Fangirl

way to make decisions.”
    “Says who? Winston Churchill?”
    “What’s wrong with Winston Churchill?” her dad said, sounding mad for the first time since they’d started talking. Good thing she hadn’t said Franklin Roosevelt. Her dad was nuts about the Allied Forces.
    “Nothing. Nothing. Just … isn’t giving up allowed sometimes? Isn’t it okay to say, ‘This really hurts, so I’m going to stop trying’?”
    “It sets a dangerous precedent.”
    “For avoiding pain?”
    “For avoiding life.”
    Cath rolled her eyes. “Ah. The horse again.’
    “You and your sister and the eye-rolling … I always thought you’d grow out of that.” He reached out and took her hand. She started to pull away, but he held tight.
    “Cath. Look at me.” She looked up at him reluctantly. His hair was sticking up. And his round, wire-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose. “There is so much that I’m sorry for, and so much that scares me—”
    They both heard the front door open.
    Cath waited a second, then pulled her hand away and slipped upstairs.
    *   *   *
    “Dad told me,” Wren whispered that night from her bed.
    Cath picked up her pillow and left the room. She slept downstairs on the couch. But she didn’t really sleep, because the front door was right there, and she kept imagining someone breaking in.
    *   *   *
    Her dad tried to talk to her again the next morning. He was sitting on the couch in his running clothes when she woke up.
    Cath wasn’t used to him fighting her like this. Fighting either of them ever, about anything. Even back in junior high, when she and Wren used to stay up too late on school nights, hanging out in the Simon Snow forums—the most their dad would ever say was, “Won’t you guys be tired tomorrow?”
    And since they’d come home for break, he hadn’t even mentioned the fact that Wren was staying out all night.
    “I don’t want to talk anymore,” Cath said when she woke up and saw him sitting there. She rolled away from him and hugged her pillow.
    “Good,” he said. “Don’t talk. Listen. I’ve been thinking about you staying home next semester.…”
    “Yeah?” Cath turned her head toward him.
    “Yeah.” He found her knee under the blanket and squeezed it. “I know that I’m part of the reason you want to move home. I know that you worry about me, and that I give you lots of reasons to worry about me.…”
    She wanted to look away, but his eyes were unshakable sometimes, just like Wren’s.
    “Cath, if you’re really worried about me, I’m begging you, go back to school. Because if you drop out because of me, if you lose your scholarship, if you set yourself back— because of me —I won’t be able to live with myself.”
    She pushed her face back into the couch.
    After a few minutes, the coffeemaker beeped, and she felt him stand up.
    When she heard the front door close, she got up to make breakfast.
    *   *   *
    She was upstairs, writing, when Wren came up that afternoon to start packing.
    Cath didn’t have much to pack or not to pack. All she’d really brought home with her was her computer. For the last few weeks she’d been wearing clothes that she and Wren hadn’t liked well enough to take to college with them.
    “You look ridiculous,” Wren said.
    “What?”
    “That shirt.” It was a Hello Kitty shirt from eighth or ninth grade. Hello Kitty dressed as a superhero. It said SUPER CAT on the back, and Wren had added an H with fabric paint. The shirt was cropped too short to begin with, and it didn’t really fit anymore. Cath pulled it down self-consciously.
    “Cath!” her dad shouted from downstairs. “Phone.”
    Cath picked up her cell phone and looked at it.
    “He must mean the house phone,” Wren said.
    “Who calls the house phone?”
    “Probably 2005. I think it wants its shirt back.”
    “Ha-bloody-ha,” Cath muttered, heading downstairs.
    Her dad just shrugged when he handed her the phone.
    “Hello?” Cath said.
    “Do we want a couch?” someone asked.
    “Who is this?”
    “It’s Reagan. Who else would it be? Who else would need to get your permission before they brought home a couch?”
    “How’d you get this number?”
    “It’s on our housing paperwork. I don’t know why I don’t have your cell, I guess I usually don’t have to look very far to find you.”
    “I think you’re the first person to call our house phone in years. I didn’t even remember where it was.”
    “That’s