Mom gives an exaggerated shiver. “Clear but cold,” she says. “What are the temperatures supposed to be?”
“High twenties overnight, mid-thirties to low forties during the day.”
“Snow!” Connor cries. “Isn’t that cold enough for snow?”
Jack shakes his head. “Sorry, bud. With the high-pressure system, chances of snow are pretty low. There won’t be any clouds.”
Connor deflates, his ecstatic grin shrinking at the corners. “Oh.”
We’re all seated around a table at a Chinese restaurant. The lighting in here is dim. The walls are painted a deep shade of red, a dramatic contrast to the sleek black chairs, the crisp white tablecloths. A golden dragon with long whiskers and a snakelike body is painted across one wall.
Connor’s disappointment only lasts about two seconds, because our server returns to our table with a tray full of plates wafting delicious steam. My little brother actually bounces in his seat and claps as the food is distributed. The plates are piled high with golden-brown noodles, colorful cooked vegetables with tofu, and deep-fried, orange-glazed chicken. Each serving is accompanied by perfectly round scoops of white rice.
We all express thanks to our server, who offers a courteous nod before she departs. Jack unsheathes a set of wooden chopsticks, breaking them apart with a clean snip. Mom takes quick pictures of her plate and the table before picking up her fork. Connor dumps soy sauce over his rice with a splash.
“Mmmm,” Connor hums happily, crunching a piece of orange chicken. “I want to go to China someday. They have the best food.”
“Real Chinese cuisines aren’t typically like this, bud. We’re eating Chinese-American food. It’s a different thing.”
“Really?” Connor squints at his dad, unconvinced. “How do you know?”
Jack shrugs. “I’m a pirate. Pirates tend to know these things.”
“Have you been there? On your ship?”
“Haven’t traveled that far yet myself,” Jack says. “But I do business with Chinese pirates all the time. I’d love to visit China. I’m also dying to go see Japan. It’s on my bucket list.”
Connor stares at Jack, wide-eyed and fascinated.
Jack meets my gaze across the table. He gives me a subtle wink.
I smile back at him.
When I was Connor’s age, Jack had me convinced he was an actual pirate, too. But a few years ago, I learned the truth. Jack is a geoduck diver. He drives his boat throughout the Salish Sea, harvesting giant clams from the seafloor. He sells these clams to local restaurants (which is how he met Mom; she works as a server in a fancy seafood bar), as well as international markets.
According to Jack, geoducks are some of the hardest shellfish to hunt. But they are also worth the most money. Geoducks are among the longest-living creatures in the world. They anchor themselves into the sand, and can live up to 160 years or more. Jack says you can count the rings on their shells to determine their age, the same way you would count the growth rings in a tree’s trunk. Geoducks are also among the world’s rarest creatures. They only live here, in the Pacific Northwest. In the coastal waters between Washington State and British Columbia.
But there’s a huge demand for these clams in Asia. Especially in China and Japan. That’s where most of Jack’s harvests are sent. That’s why he claims to “do business with Chinese pirates all the time.”
A short silence falls over our table, broken only by the clang of forks against porcelain, the obnoxious slurping sounds Connor makes as he eats his chow mein.
Then Mom brightens and says, “How’s the food, Maisie?”
“Good.”
“Oh, good. Very good.”
Jack eyes me. “Since when do you eat tofu, by the way?”
I shrug. “I had it at Hattie’s house. I liked it.”
He shudders. “I’ve never cared for it. It’s flavorless. What’s the point of flavorless food?”
I ignore him and take another bite. But I can almost hear Mom thinking. Bracing herself to say more. I can sense it in the frenzied way she’s scooting grains of rice around on her plate. The way her eyes keep darting to me.
“So. Maisie,” she says eventually. “I received an email from your math teacher. Ms. Finch said that she graded those unit exams. She listed the class averages for each period.”
My fork freezes on my plate. I stare blankly at my food.
On Curriculum Night at the beginning of the school year, my mom signed up for each of my teachers’ newsletters. Sometimes, I really wish she hadn’t done that.
“What was the average for my class?” I manage to croak.
“Seventy-six percent.”
I think of the red-inked comments on my papers. The crossed-out answers.
Mom is waiting for me to respond. Jack and Connor are both staring at me. The weight of their gazes makes it hard to breathe as I finally admit, “I got a seventy.”
Connor grins. “Whoa! Seventy? That’s a huge number. That’s so much, Maisie!”
Mom and Jack don’t share his enthusiasm. They both watch me with sad, wary eyes.
“Maisie,” Jack says, his tone heavy with disappointment. “You are so much smarter than that.”
I drag my breath in through my nose, out through my mouth. For a second, I’m afraid I might cry. I’m terrified I might actually break down over something as stupid as a math test.
Mom’s voice is tight as she says, “Jack—”
“I’m serious,” he counters. “This is getting out of hand. First, we find out she’s getting a D in history. Then the GPA in her last report card dipped to a 2.3. And now this? Wasn’t this exam worth forty percent of her grade? Maisie, what’s going on here?”
I shrug, unable to speak.
“Do we need to hire a tutor for you? Are you having a hard time focusing in class? What about your friends? Can you find a study buddy?”
Friends? At this suggestion, I straight-up laugh. A cold, cruel cough of a laugh, because I don’t have any friends in school. I only have the girls from ballet, who I never even see anymore, and who don’t go to my school. Eva goes to a Catholic school; her curriculum has always been a little different than mine. Hattie also attends a private school, an “arts and humanities” school that rejects all forms of standardized tests. Hattie’s teachers don’t “believe” in grading rubrics.
“I don’t see how this is funny,” Jack says firmly. “Your mother and I know you’re capable of more than this.”
This is true. I’m capable of doing ballet. Which is so much harder and bigger and better than anything middle school has to offer.
Jack plants his elbows on the tabletop. Leans forward to meet my gaze. His brown eyes burn as he says, “I don’t know what’s happening with you lately. But I won’t let you continue down this path. You are my daughter—”
“I’m not,” I snap without thinking. “Not really. Not technically.”
Mom gasps. Connor’s fork clangs against his plate.
My skin instantly burns hot with shame. My throat tightens reflexively, as if my body wants to take it back. Grasp those words out of the air between us. What did I just say?