Free The Space Between Us by Jessica Martinez Page A

of her.”
    “But it’s my senior year,” I said, still not really believing this conversation was happening. She couldn’t be asking me to do this. I had Savannah, and field hockey, then soccer after that, and graduation.
    And just maybe, I might have Will.
    I looked to Charly, but she was staring out the window. Of course, anything to avoid being mentally present.
    “When do I stop getting punished for her mistakes?” I asked, gripping the countertop behind me with both hands. “She is and will always be a complete disaster. Does that mean I have to be collateral damage for the rest of my life?”
    “That sounds eerily similar to what Cain told God when He came looking for Abel,” Grandma said.
    “Are you kidding me?” I yelled.
    “Am I my brother’s keeper?” she quoted calmly.
    “I haven’t murdered my sibling yet!”
    Grandma raised her eyebrows, as if I was the one committing blasphemy. Could she not hear herself?
    “Do you have a better solution?” she asked.
    “Yes! Send her by herself!”
    Charly pulled her eyes from whatever it was outside that was so captivating and turned to me. “Please.”
    “Has the whole world gone insane? You want to be exiled to Canada? Seriously?”
    “It doesn’t matter what I want, right?” She glanced in Grandma’s direction, then back at me. “I need for Dad to not find out, which means I need to leave, which means I need you.”
    There was too much pleading in her eyes. It made me want to drive my fist through the microwave.
    I left the kitchen without saying another word.

Chapter 7
    I n the weeks and months that followed, I went through the motions of my normal life, of school and of friends and of making everything fine. I played along. I hid Charly’s secret. I sold Grandma’s semester-in-Canada charade to Dad, ignoring the possibility of Will, ignoring everything that was supposed to be happening next semester, just holding on and waiting waiting waiting for one thing.
    December 15. Acceptance day.
    Also, ten days after Dad’s birthday and ten days before Jesus’s birthday. That had to mean something.
    I’d never been idealistic enough to force symbolism onto real life before, but AP English had clearly warpedmy brain because I’d started seeing metaphors in much less—Charly’s sudden aversion to eggs, the untimely death of Grandma’s magnolia bush (bacterial blight), Dad losing his bifocals again. Life just seemed so literary now.
    I woke up early on December 15 floating. I’d decided in advance that for one whole day I wasn’t thinking about Charly or Canada or the wreckage of my immediate future. Today was mine.
    Because even if Charly had destroyed her life, and even if I was being punished for it, there would be an after. Yes, the next six months would suck, but I would survive Canada, and then I’d have my new beginning in New York in the fall.
    Maybe Charly would get another chance too. If Dad didn’t find out, if Tremonton didn’t find out, if she gave the baby away and started taking school and life seriously for once, maybe her after would be okay.
    I found the email waiting for me when I got home from school.
    Dear Ms. Mercer,
    Your application to Columbia has been carefully considered by the Committee on Admissions, and we are sorry to advise you that we are unable to offer you a place in the class entering this fall.
    The Committee regrets that the large number of highly qualified applicants makes it impossible for all of them to be accepted. We appreciate your interest in Columbia and wish you the best in your pursuit of higher education.
    Sincerely,
    Donald P. Crowley
    Dean of Admissions
    Well.
    That was it.
    I felt nothing, so I read it again, slower this time. Still nothing. I wasn’t crazy or desperate enough to think something was hidden between the words, but the message was so wholly unbelievable—no acceptance, no waiting list, no suggestions—I had to read it one last time.
    No. I understood. My after was not going