“We talked about my ‘re-entry’ into school. Since I’d only been in school for four periods, I told him I was ‘re-entering’ fine. He asked me if there was anything else I wanted to talk about, from when I’d been ‘away.’ I told him I didn’t. He went on for another ten minutes about how he was there for me if I needed him. I told him that was great. Is that a good enough report for you?”
“Why didn’t you want to talk to him more about it?”
“He’s a guidance counselor, Mom. He’s not a psychiatrist.”
“Would you like to speak to a psychiatrist? Your father and I have gotten some names and are trying to get you an appointment for Monday.”
“Are you asking me or not asking me? It’s kinda unclear.”
Mom did not like that response.
“Again, Aidan, I’ll point out that you forfeited some say in what happens when you ran away for so long and caused so much pain and worry. If I were you, I’d stop the arguing right here, right now.”
“I’m not arguing,” Aidan said flatly. Which seemed to me a lot like arguing, but I wasn’t going to point that out.
Mom let out a deep breath, then turned to me.
“How was your day, Lucas?”
I really had to stop myself from saying, “It was fine.” Instead I gave her a play-by-play of daily life in Roanoke, which was what we were studying in American history. This lasted long enough to get us home without Mom and Aidan arguing anymore.
When we got to the house, Aidan bolted from the back seat and headed inside before I’d even undone my seat belt. I figured he was running to our room, but when I got there, I found it empty. Instead there were footsteps over my head. He’d run to the attic.
I stood still, listening. What would I do if the footsteps suddenly stopped? It sounded like he was going to the dresser. I could imagine him opening the doors, and then—
The footsteps pounded back down the stairs. A few seconds later, Aidan was in our room, looking angry.
“Find anything?” I asked.
“Shut up,” he said.
“Don’t take it out on me if they don’t want you back,” I said.
A direct hit.
“You don’t understand me at all,” he swore.
But from his reaction, I could tell I’d understood at least a little bit of what he’d been hoping for up there.
20
Dinner was strained. Dad asked the same questions about school that Mom had, and got the same answers (except a little less about Roanoke from me). Aidan again made a weird face when he tried to eat, like the turkey and stuffing were poisoned but the executioner was insisting he eat it all.
“I think it will be great for you to talk to Dr. Jennings on Monday,” Dad said. “He’s a smart guy.”
“If that’s a part of my prison sentence, fine,” Aidan replied.
“You are not in prison,” Mom pointed out. “You are home. Being grounded means you’re home.”
“Whatever,” Aidan said. I really didn’t think he was helping himself out. He usually knew when to stop, but now it was like he didn’t care whether he crossed lines or not.
Dad put out a hand toward Mom, signaling her not to say whatever he knew she’d want to say next. He leaned over to look Aidan right in the eye.
“Look, buddy, you’ve gotta help us out here, okay? Everyone was super nice to us when you were gone, and they’re being super respectful now that you’re back. Everyone wants you to get beyond this. It would help us to know a little more. Right now, all we have is your story…and that’s not much to go on.”
Aidan looked at the table. “It isn’t a story.”
“But it is a story, Aidan. We all know that. If it’s the story you need to tell, we understand. But at the end of the day, we all know it’s a story, and stories always have some meaning behind them. We’re just trying to get to the meaning, bud. That’s all.”
“I told you…it’s not a story.”
It struck me right then that the word story might be too big for us. Because the same word could be used for something that had happened and something that was completely made up. Me telling my parents what happened in school, sticking totally to the facts, was a story. But me telling them I’d spent the school day on Mars would also be a story. It was tricky, the way it could mean both things.
“Aidan,” Mom said gently, “you’re not making this easy…especially for yourself. That’s why we want you to talk to Dr. Jennings.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Aidan pointed out, looking up again.
“Well, that’s good!” Dad said cheerily.
We didn’t go near the topic of Aveinieu again.
21
Once more, I waited until the lights were out and the house had fallen silent. I waited until the hour when we were still awake but had already let go of the day. Waiting for sleep to come…and having some words arrive instead.
“What was it like there?” I asked from my bed.
He could have pretended to be asleep. He could have told me to stop it already—I wouldn’t have been surprised by that.
But instead he asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what was it like in Aveinieu? Were there cities? Castles? Shires?”
“It wasn’t like any of that. There weren’t many people—like, people weren’t the point of everything. There weren’t any roads or electricity or things like that. People didn’t even ride horses—not unless the horse offered its back, which it only did when there were emergencies. We had to walk everywhere. I lived in a wood cabin that Cordelia and some of the others had built.”
“There wasn’t any electricity?”
“Nope.”
“Why didn’t you, like, invent it for them?”
“Would you know how to invent electricity?”
I thought about it for a second. I didn’t have a clue how electricity worked, or how it got into the sockets.
“I guess not,” I admitted.
“But there were toilets. Plumbing. It was all from tanks that caught the rain.”
“Phew.”
“But no toilet paper, of course.”
“Of course.”