“What?” She shrugs. “Mail brings me joy. And there’s something for you, Jo.”
“For me?”
I catch the envelope as she tosses it. How dumb to be excited about a letter, but nobody ever writes me. Not except the youth newsletter from church and rare credit card applications. This envelope has my name neatly printed and a smudged postmark from Houston, Texas. It almost looks personal. The girls stare expectantly, so I make a big show of tearing the seal and unfolding the page, handwritten in blue ink. I clear my throat and put on this ridiculous British accent that always cracks them up.
“Dear Johanna. Hello and happy new year—ooh, now there’s a scintillating intro, huh, guys?—I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.”
Fake British dies on my tongue as I slowly sink into my desk chair. I read the rest under my breath.
My name is Robert Newton. If that name sounds familiar to you, it’s because I’m your dad. Yes, really. I don’t know if Kate and Jimmy ever told you much about me. If they did, it probably wasn’t exactly glowing—we had a complicated past. The way I see it, too much time has gone by without me reaching out to you, and I’m sorry for that.
“Jo? Are you okay?”
“What does it say?”
Any chance you’d like to meet me? I’m living down in Houston these days, but my new job means I can work remotely. If you give me the go-ahead, I can drive to Santa Fe. It’s a lot to take in, I know. But I miss you, Johanna. Is that what you go by? Johanna? I called you Joey as a baby because you had this little stuffed kangaroo that you refused to put down. Do you remember that? Probably not. Anyway, here’s my number. Call, text, send a carrier pigeon. Whatever works. I’m here.
—Robert
“Jo, you look like you ate lead paint.”
“What did it say?”
“Um …” Words gum up in my mouth and make the scarlet walls swim laps around my galloping heart.
“Is it bad?” Leah asks. “Did somebody die? Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
“Leah, on what planet would Jo be getting a random letter saying she’s pregnant?”
“It could be from the doctor.”
“Doctor who?”
“Probably not Doctor Who, but—”
“Shut up, both of you!” I yell. Instantly, their lips zip. I toss the letter onto the floor by their feet. “Just. Read it.”
Gabby raises an eyebrow and scoops the page into her hands, sitting gingerly beside Leah on the bed. I study their bouncy curls and somber faces, eyes sweeping from left to right as they discover their orphaned best friend has a father.
A father. Holy shit.
Gran’s never said much about him other than I shouldn’t waste my time asking questions about the man who left me—his own three-year-old daughter—right after a freak car accident took my beloved mother. Leave well enough alone, Johanna. You’ve got us. No one’s brought him up in I don’t even know how long. Not like that’s stopped me wondering. Whether he accounts for my sense of humor, my bony knees, the goofy dimple in my right cheek. Despite Gran’s urging, I’ve imagined him showing up at my graduation with flowers, pictured him singing me to sleep at night. My strangely estranged father; a stranger reaching out after thirteen years.
“Jo, this is incredible!” Leah whoops.
Gabby hesitates. “Incredible?”
“Yes, Gabby. It’s a frigging dream come true, okay?” Leah squeezes my fingers. “What’s going through your mind right now? You’re being really quiet.”
I frown at the letter, the simplicity of my father’s handwriting, his friendly tone. All my brain can do is throb. Two cymbals, crashing on repeat—FATHER! FATHER! FATHER! I shake my head. “I’m trying to think.”
“Okay, but—” Gabby tucks tight corkscrew curls behind her ears. “Your grandparents kept you away from him for a reason. Right?”
My eyes twitch in response. I want to tell her this isn’t the SATs with a predetermined right answer, that I feel slapped and naked and clinging to the edge of the universe. But the words don’t come out.
Gabby takes my silence as an invitation. “We know nothing about this guy. What if it’s a scam? Is your dad’s name even Robert Newton?”
“Of course it is,” I snap after a few seconds. But my cheeks blaze. I mean, I had to pause. I had to think what my own father’s name was.
Leah stands timidly between us and clears her throat. “Maybe Jo should take some time to think about this on her own. It is ridiculously intense. We’ll give you some space, but we’re here when you need us, okay?”
They get as far as the door when she turns back, her brown eyes wide and moist. “God, I can’t get over it! This is so special, Jo—and we were here to witness it. This is going to be life changing! But okay. We’re leaving. So you can think. Hey, we should grab coffee tomorrow after school. We can chill, maybe talk about it then. Or not. Whatever you want.”
I nod, mostly so she’ll shut up about giving me space and actually let me have some. I succumb to one of her classic, motherly hugs—a real I-care-about-your-struggles embrace—but for the first time, her arms only act as a straitjacket around me.
“Okay, sunshine.” Gabby literally has to pull her off me. “I’m taking you home.”
The door clicks shut, and they’re gone. It feels weird, sending away my punished children, but I need to be left in peace.
Peace. Like that’s a thing anymore.
Gran will want me to set the table soon, but I can’t think about cutlery when my whole life just got dumped in a blender. I need a minute. Need to center myself and find a way to stop the room from spinning. In a daze, I stumble toward my antique storage trunk, raising the heavy leather lid. Down at the bottom, below my wigs and yards of fabric scraps and old journals, I find it—a scruffy, one-eyed kangaroo, lumpy from too much love and lack of cotton. With my thumb, I rub the once-brown, now-faded-yellow plastic nose.
“Remember me?” I whisper.
Kenny the Kangaroo seems to smile lopsidedly as I pull him into my chest.
2
My name is Robert Newton. I’m your dad. I’m your—
“Hey, friend.”
I glance up from the depths of my caramel chai latte and smile at Leah, standing in front of the table I’ve staked out for us. She smirks a little and pulls a pink beret off her curly black hair. “You’re in your own world, huh?”
“Pretty much. Where’s Gabby?”
“With the debate team. You were on the group text, but …” She trails off, gesturing toward my aura with wiggly fingers. “You seem distracted. Don’t waste your time, I’ll paraphrase. She’s horribly jealous that we’re meeting up to discuss your daddy drama without her, but she needs to work on her original oratory or she’s never going to get into Stanford, thereby never becoming—”
“A Supreme Court justice,” I finish, and I’m not about to argue. Gabby fights harder than any other kid at Chavez—as a young Black woman, she’s always had to—so I will never, ever give her grief. Even if it does mean missing my daddy drama. “Well, did she at least impart some oratorical wisdom?”