Filomena briefly wonders how accurate the device is, whether her mom saw her stray from the path and rush into the alley, and if she should tell her mother what happened: the thunderbolts, the sound of maniacal laughter, the strange boy … But her mother writes contemporary romance fiction, not middle-grade fantasy. Unless the boy turned out to be a secret billionaire who would whisk Filomena away to an exotic island, Mum wouldn’t get it. Filomena isn’t allowed to read her mother’s books yet, which is why she’s very knowledgeable about them. Especially because her classmates bully her by nastily demanding to know whether she’s read certain pages. Page 157 of Mum’s latest book is exceptionally saucy.
So Filomena shrugs and says, “Everything went fine. I’m fine, Mum. See? No kidnapping today. I’m still here, in the flesh.”
Her dad comes up from the basement and enters the kitchen, giving Filomena a kiss on the forehead. Filomena beams. She’s her dad’s favorite kid. Of course, she’s his only kid—that’s why she’s the favorite.
“Did you get your book?” Carter Cho asks, taking off his glasses and wiping them with the hem of his wrinkled T-shirt. He’s handsome and trim, neat and tidy in his gray sweater and slacks, in contrast to Mum’s messiness.
“Ugh, no,” Filomena says, staring blankly in front of her. “The book’s not available. It wasn’t even published.”
Her parents look at each other for a moment and then turn their confused faces on their daughter.
“Not published?” asks her mom.
“That’s odd,” says her dad, frowning.
“Mrs. Stewart said all the bookstores were told it’s never going to be published. Turns out the author’s been dead for ages and supposedly didn’t leave the thirteenth book. Maybe she never wrote it even.”
“Oh no, honey,” her mom says. “I’m so sorry. You were really looking forward to it.”
“I know,” Filomena says, sighing. “Maybe the estate will find it one day, but until then, no one knows when or if it will ever come out.”
“That’s strange,” her father says. “Typically, traditional publishing is pretty strict and set when it comes to release dates.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” her mom chimes in. “Bob’s a maniac about my deadline. How am I supposed to write twenty thousand words by Friday?”
Dad chuckles. “You’ll get it done, sweetheart. You always wait until the last minute and then whip up something fantastic and heartwarming that brings your hero and heroine together in a spectacularly romantic ending!”
Filomena’s father writes mysteries featuring a very fastidious detective given to cheerful proclamations. He thinks there’s always a resolution to every story. Meanwhile, every romantic lead in Mum’s story resembles Dad. Even the secret billionaires have a penchant for Korean food.
He turns to Filomena and snaps his fingers, his eyes shining. “I got an idea,” he says. “I know this won’t replace the excitement you felt for the release of that book, but how about we play a little Never Ever?”
It’s a popular game based on the Never After book series. As much as she loves it, her father’s right. Nothing can replace the book she spent a year looking forward to reading. But she offers him a forced smile anyway, grateful for his attempt to cheer her up, and she goes along with it.
“Fine! But I’m the princess,” says Filomena.
She always plays the heroine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PASTA POSSE
The next day, Dad drives her to school as usual. “Still bummed about the book not coming out?” he asks when he notices her looking glum in the back seat.
“You could say that,” she tells him.
He reaches behind to pat her leg and then looks ahead at the road. They drive the rest of the way in silence, her father unsure how to comfort her about the book, Filomena unsure how to tell her dad what’s really on her mind.
She doesn’t know how to say that it’s not just the book that’s troubling her, but how much she dreads going to school every day. That the bullying has gotten out of hand lately. That she can’t walk to her classes without being harassed by the mean popular kids. That she doesn’t feel like she can be herself there, or be there at all without being bothered or made fun of in some fashion. She doesn’t know how she can ever tell him that these kids are ruining her life—without breaking his heart in the process.
Her parents care about her so much—maybe too much, if that’s possible. Knowing that she’s hurting would only hurt them, so she doesn’t want to share her sadness with them. This isn’t their fault, or their fight. Plus, if they tried to intervene, it might just make things worse. If the other kids knew she had snitched on them, the teasing would just worsen. Nothing good happens for anyone who tattles. That’s a fact. Snitches get stitches. Middle school and prison code: sort of the same thing.
Filomena’s father joins the long carpool line staffed by teachers and administrators with megaphones to direct the traffic at their fancy private school. The worst thing about being bullied at Argyle Prep is that her parents are actually paying for her to have the privilege of attending the school. Dad plants a soft kiss on her cheek and tells her to have a good day. “Love you, Fil,” he says just as the troll-faced principal opens the car door for her.
“Good morning, Filomena! Mr. Cho!” Principal Nightingale booms with forced cheerfulness as she holds the door open. At private schools, principals also act as the morning valets, as part of the school’s we’re-all-in-this-together facade.
Dad gives the principal a tight smile. At PTA meetings, Mum and Dad are very vocal about their displeasure in the way the school is run, and the principal, who once declared there is no such thing as bullying in the school (“So what do you call it, then?” asked Dad) is no one’s favorite. Filomena smiles at her dad despite the tension she feels and says, “Love you, too,” as she reluctantly scoots out of the car. “Bye, Daddy.”
* * *
Filomena at school is very different from Filomena at home. For one, as she walks closer to the entrance, her body shrinks and folds into itself, almost as if she were losing height, confidence, space. She’s trying to make herself invisible. Trying to make herself disappear in front of her peers.
She checks her phone and sees that she has just enough time to make it to her locker and get to class before the second bell. If all goes smoothly, at least, which it usually doesn’t.
She scans her outfit again. It’s a free-dress day, otherwise known as dress-anxiety day. Filomena is much more comfortable in the school uniform. She surveys her clothing, examining it for anything strange or unusual that someone could tease her about. Her sneakers are normal enough, on trend even. She’s stopped wearing her favorite purple combat boots. Apparently, they weren’t up to par with what the other kids considered normal to house your feet in.
Her jeans fit all right, not too tight, not too loose. Her black faux-leather jacket should at least help make her appear tough, especially with the ripped T-shirt underneath. But she doesn’t feel that way inside anymore. Not since they’ve beaten her down—literally and figuratively—for so long.