What is wrong with me?
“You,” he says slowly, pointedly, pressing the word deep into my skin. “You are my daughter. When I married your mother, I made a promise. To her, to the spirit and memory of your father, and to you. To you, most of all. I swore that there would be no difference between you and Connor. I swore to guide you and protect you and teach you, to the best of my ability. To be stern with you, when need be. And this is one of those moments. I won’t let you push me away. I won’t let you talk back to me like this. And I certainly won’t let you make the same mistakes I made when I was your age. This is it. The end of the road. No more.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Refuse to meet his gaze. I’m embarrassed and miserable and I wish I didn’t disappoint them so much. I wish I could erase my words from existence. I wish I could go back in time and redo the stupid math test. Redo this whole conversation. Redo everything.
Jack says: “Maisie, you will look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I blink back the wetness. Barely peek at him out of the corners of my eyes. My breaths have turned shallow and tight. My heart feels like a clenched fist.
I’m sorry, Jack. But I can’t speak these words without crying. So I just sit here, saying nothing.
“You need to start caring about school again,” he says. “Get your grades up. Get your act together. Or we won’t send you back to ballet, even after your knee is all healed. These are your options. The choice is yours.”
17
X Marks the Spot
February 17
The cold front rolls in overnight, just as the meteorologists predicted. When we leave our motel room early in the morning, the air outside smells like snow, even though there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The Olympic Mountains and their rolling foothills loom behind Port Angeles. The sun hangs low in the distance, casting their snowcapped peaks in light shades of pink, and their wide, bare slopes in deep blue. The banks of fir trees below almost look black. And our surroundings are crusted in frost: the railing along the stairwell, the windshields of every car in the parking lot.
Connor and I sit in the back seat as the car idles. The frosted car windows glow teal in the muted light as he asks me, “Are you excited, Maisie? Aren’t you so happy we’re looking for treasure today? If I find any gold, I’ll share it with you. I promise.”
I tell him, “Yeah. That’s nice. Thank you.” But I don’t have the heart to tell him there probably won’t be any gold. Or any other treasure.
Mom is in the front seat, sipping her coffee and setting the GPS for our destination. Jack is outside, scraping the ice crystals off the windows in scratchy strips. Kirshh-kirshh. The frost gathers along the scraper’s edge in a flaky white film; Jack clears it with a quick swipe of his gloved fingertips. He works his way around the car, his movements brisk and deliberate. I watch him without meeting his gaze.
I’m still not sure if Jack was being serious last night. If he’d really keep me from ballet until I raised my GPA. If he’d really do something like that to me.
It seems a little hypocritical, coming from a man who didn’t finish high school. A man whose life turned out just fine, regardless of his education level.
But at the same time—I feel so guilty for reacting the way that I did. For saying he wasn’t really my dad. Ever since those words left my mouth, I’ve been replaying them in my head. Not really. Not technically. The shame of it makes my skin feel tight. The wrongness of it makes me sick.
And I still need to apologize. I need to find some way to make it right.
But how?
Jack finishes clearing the windows and climbs into the passenger seat. He snaps the glove box open, places the scraper inside, and says, “Who’s ready to go exercise some treaty rights?”
And even though I’m sure Connor doesn’t understand what he means, he shouts, “Me!”
Jack grins. “Want to see something cool, bud?”
Connor nods, fast and insistent. As Mom pulls out of our parking spot, Jack does a quick internet search on his phone and holds the screen up for us to see in the back seat. He zooms in on the words.
“Maisie,” he says. “Will you please read this aloud for your brother?”
I squint at the words. “I—I don’t really know how to pronounce these names.”
“Sound them out. You’ve got this.”
I draw in a breath. “Yaht-le-min, or General Taylor, S’klallam subchief, his x mark.” I meet Jack’s eyes; he nods excitedly, urging me to continue. “Kla-koisht, or Captain, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Sna-talc, or General Scott, S’klallam subchief, his x mark.”
“What on earth are you looking at?” Mom asks as we roll up to a red light.
“An important document.”
“What kind of document?”
“You’ll see. Maisie, please go on.”
“Tseh-a-take, or Tom Benton, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Yah-kwi-e-nook, or General Gaines, S’klallam subchief, his x mark. Kai-at-lah, or General Lane Jr., S’klallam subchief, his x mark.” I pause. Glance up at Jack’s utterly unapologetic grin. “Captain Jack,” I read aloud. “S’klallam subchief, his x mark.”
Connor gasps. “Captain Jack? But Daddy’s name is Jack!”
“That’s right,” Jack crows. “And your daddy is a pirate. So, what does this mean? What might the x stand for?”
My brother’s eyes go impossibly wide. “Treasure,” he cries. “X marks the spot!”
Mom’s voice turns suspicious as she murmurs, “Wait, those names . . .”
But Jack surges ahead and says, “Yep! X marks the spot, bud. This is a treasure map! Are you ready to see where the treasure is hidden?”
Connor starts to cheer. He claps his hands and bounces in his booster seat. The light turns green, and we jolt forward as Mom says, “Jack. Were those names from the treaty?”
But Jack is pumping one fist in the air and chanting, “Treasure hunt! Treasure hunt!” Connor chimes in, “Treasure hunt!”
“Jack.”
“Angie. Honey. I’m getting the kids excited about our history, and our rights—”
“You’re pretending that the treaty your ancestors signed is actually a treasure map—”
“We’re having fun! Look at him go. He can’t wait to start digging at the beach.”
Sure enough, Connor is still bouncing and shouting, “Treasure hunt!” He’s completely oblivious to our parents’ conversation.
Mom sighs. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”
“And you love it,” Jack teases, nudging her shoulder.
She nudges him back and emphasizes, “Sometimes.”
We park at a trailhead and walk down the rocky beach. The pebbles crunch beneath our rubber boots. We maneuver over slick boulders and smooth white driftwood logs. Each step I take is slow and careful. Jack pauses at the flat edge of a giant stone; he extends his gloved hand to me. I slide my palm into his, leaning against him to keep the weight off my tingling knee as I inch my way down to a patch of sand below. He holds me up; his lifted arm doesn’t even shake.
He asks, “You’re okay?”