“C’mon,” I say, weaving my fingers through hers, and walking my sister around the puddles and the pool. I don’t do a last sweep to find out if Wallace is still around. Tav and I just walk straight through the lobby, into the light rain.
We don’t even break into a half-hearted jog or cover our hair. Mine’s already in a wrap, but Tavia doesn’t squeal or throw her hands up like they’ll offer any substantial shelter. If the flax seed gel isn’t enough to keep her coils from frizzing, it’ll be okay. Her top knot’ll still slay. Camilla taught her well.
When we’re sitting in my car, we’re holding hands again. Tavia sighs so I know she feels safe to speak.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask her.
“A little,” she says, and almost grimaces. “But it’s probably in my head.”
She’s touching her keloid so I’m not sure she’s even talking about the fire in her throat. The scar is definitely too old and too healed to cause her pain anymore.
“This sucks.”
“Yeah,” I whisper through an exhale.
“This sucks.”
She wants to say more than that, but even for a nerd like Tavia, there probably aren’t words enough to do it justice. She could write one of her monster IB essays just on what havoc the revelation might wreak in her relationship with her dad, citing her childhood isolation from her paternal grandmother and the crisis that precipitated the Philipses’ move to PDX as necessary historical context. (I might’ve read one or two of her assignments.)
I’ve only lived under his roof for three years and I know Rodney Philips well enough to be worried about how things’ll play out for Tav when we get home. My gram, Mama Theo, is a force to be reckoned with—or, preferably, not—but Tavia’s dad might be her match. Part of the reason we immediately glommed onto each other must be that we know what it is to feel like there’s something wrong with us. And like our families know it. I didn’t know anyone else understood the sting of love mingled with obvious disapproval till I saw Mr. Philips with Tavia.
And still sometimes I envy them. Because at least there’s blood between them.
At least they know what Tavia is.
At least she knows what her family disapproves of.
“He’s gonna wanna scrub my online presence. Again.” She’s talking about her dad too. Sometimes I honestly think she can read my mind and I don’t know if that’s a siren feature or just a Tavia feature. “He’s gonna tell me to delete the video from my history log and search my social media accounts for any mention of Rhoda Taylor or ‘say her name.’”
“Yep.”
“Anything that links the two of us, or shows I ever had an interest in or connection to her. Which’ll accomplish nothing. And look paranoid and suspicious. And I’ll do it.”
“Yep,” I say through another sigh. “And you’ll apologize.”
“And I’ll apologize. Even though I’m not sure how I should’ve known.” She’s crying now. “Because if I was somehow supposed to have divined that a dead woman no one’s ever heard of was a siren despite the fact that the defense only just suggested it, then who does he think we’re fooling?”
She looks at me, tears streaking her pretty face, and I smirk because I can’t help it.
“This sucks, Tav.”
As usual, she makes it seem like my fumbling is enough.
“Yeah.” She nods and turns back to look out the windshield again. “It really does.”
A moment later, she fishes her phone out of her pocket and at first I think she’s gonna watch a tutorial. I slide closer so we can watch it together, the way we always do when things feel overwhelming. Living with Tavia’s taught me there are better ways to deal with stress than picking at my skin or hiding behind my twists. For instance, twists can be manipulated into sweet updos, or faux-bobs, and learning how is a lot more distracting and fun.
But instead of queuing up Camilla Fox’s latest, Tav goes into her history and deletes the breaking news video.
“Drive aimlessly so it takes forever to get home?” I ask as I pull myself upright again and finally start the car.
“Sounds about right.”
“I hope you got gas money,” I say, and as she melts down in the passenger seat, letting go of my hand so I can drive and she can hug herself, Tavia sort of smiles.
I take her everywhere, pretend she’s brand new to Portland and shuttle her around like a tourist. We cross bridges just because, zigzag from one side of town to the other, listen to the radio because my car’s too old for an aux plug.
Eventually we decide we’re playing spot the Fred Meyer, and by the time we climb the hill toward home, we’re laughing like Tav’s identity isn’t being used to justify a woman’s murder, and I’m not dreaming of childhood-destroying sprites again. All we have to do is make it through the front door, up the stairs, and into our bedroom without incident, and we’re golden.
I’m thinking this might just work.
Except before Tavia can reach for the knob, the front door flies open.
Her dad is standing on the other side, frowning. He steps out onto the porch and cranes his head to look up at the roof.
“Dad, what’re you—” Tav starts before following his gaze and going quiet.
I look too.
There’s something on the roof, a large something. Made from stone, it’s a hulking figure that’s crouched and gripping the edge with long talons.
Hello, gargoyle.
Mr. Philips does not look happy when he gestures us through the door.
“Get inside.”
III
TAVIA
“You need to take that thing more seriously, Tavia,” he’s saying, one finger pointing at the ceiling as though maybe the gargoyle’s in our upstairs rather than perched on the roof.
I barely have time to get in the house before the lecture begins. Earlier I’d been relieved not to have to see my dad all day, but really that only made it worse. It’s meant that in the background, everywhere we were and no matter what I was doing, I kept imagining his response.
Not his words, but the way they’d make me feel.
Effie did her best to keep me occupied, but all day all I could think was, Dad’s gonna be pissed. No, that’s not it. I know better.
Dad’s gonna be scared. Again.
Now I know that I was right. All my unease—the palm sweats and acid reflux—was because I know my dad well.
He probably saw the same breaking news I did, and then the gargoyle returned to roost tonight, the way it’s done for the better part of three years. It all mixes together and makes my dad terrified and angry.
“Do you hear me?” he demands with a raised voice.
“Rodney.” My mom just has to say my dad’s name and his eyebrows buckle. Like if she weren’t there, he could spin out easy. Like she’s the only reason he won’t. He grabs hold of his neat, black beard like he’s pulling himself together for her.
“I hear you, Dad.” I drop my eyes and wish I had a curtain of twists to shield me like Effie does. Instead my twist-out is pulled up in a top knot that felt really stylish this morning but now makes my forehead feel like it’s liable to split and—worse—leaves my face completely exposed.