DIONA “DIO” MAGAZ:
I did not have to wait a week to see Sparky again. He invited me somewhere the next day, and every day after that. An arcade. A party. A restaurant (that did not serve Jamón). A shopping center. Always with his friends, so I started to bring Kiki, too.
It went like this:
- Sparky would text me, asking if I was available at a certain time to go to a certain place. (I always was).
- I’d tap on Kiki’s door (three times), tell her the details, and she’d decide if she wanted to go. (She always did).
- We’d pick out our outfits. Braid each other’s hair. We’d complain about where we were going, or make fun of the way Sparky’s friends acted, or how all of this was kind of crazy, right?
“Do you even like him, Dio? Or do you like all the attention?”
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I always replied, “Obviously the attention.” Which would send us into fits of giggles. We’d lie to Mother about where we were going, and we’d peel out the driveway—on our way to make the next memory.
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There was just one thing I didn’t like: The way Mr. Spark looked when he saw me. I could not stop thinking about his expression. Like a little glass marble in my mind or something. Why was he so upset to see me? I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
So, I did what I did best: sneak.
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1:04 am. I clicked on a lamp, pulled lace socks over my feet, grabbed a dark shade of lipstick and swiped it across my lips.
The house: Silent. Nothing except for the ticks of the grandfather clock.
Count to one hundred. One hundred and one.
I crept down the stairs, down the carpeted hall, and pushed open Father’s Cocobolo office door. I stood in front of his computer screen. My hand hovered over the mouse, and tiny voice in my head appeared: maybe you don’t want to know.
The good thing about small voices is that you can easily ignore them.
When I set my hand on the mouse, the screen lit up, casting his office in a strange blue glow. There, several gold plaques on the wall behind me. There, his carbon fiber golf clubs in his bag, leaning against his desk. There, a giant mirror in front of me. My face. Blue, blue, blue.
Words on the screen: Welcome. Please sign in. Three circles.
His car. The password had to be his car model, right? No. Wrong.
Mother’s birthdate? No.
Mine? Not that either.
When I tried Kiki’s birthday, the screen brightened and unlocked. My mouth fell open. “He swore he didn’t have favorites.”
Whatever. Move past it. I pulled up Father’s email and I searched: Sparks
A few seconds of loading.
And then over two thousand emails popped onto the screen.
For some reason, I hesitated. Mr. Sparks darting eyes when they met mine. The way he kept looking and turning away. Storm clouds. Broken Glass. WorkForce Traffic.
I clicked on the first email.
This message has been deleted.
Huh. Weird. I clicked on the next one.
This message has been deleted.
The third email had been deleted, too. And the fourth, and fifth, and I realized it was all of them.
Something sour in the back of my throat. Every single email had been deleted.
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and then Add to home screen.