room, but as soon as I enter the hallway, Jordan flies past me, his eyes red and dark. I press my back to the wall.
    He doesn’t want to talk. I can’t change anything. It’s okay to let him be.
    I am a terrible sister.
    I lean against the door he just slammed. “Jordan, are you okay?”
    If he opens the door, I’ll want to give him a hug. I’m all covered up, but our cheeks might touch, our hands brush, and that’s not allowed. I should be able to give my crying brother a hug.
    I almost hope he will fling the door open and hug me tight so I can prove to myself that I know when enough is enough. I’ll stand there and let him hug me and this stupid game will be over and done.
    My breath rasps in my throat, the sound of panic.
    It’s enough to make me cringe— please, please no. If Jordan opens his door, he’ll see my back disappearing down the hall.
    Right after Dad left, I had my first panic attack in months, a small one but terrifying all the same. I shut myself up in my room so nobody could see, curled up in my quilt, and tried to slow down my breathing.
    Now the feeling’s back, swirling around and making me dizzy—water’s rising and I won’t have time to suck down enough air. Mom used to give me a paper bag to blow into when this happened because as much as I felt like I couldn’t breathe, in truth I was breathing too hard, drowning in air.
    I slide down the wall outside Jordan’s room, force myself to slow down and take smaller breaths. Freaking out now can’t