Deadly Little Lessons
doctor!” I shout.
    Dad scoots down in front of me and takes my hands. At first I let him. Because Dad’s the one who soothes, who makes everything better, the one person I can always trust.
    But then I push him away. Because this time, his touch makes everything colder.
    “How could you do this?” I manage to ask. Tears bubble up in my throat, constricting my breath, making me feel like I’m drowning.
    “Do what? Camelia, what are you talking about?”
    “I mean, who am I ?” I ask him again. “Who was I before Camelia ?”
    “Okay, now, slow down.” His voice goes powdery soft. “Take a deep breath and try to help me understand.”
    “Why are there no pictures of Mom when she was pregnant?” I blurt out. “And where is my birth certificate?”
    Dad’s lips part and his expression changes, morphing from concerned to horrified.
    And suddenly I don’t even need to look at a birth certificate. The look on his face is the only truth I need.

I LEAVE THE BATHROOM , pulling the door shut behind me. Dad emerges not two seconds later. But instead of following me, he heads into the kitchen. I hear him from the door of my bedroom, leaving Mom a voice mail begging her to come home early.
    Meanwhile, home is exactly where I don’t want to be.
    I phone Adam, even though I know he’s at work. I leave him a message, and then stop myself from dialing Kimmie. I know she’d drop everything in a heartbeat for me, but I don’t want to ruin her moment, so I call Wes on his cell instead.
    “Pizza Rita’s,” he answers. “Are you interested in hearing about our cheesy bread special?”
    His chipper voice almost makes me regret the call. It’s not that I don’t want him to be upbeat. It’s just that I’m on a completely different emotional page right now, and I’m not sure I have the patience to catch him up.
    “Camelia?”
    I glance over at my desk. The emergency number for Dr. Tylyn is just inside the top drawer.
    “Are you there?” he continues.
    “Sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to slip into old patterns—to keep things a secret instead of asking for a little help. “I’m here.”
    “And how are you?”
    “Honestly,” I say, still staring at my desk, “I feel like jumping off a ledge.”
    “Trust me, it doesn’t work.” He sighs. “You’ll only end up breaking something, which will confine you to bed with your mom’s raw-inspired vegan cuisine, and seriously, when you really stop and think about it, does it get any more torturous than her Italian rawsage or her sprouted bean porridge?”
    I bite my lip, feeling it quiver, knowing there’s no way I’ll be able to say the words aloud. To him. To Adam. To Kimmie.
    “Tough day?” he asks.
    “I think I just need some fresh air. Can I call you later?”
    “Will it make you feel any better to know that my day has sucked, too? I feel like I wait around all week for the weekend, but then, once it’s here, I’d rather cheese-grate my face than endure another Friday night dinner with the fam. So, what’s your cheese-grating gripe?”
    “Is your father being a bully again?” I ask, much more comfortable focusing on him.
    “My father was born to bully. He even had that phrase tattooed to his ass. I’m not joking, by the way. Next time you come over, I’m sure he’d be more than tickled to bend over for you.”
    “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,” I say, reminded of Wes’s journal. A few months back, he let me read it. It was basically a series of poems that documented his struggles at home, struggles that revolved around his father’s disappointment in him.
    In a nutshell, Wes’s dad has always wanted him to be more masculine, less in touch with his feelings. He threatens Wes by saying he’ll enroll him in the Girl Scouts and have his car painted pink. The truth is, as I learned from his poetry, that Wes is gay. Only, aside from me, he hasn’t shared the news— or his personal poems—with anyone. Nor has he wanted to discuss

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